Post by Lex Collins on Aug 5, 2019 17:46:11 GMT -5
Las Vegas || August 3, 2019 (off camera)
Everything smelled metallic thanks to the blood running down his face, hot and salty in the back of his throat. In the back of his mind, he knew he wasn't going to be attending school tomorrow, not like this. Another day lost to the pain and the sick cycle that his life had been for the past seventeen years. Hannah would be disappointed. There was a dance on Saturday night. He'd promised to take her even though he hated being in a room with that many people. His face felt dry, like it was a mask cracking to reveal something awful beneath as the blood began to dry. He tilted his head back and more dripped down the back of his throat, making him gag as his eyes slammed closed against the onslaught of pain. Rough hands seized his shoulders, shaking him violently. With a startled cry, his eyes snapped open. Black specks buzzed through his vision, pure darkness.
For a few seconds he legitimately believed he was blind before the darkness faded, slowly. A smell filled his nostrils, bringing alertness more quickly than smelling salts could have. Sour and medicinal – it was Wild Turkey on his father's breath. The boy crashed against the wall and then a hand flew from the darkness, smashing into his face. He knew he should've stayed away, but he didn't have anywhere to sleep when it was cold and rainy like this. Struggling to breathe past the ache in his ribs – if they hadn't been broken before, they surely were now – he could barely force the word out, "please." His lips barely formed the word before that hand gripped his mouth again, fingers like talons digging into his cheeks as his head was forced back against the wall.
"Please… what?" Clay's voice was harsh and mocking, bordering on sadistic laughter. "What's the matter, boy? You can break the rules but you can't take your medicine?"
"No," his tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth, like it was three sizes too big. He couldn't see straight. The pain was the only thing that registered and rebellion was the only thing he still had. Provoking the monster would ensure that it was over quick. It didn't matter.
He never saw the next one coming as those hands fisted in his shirt, tearing the rag from his body. Airborne, he felt the crunch as something drove deep into his ribs and then there was a crash of glass breaking before—
Silence so thick it made his ears ring greeted him when he stepped into the kitchen, feeling the cold tile under his bare feet like a balm. He leaned against the wall, making sure the door was latched and locked with automatic motions. Conditioned air blew against his neck, cooling the sweat and making him shiver. It was the middle of the night and he couldn't really account for the last ten hours. His body knew the paces it had been pushed through even without his brain being engaged. It was like the ache of a rotten tooth, diseased but familiar in a way that most wouldn't understand. He welcomed it. Needed it like it was penance in a way a thousand 'Hail Marys' and 'Our Fathers' could never do. The ego, the pride and all the hubris shouldn't be allowed a foothold – that lesson had been drilled in deep. Happiness was fine, contentment a compromise of sorts. Praise was unwelcome. Those words hurt too much.
"Daddy?"
Lost in his head, he didn't hear the whisper from the doorway or the sleepy sniffle that accompanied it.
The cramp wasn't from the water. It was from trying to mix the warring worlds in his head. The past wasn't supposed to creep into the present. Clay was worm food now, nothing more. If there was such a thing as a soul, there was a special place in Hell for that sadistic piece of shit. The more the memories invaded his thoughts, colored his actions, the more it cemented the vow that he'd never do that – consciously or otherwise – to another human being.
He could feel Clay's breath on the back of his neck. His own sweat started to stink like cheap whiskey halitosis. He hated himself for repeating the cycle and now he felt vaguely sick, like he had a belly full of sweets.
Binge and purge. Let it out. Find an outlet that doesn't live under this roof. You have to before it gets worse.
He hadn't come in for dinner and in the back of his mind he wondered what Hannah had told his daughter. Sighing, he tried to shake off the unease, to push aside the voice of the past and its condemnation. His legs ached, barely reliable as he trailed his hand along the counter, making a beeline for the fridge. The water was in his hand, plastic crackling as he guzzled it, half the contents spilling down his bare chest. A few seconds later he was bent over the sink, feeling like it was going to come back up. Years of conditioning had his teeth clenched, breathing shallow as he tried to focus on something else – the silence was so thick he could hear his heart beating in his eardrums. He could hear the clock on the living room wall ticking softly.
"Daddy?" The little voice was so soft and timid, holding a plaintive note, "are you okay?"
He gripped the edges of the sink, drawing in a deep breath as a shudder crawled down his spine. "Yeah," he finally managed, straightening up slowly. When the cramp didn't get any worse, he turned around and shuffled towards the breakfast nook by the window. "Daddy's alright. Mostly." He sat down with a barely stifled groan, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "Kinda late, isn't it?"
