Post by Lex Collins on Oct 14, 2019 4:16:08 GMT -5
FLASHBACK — NYC || June 12, 2015 (off camera)
There were no framed medical school diplomas on the wall – that was the first thing he'd noticed and that one little difference was eating away at him, bringing the anxiety back. The pills had been gone for more than a week and he hadn't been able to bring himself to call Dr. Bennett for a refill. Nobody really knew he'd been taking them since the Matt Ford thing in FTW two years ago. Fearless was the worst lie he'd ever told. He needed a new nickname, one that wouldn't make him hate himself even more than he already did.
The office was a lot smaller than the one he was used to in Chicago, but after two years, he was more than ready to give up on ever going back to that guy. When he'd walked through the door and realized there was no couch, he'd felt that profound sense of unease growing by leaps and bounds. His knee jiggled and he did nothing to stop it. Lex knew he was telegraphing it so hard that he might as well be yelling it into a megaphone. Today, there were no filters, nothing really keeping his emotions from bubbling over and his stomach was still bothering him, a little stab of pain coming at random intervals right in his middle, catching him off-guard. Sighing, he lifted his head to make eye contact with the man seated comfortably behind the desk.
"So'm kinda new to this sorta thing... how's it work?" He played his most dog-eared card, laying ignorance on the table as he let out that self-deprecating chuckle before starting to chew on the edge of his thumbnail.
Sebastian was young: somewhere between twenty and thirty, neat and casual in jeans, canvas sneakers, and a t-shirt under his jacket, one elbow resting on the arm of his chair and his feet up on a file box that was set beside the desk. "That's up to you. I prefer you to give me guidance on what you're comfortable with, and what you're not comfortable with. Many of my patients have some absolutes: things they'd rather I not get into, or not get into yet. Today, though? First visit? Tell me how you feel. Scale of one to ten, if you like, where ten is great and one is rock bottom."
"How I feel?" He chuckled, spitting the bit of nail out before continuing, "we talkin' emotionally or physically?" Lex paused for a second, considering, "nah, guess they're 'bout the same, really. Prob'ly round negative five? Rock bottom'd be great but I feel like I took a header down the rabbit hole an' I'm still fallin', y'know?"
"Okay." Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. "Emotions and physicality are not as separate as most people think, most of the time. So, tell me, how is that coming out in terms of actual sensations? For example, do you find that your pulse is racing, or do you feel nauseous? Are you more tired than usual?"
"Can't sleep worth a shit," he muttered, staring down at his hands in his lap, "nightmares when I do an' when I wake up, I dunno... I barely 'member what they were about. Stomach's been rotten for a couple days. Hurts off an' on an' my appetite's... well, I dunno. Hard time keepin' things down, y'know? So I guess really, it's just par for the course with me. I got these highs an' lows. Sometimes I sleep like a baby, no trouble, no nothin'. An' other times, I get this bullshit."
"And is this new? Is it not new but worse than normal? Or has this been something you've been dealing with for a long time, and you're having trouble coping with your version of normal?"
Lex shook his head, "worse, yeah, but I kinda..." he trailed off, stifling a yawn behind his hand, "there's not really a normal anymore. Everything's flipped an' my brain feels like someone's tryin' to twist it 'round on me. Does that make sense?"
The man nodded. "Do you feel that there was a catalyst for this change? Something in your work life, or home life?"
"There was, yeah. I know what it was, too. I just... I can't swallow it. Found out who my real dad is an' it was a mindfuck— fuckin' thirty years after the fact an'... Jesus wait. Thirty-one?" He did the math on his fingers, lips moving as he did. "Fuck. The last year's been— since Father's Day last year. S'where it all started an' I was too much a chickenshit retard to follow through then. I wanted to keep away from the whole thing 'cause the only time people come back after they're dead is to ruin everythin'. Case an' point bein' Clay, right?"
The silence spread out, Sebastian clearly waiting for Lex to finish his thought before jumping into any clarifying questions.
