QUESTIONS & ANSWERS (Chapter 24: THE MOON) [entity]
Aug 31, 2023 11:55:41 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Aug 31, 2023 11:55:41 GMT -5
see the turncoat on his knees
a vagabond that no one sees
when a moon is throwing shadows
you can't save the ones
you've caught in battle
you've caught in battle
— Beck
Rock Hill, NY ||| August 30, 2023
(off camera)
(off camera)
Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the blood. Bright red at first, startling, welling up in the wake of that razor-sharp stainless steel. Chef’s quality. The best money could buy. He could see it flowing, pulled by gravity to the lowest point – he understood that phenomenon. It had been darker then, crimson, clotting before it hit the ground and then the dark earthen floor had greedily soaked it in. He understood that, too. Every time the blade flashed, he felt satisfaction, felt the line between monster and man blur more and more until it was finally erased.
Sev had never considered himself a sadist, despite the proclamations made on social media and the microphone alike. He had never reveled in the suffering of another, at least he hadn’t until he’d met Lauren-Jane Starke. The moment she’d shown him that kindness, had invested a level of care in his well-being and career that nobody ever had before, he’d been a lost cause. The closer they’d grown over the years, the more of her secrets he’d learned, the more he knew deep to his core that those who had inflicted so much trauma on her would have to pay. Her father, Archer Starke, was at the top of the list, underlined and bolded.
His bare feet made no sound on the deck as he instinctively avoided the boards that creaked the worst, heading over to lean on the railing. The moon was enormous, just inching over the tree-line as he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the wood. There was a cooler breeze tonight, the promise of autumn in the air and he fished his cell phone from the pocket of the workout shorts he had on. August 30. In five days he would be on yet another international flight, bound this time for Barcelona. Another new stamp for his passport collection. He set the phone facedown on the railing beside him, lifting that now-empty hand up to cup the back of his neck. The tension headache was finally fading after what seemed like months of torment and even though he felt like the calm centre, he could sense another storm brewing. He felt the texture of the tape around his fingers, heard it crackle and creak and he shifted that grip, digging those digits deep into his neck where his head met his spine. The extra tension and flex helped and he leaned against the pillar that supported the overhang – rock solid, it didn’t even budge. He envied that stability. The last few months, he’d felt like a cartoon character in the desert, running over shifting sands without making much headway.
It's a SUPER BLUE MOON tonight. Once in a lifetime moment. How ironic. Blue. Moon. How rare. How special. Is that why you waited until today to finish it? FUCKING COWARD. You needed cosmic intervention? Thirty-three days. Who knew someone could last that long on water alone? “Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, lifting both hands to rub his aching eyes before moving to his temples and forehead. Maybe tonight he would actually be able to sleep more than a few hours. The thing he wanted most now was to put the past entirely behind him. IIW was done and dusted, that final appearance in the books even though that final event would likely never air. That defunct championship was stowed in a reusable shopping bag on the top shelf of the closet. He couldn't bring himself to display it now that he knew the truth.
Crackerjack prize for the idiot kept us busy with the revolving door of worthless meatbags. Why are you still so broken up over this? They all fell at our feet. Broken. You wanted to be the best. Look around. Listen to the things they say. Every last one of our so-called enemies in the CCPE cannot help but sing our praises. This is how it happens. KILLER INSTINCT. This weakness disgusts me. FUCKING COWARD. We have dozens of offers, can go anywhere we want. Who made that happen? Montuori still fears us. Chris Page is lucky we have our own hardware or he would be next on the list. Who is the best on Smash's team? Certainly not any of those damnable RAVENS.
The words kept rattling around in his head, that toxic inner voice needling, scornfully manipulating until it found that crack in his armour and winnowed its way inside. The woods blurred when he blinked, letting his gaze go unfocussed and they transformed into a dark body of water, becoming that ocean he’d kept flying over to chase recognition and glory in a company that was already circling the drain. He bumped the railing, his phone leaping off and disappearing into the waves only he could see. There were faces in the water and that reminded him of the cover of that Clive Barker novel that he’d read shortly after arriving in America – The Great and Secret Show – it had been the first that he had ever read in English and it had taken him months to get through it. Funny he should be thinking about that now, but it was stuck in his head and his lungs were burning like they were filled with sand and he was sinking underwater. He closed his eyes. Saw red on the inside of his lids. Rivers of blood.