Allegra looked down at her bare feet, that awkward hesitation so much like looking in a mirror that it cut right through him. Lex chuckled, scooting over on the bench seat, "c'mere then. I'm not mad... promise."
The little girl ran across the tiles, bare feet barely making a sound. Clambering up on the bench, she fixed those big eyes on him, almost accusing as she sniffled, "I was worried. Mama said…" she bit her lip, trying to remember the exact words, "you weren't gonna be in for supper 'cause you were lost but I could see you. You were outside in the yard and then in the shed and she said not to bother you so I didn't but… Daddy? What did she mean?"
The words came out in a breathless rush and he took a few seconds to process before taking a slow, deep breath to steady himself. "Sometimes…" he murmured, trying to gather his scattered thoughts into something coherent. How was he supposed to simplify mental illness to a five-year-old? He rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, closing his eyes for a second. "Things get too loud. Sometimes I gotta…" he sighed, lifting his head. "I don't like the sound of my own voice. 'Tween us, the less I have to talk, the better. When I was your age, it was easier to deal with, I guess. In school, they wanted you to be quiet. To sit down, focus on a task… learn to talk when you're called on. Learn to do things orderly. I guess I was good enough at that."
Allegra crawled into his lap, warm and solid and impossibly real – it was as if she understood he needed to be pulled back from the brink of the abyss even though she couldn't possibly understand the words coming from his lips. He'd always done this, even when she was a fussy infant. He'd rock her in the chair, tell her whatever was rattling around in his head.
"I was out there tonight, hittin' things – it was training. For that match I have comin' up." He never used to lie to her and this one stuck in his throat, made that sickness start to spread in his guts again. "I know it's my job to set an example an' I'm out there making my knuckles all raw. Throwing myself off things like some lunatic. Your Dad ain't right in the head, Princess Peanut." He sighed on the heels of the name he'd given her before she'd even been born. "Haven't been for a real long time. It ebbs sometimes – the darkness, I mean. I had a good ten months. Wasn't a bad run, really."
He looked down, saw her looking up at him, barely able to keep her eyes open.
"There's an itch. That's what I mean. Sometimes it gets inside my head. It frigs me up somethin' fierce… then I itch all over. I wanna run. I wanna switch it all off… there's this song where he says 'I wanna pull my brain stem out an' unplug myself. I want nothin' right now'. It gets too loud so I gotta make sounds I know – wholly aware that don't make much sense. I just… sometimes I get toxic, like I feel too much an' it gets stuck inside me. Things other people say. Things they make me feel – I can't do it 24/7."
The diagnosis came when he was seventeen. After he'd refused to confess to the crimes against Hannah that he'd had no part in actually committing. They'd put him in a group home for six months. They told him it was for his own good, to learn how to reprogram himself – avoidant personality disorder, they'd called it – he'd never thought there was anything wrong before that. He'd done his best to survive, that's all.
"Daddy?" Allegra sounded so sleepy now, barely hanging on.
"I'm okay," he said, letting his eyes meet hers for a moment. "I need you to understand this, Princess… even if it's hard. Sometimes I gotta do more than dip my toes in that tainted water. Sometimes I gotta dive back in to feel things I understand. The violence… it… it…" he couldn't bring himself to complete that thought. "Even when I have blood on my hands, even then…" his voice shook a little and he closed his eyes. "You don't ever gotta be afraid of me. I won't – I don't wanna – hurt anyone. 'Specially not you or Mama or Queen Freddie. I'd die first. I…" his guts felt sour.
"I'm sorry you had to see it," there was shame in his voice as he averted his eyes. "An' I think the part fuckin' me up the most is that I never really wanted to win that rumble. I had my sights on second best – re-branded myself as The Nomad in this fuckin' play to tempt fate. Had it all planned out once I knew I drew the startin' number I did – too damned easy when CruZe showed up. Familiar face in the sea of unknowns. I let myself off the hook. Breathed that sigh of relief an' your Mama knew. She never said a word but I know she remembers when I ended on the apron with Swinger at the end of that King of the Jungle bullshit. He had to damn-near break my arm clean off to get me off the apron. Ain't no way in hell I was playing straight lettin' that happen. I don't make the same mistakes twice – that's a given. I…"
He trailed off, falling silent for a few minutes. He kept thinking about how Terra Walker had seized the moment, had stuck it out to the final two – easier to pretend that was always the plan. Fail spectacularly. Sure. And now, what did the booking sheet say? Where had the dust settled?