Someone else’s blood flowed across a white tile floor, washed down the drain, chased with ammonia cleaner to dissolve the residue. Another shower and then another, so many that he’d depleted the hot water tank that was supposed to be unlimited. Scavengers had picked the bones clean – there was nothing left to give. Soon even those would be reduced to ash. He wondered if anyone would mourn his passing or if he had finally gone so far to the dark side that he had alienated them all.
There was soft pressure against his arm, just a bump and then a sigh before a familiar voice whispered his name. LJ.
“Sev.”
He dragged air into his lungs and now the sea was just the maples and birches swaying in the breeze. Turning his head, he almost choked on her name like his lungs were full of water, “Elle.”
“Mmmm... you smell like Hawaii,” she murmured, slipping under his arm to cuddle against his side.
Salt on his skin. The cloying scent of Pink Sands from Yankee Candle. Maybe a mixture of both. The earth in the cellar below the workshop had been sprinkled with ammonia and quicklime, freshly tilled and watered before being packed down. He'd burned half a dozen of those candles down to empty jars, trying to keep the space from taking on that sickening slaughterhouse reek.
“Did you put out your crystals?”
“What?” He turned his head to look at her, brow furrowed in confusion.
She laughed, oblivious to his discomfort and he wondered how long it would be before the universe came crashing down around them again. Her joy was effervescent, every day the sunshine of her smile creeping closer to its former radiance. Eventually Archer would be missed and they would be pulled under the microscope. Their lives invaded and trampled on again. He hoped that the things he had done would be enough, that when the scales were produced that the balance was even.
“It was a joke, silly. If I’ve learned anything from TikTok, it’s that witches bathe their crystals under the full moon.”
“Cleansing. Resetting intentions,” he nodded solemnly, the words slipping out without much thought. To him, though, the moon hung there large as life, staring into him like a spotlight and the desire to cut out his own tongue was overwhelming. His head was too full of words he could never speak aloud. His chest was aching, tight with emotion as his beloved pressed closer to his side. “Banish the negativity.” He pushed that sentiment out because it fit the conversation, trying his best to feign normal and he must have succeeded because she didn’t say anything further for a moment, instead dragging in a slow breath before letting it out in a contented sigh.
“Smells like someone was burning leaves. I love that smell so much,” she shivered and he tried not to blurt out the reply, to tell her that it wasn’t leaves but the charnel house that he’d turned that old wood stove into. “Do we have any cocoa left?”
“I bought some when I did groceries,” he replied, half of his brain disengaged. Parts of him were still down in that cellar, watching the blood flow from a thousand different cuts. “White and salted caramel, these little packets they had near the cookies. I thought you would like them.”
She tilted her head back, looking up at him with adoration. “You know me too well – think of everything before my scattered brain even can.” Her palm rested against his chest, right over his heart. For a long moment, she stared into his eyes, watching the darkness melt into that warmer brown even though the rest of his face remained impassive. “You’re too good to me, Sev.”
The rest of that thought was unspoken but something passed between them then, a moment of mutual clairvoyance. He understood that her confidence was still in shambles, that she still doubted her absolute perfection. She saw coldness there, shades of the monster he’d been trying to deny for months. She felt that urge rising up in her again, that need to tell him that he needn’t hide. That drive, that pride and determination had brought her home and she could never fault him for that. Beneath that reptilian stare, she saw something else. Relief, perhaps? Her eyes widened slightly, understanding dawning. Her hand lifted to his cheek, resting gently as she maintained that eye contact. That change, she could see it in him. Could see that the tension had lifted.
Maybe it was the light of that rare moon cleansing their sins better than the mythical baptismal waters of Lake Minnetonka. Maybe the universe was finally giving them the permission to start anew, the protective circle closing around their perfect little family of three. She didn’t care what it was, but she felt it all the same. A change in the wind, a shift in seasons.
“You deserve it,” he said, at the exact moment that she said something completely different.
“He’s not going to bother us again, is he?”
Both arms wrapped around her, tightly, protectively as he hugged her close before pressing his lips to her forehead like a blessing before resting his cheek against her hair. He whispered then, his lips barely moving, that three-word reply for her ears only. “It is over.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his strong chest, feeling safe in the circle of those deadly and dangerous arms. The tears came, and this time they weren’t shameful and dirty. They weren’t a purging of guilt and horror. The fact that he’d fought tooth and nail to get her back, that he’d continued to work his ass off to provide for his family while forsaking his own sleep and sanity – she knew then that no words would ever be able to express the depths of her devotion to this man. He was everything: her best friend, her saviour, her safe place.
“Don’t cry,” Sev murmured, stroking his hand through her hair and down her back gently. “There are no more monsters hiding in our closets, under our beds.” He chuckled softly, just in case anyone was still listening to those bugs that Archer had planted. He’d left one, of course. He’d never been stupid enough to believe he was untouchable, despite his claims otherwise when THE MONSTER MACHINE was behind the wheel. “No more monsters,” he said it again, with calm assurance in his tone.
No more monsters. Except me.
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━
The venerable PETER VAUGHN – when I began this journey over a year ago, your name was on the very first bucket list. Yes, you. Does that bring a smile to your face, to know that you piqued my interest? It was before someone online had felt the need to compare us, to weigh the careers of two journeymen as though the facts on paper could do those roads in our respective rearview mirrors any justice.
Do not mistake my disdain for dismissal. I am not so jaded, not so egotistically myopic that I cannot recognize a parallel when our paths are measured side by side. We both hail from humbler beginnings. Granted, the time wasted in my pursuits vastly outweigh yours. An Olympic-sized pool of regrets to your half-full bucket, perhaps.
Enough of that, though. We are not here to lament the past – what’s done is done. The moments that passed by were ones that were not meant for the likes of us and even though I cling firmly to this belief, there are those who would drip their poisons in my ears. They tell me I still need to do more, that the scales are still unbalanced. This has been my best year. My greatest triumphs. I have travelled the globe, wrestled in Japan in the most historic locations. Defeated some of the greatest in this business. I have been MERCILESS. I have spilled blood in every continent. My LEGACY will remain for years to come, my name whispered in a mixture of reverence and fear. I am at the top of my game now. The pinnacle of my career–
NEVER ENOUGH.
–all these trappings of fame exist in the moment because real life destroys all memories without discrimination. Eventually it all fades. Details are lost in the aether. These moments, we would freeze them in amber if we could. A token to unlock that core memory down the line, evoking a fond smile and a burst of nostalgia. Remember when you did the unthinkable? Remember when the whole world was against you and you managed to do that great thing?
THEY WILL FORGET.
THEY NEVER REALLY CARED.
ABOUT YOU. ABOUT ME.
ABOUT ANY OF THIS.
THEY NEVER REALLY CARED.
ABOUT YOU. ABOUT ME.
ABOUT ANY OF THIS.
None of this matters. These sad little territorial pissings are meaningless. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Maybe you already know. Maybe you have been around long enough to discover the truth for yourself and you have only hitched your wagon to the Chris Page train because it is convenient. A means to an end. Is that it? If so, the reckoning that is coming is going to be excruciating for us both. I have walked this road before. Been a weapon for a man who was too weak, too cowardly to fight his own battles. I was told I should be grateful for the experience, for the opportunity, for the EXPOSURE and the whole time he was bleeding me dry, I was oblivious. I thought I was part of something good, something important, as though putting in work that nobody saw was still admirable.
SUCH A DAMNED IMBECILE.