It didn't make sense.
It kinda did.
Was he really third best in this equation? Was that really the way it was going to settle out from the get-go? It was too much like RSW, that passed torch from Rob Riot and the opportunities that just kept rolling over him with a thousand shades of what-the-fuck and happenstance. He couldn't condemn it. Not when it kept happening. Not when the universe kept shoving him back into the hot lights.
Icarus is destined to crash. To burn. And maybe you want to pretend invincible; play phoenix games but when does it stop being about rebirth and slip into redundancy? Lather. Lose. Rinse. Rise. Repeat until the well goes dry. How do you know when it does? When it's more mud than blood? Who decides where the line gets drawn?
None of that shit passed his lips and he was grateful that the words had dried up and his daughter had drifted off to dreamland, lulled by the sound of his voice.
"I gotta make it right. I know I do." He whispered the words, kissing the top of her head as he gathered her in his arms and stood up slowly. "I owe it to you to be better, prove I ain't never gonna end up on that road." The day he saw himself turning into Clay was the day he'd finally put the gun in his own mouth and pull the trigger. "Nature. Not nurture." He muttered it, making his way to the stairs. Clay wasn't his biological father. That poison was in his mind, in his soul – never his veins. It didn't have to be passed on. He could swallow the sickness. He could be better.
He knew he had to make it right.
He tucked his oldest daughter into bed, plugging in the rainbow nightlight beside the bed, just in case she got a little scared in the dark. He kissed her forehead, making the same promise he had when he'd done this the very first time. "I'll be the best I can. For you. For your sister."
———♦———
YouTube posting (audio only, publicly listed)
"People like to say things on social media. It's become a competition of sorts to apply pressure to the nuggets we unearth from deep inside us. See if we can transmogrify that dark lump of fuel into something shiny and hard – something that will last. They can't all be gemstones, of course. Some make it past the filter, make it through the initial test but they never really shine enough to pass muster. Not enough pretty facets. They're hard. They'll last, sure – they become tools rather than adornment. I guess I'm alone in that aspiration, though. I don't want to dazzle with a little rainbow flash. I don't want oozin' ahhs. I wanna be part of the long haul. I wanna put that knowledge an' experience – that tempering, I guess – to use."
There's that wry, self-deprecating chuckle right on cue.
"Stay in your lane. Be a man. Be better. Own your shit."
There's a heavy pause between each, as if he wants those to sink in.
"I fucked up. Terra Walker took the thing I had my sights on an' now the universe conspires, doesn't it? She's the Nomad Champion. She already earned that comin' up short against Blizzard Boy. She's become this thorn in my side, this goddamned roadblock an' I gotta face her for contendership. Not for the Nomad Title, though. I gotta beat one champ to earn the right to face the other – seems a bit like that never-ending nightmare of Sisyphus. Push the rock uphill. Keep at it for eternity an' maybe the next time you're at the summit, it won't try its best to crush you. Maybe it'll roll up there where it's supposed to be – job well done after all this time. They call that sorta action insanity, though, don't they? Repeat the same action, hoping for a different outcome. Hope's kinda like that, though, isn't it? Bright eyes, wishful thinkin'. Maybe this business will recognize an' reward talent rather'n try to eat it alive. A bucket full of maybes don't really amount to much these days, though, does it?"
Another sharp inhale through his nose, another muted chuckle on the exhale.
"We are the merry-makers. We are the dreamers of dreams. We are the ones who form the backbone of this business. We do the work – hard an' unbreakable day after day. We passed the test. We made it through all the stuff meant to cull the weak – we just don't shine. It ain't right to aspire to be something you're not, somethin' you weren't never meant to be. The right stuff can be in the right place at the right time. Circumstances create champions, after all. Gold can end up around a waist so many times that it really does feel more destiny than fluke – when the light hits one of those worker diamonds the right way, at the right moment…"
There's a pause with a soft clearing of his throat. The emotion is there, vibrating behind the words, giving them more power than usual.
"That day's come here in Trinity. Time to prove it was all worth it. I can. I will. No stoppin' me now."
The darkness on the screen vanishes, revealing the face of Lex Collins. The ethnic stamp of those dark circles under his eyes seem more pronounced – could be the terrible lighting or fatigue. He bites his lip for a moment, gaze shifting to the left as he takes a slow breath, letting it out as his eyes fix back on the viewer.
"Time to shine."