Things have changed. This past year has been full of epiphanies. There's nowhere to go but forward for both of us. Yes, the past still hurts. The ashes still burn and the smoke still stings when we look back and catch it in the face but it's bearable most days, especially when you can find some noise to drown out that silence. Desperation used to keep me honest. Now it's an addiction to cutting people with the sharpest truths I can. I am through with the endless shit in this business. I am done with fighting whispers and politics and goddamned GHOSTS. The sound of those legions of devotees wailing and tearing at their hair and hurling insults as I dominate and dismantle their pathetic little heroes is a balm to my tormented soul. Their hate sustains me.
SO DOES SPILLING WORTHLESS BLOOD.
LIKE YOURS.
Until the time comes that I can throw away the clouds of destruction off my shoulders, I will continue to press forward into eternity, spilling as much blood as I can along the way. I feel like bottled nitroglycerin, sweating and waiting for that fatal jostle – ready to go off for their viewing pleasure – they want to watch us bite and rip and tear like dogs. I do not do this for them, for Smash. I do this because I was born to do this. I am misery’s apostle, eternal damnation. This world is hard, a damned vampire like that awful song and the best you can do is switch on a light to keep the nightmares at bay. I have already warned you. The lessons have been plentiful and still there are those who refuse to acknowledge their imminent demise.
COME INTO THE DARKNESS.
…and try to survive until morning. Oh, you will fight. I know you will, Vaughn. You will scratch and claw because tenacity is your bread and butter. It got you all those championships. It turned you from the man mopping up spills after everyone went home to the hero, holding a captive audience in the palm of his hand. And I know you will waste thousands of words trying to tell me there’s more to this life than the cold and sadistic nature I hold dear in my heart of hearts. Tell me the truth: how does it feel to be empty-handed? How does it feel to watch as the spotlight shifts and the championship that meant so much to you becomes just another in a long line of trinkets on the Montuori mantlepiece?
OPEN YOUR EYES.
Don’t you see that it's all for naught? Comebacks are a dime a dozen, and this business never cares about the has-beens and so-called legends rotting in the gutters like trash. You can fool yourself into believing that you’ve still got what it takes because the alternative is too bleak to consider. We’re in the twilight hours now and after so much time wasted, so much effort invested, this has become second nature.
THE DANCE OF THE DAMNED.
You know all the steps. You know the things to say. Muscle memory is real and it has become an integral part of you. A phantom limb you still need to flex before it atrophies and starts causing you pain. We want the things we know will end up killing us in the end. That’s not a suicidal tendency – it’s human nature. We might be the ones walking upright, capable of speech and reasoning and guilt and all that bullshit but when you strip it all away, we’re still dumb animals. We’re still hungry rats in a maze, chasing glory like cheese.
We cannot escape who we are. We all have a part to play. A role in this madness that suits us best. Who are you, Vaughn? Underdog-turned-champion? A man of the people? Another would-be hero? Any other day, I’d sing your praises. I would relish the opportunity to lock horns with an equal. This is not that day. This is not that time. I cannot promise mercy. I cannot hold the darkness at bay any longer and the most dangerous thing I can tell you now is the truth: I don’t want to.
DO YOU KNOW ME NOW?
Rise up, little hero. Brandish your sword. Sharpen your wit.
I will shatter your hope and watch that lifeblood run over my hands. I will take you to the edge of everything you have ever known and push you past the breaking point. I will watch you fall away into nothingness, swallowed by the abyss. You think they will mourn you? No. That’s the joke, Vaughn. You invest too deeply, heart and soul into this cause that cares nothing for you beyond that one-time use. The darkness doesn’t care how many championships you have held. It doesn’t care about the CCPE or WGWF or Smash or anything else. It only cares about filling that void, a slave to hunger that is never sated. It consumes indiscriminately. It devours infinitely – the abyss is immortal, the gears of that infernal machine still turning long after the last person who carried your legacy has turned to dust.
DO YOU SEE NOW?
DO. YOU. SEE?