"An' it ain't like I'm gonna get much in the way of closure there when he's dead." He was twisting the skull ring on his finger now, still looking down at his lap. "Half the time I'm so fuckin' angry I just wanna tear everything apart an' I dunno if that's just stages of grief or who I really am underneath all the lies. So... yeah." He took a breath, closing his eyes, "that's pretty much it."
"It's really good that you're able to identify those feelings though. I think that's a strong start. Do you feel up to talking about your Dad?" He shifted slightly in his chair, staying fairly relaxed. "If not, we can move straight into strategies for managing your sleep, but it's up to you. Not all of the people who come in are ready to get into the details straight away, and some never are. What's important is managing, but it is easier to do that if you can vent."
"Fuck that," Lex snapped, shaking his head. "I need to fix what's broken in here. I don't need to rehash the past." He tapped his temple, "any other way 'round an' that's like paintin' the damn car 'fore you finish rebuildin' the engine block, y'know? Sure... I fix that an' what? My cover as 'everyday normal family guy' is back intact? Then I can be everyone's hero again... big whoop. That ain't me, okay?"
He nodded again. "What does, 'fixed', feel like for you? Where would you like to be?"
"The lids're on an' I'm calm, y'know? Not angry or agitated or any of this other shit," he yawned again, "an' sleepin' for more'n a couple hours at a time 'fore I wake up with my heart pounding. I just wanna feel normal."
———♦———
YouTube posting (audio only, publicly listed)
"I've spent the last year lying to myself. That's a hard pill to swallow – sticks in the throat somethin' awful. I've been pretending I have this shit all figured out. Like there's always a game-plan an' I'm prepared for every eventuality. Would it surprise you if I admitted that even after a fuckin' decade an'' a half in this business, I still have no idea what I'm doin'? Prob'ly ruin the mystique, won't it? Esteemed CHAMPION an' all that… can't be real for a moment. I know that. I gotta put on airs. I gotta pretend I'm better, badder… so damned superior in every way – it's bullshit. I'm not. I just try to do the right thing. That's all. Keep the moral compass pointed to my own true north."
He sniffs disdainfully, a hint of bitterness in his tone.
"All these years, an' I can't remember if I've ever even wrestled at Madison Square Garden. For me, the big venue was Chicago – The United Center. I won two championships there. One of those places is long gone. The other's unrecognizable from what it was back then – funny how that goes. We claim we want to grow, to evolve an' change an' all that shit that goes with it. But we cling to the familiar. We repeat patterns 'cause they make sense. We never embrace entropy. We never accept that chaos wants to be the norm. We rage against school shootings, preach reform an' offer up empty prayers for the families whose lives'll never be the same – we don't lift any fingers for action. It's all lip-service. It's all meant to make you feel good without having to actually expend energy – but hey, this is what we've become. This is who we are when the hot lights are on an' no amount of spin-doctorin' will ever change that."
There's a soft sigh that serves as punctuation.
"While I'd like to brag about accomplishments, about how I wanna break that curse where no champion can retain on the first defense, I know I can't do that here. Flappin' my gums doesn't change anything. It's just a reminder that I'm alive. I'm still here. Outlastin' the bullshit. Outlastin' the haters, an' the fakers. I guess I can expect that to continue, regardless of whether or not there's still gold around my waist when the dust settles. Mean, what else am I gonna do? Retire? Come out to the ring, do a 'so long an' thanks for all the fish' speech, an' hit the road? That's what's expected, I'm sure. I called myself The Nomad – the championship's gone so I'm the only one left. The wanderlust is only a matter of time. The rose tint fades. The bullseye grows bigger and honeymoons end."
That old standby comes on the heels of that declaration, that self-deprecating chuckle making the microphone crackle for a moment in the wind of the exhale.
"Memory's a funny thing. You forget so much, but all this mundane shit always seems to stick – I don't remember the year I won my first championship. I have to actually look it up. I remember the locker room smelled like bleach so strong it made my lungs ache. I remember listening to Rancid on repeat, Tim Armstrong's underdog anthems keeping me centered. I remember it was cold, maybe winter – that detail eludes me. I just remember the tip of my nose hurting an' I was lost in the dark, tryin' desperately to screw my head on front-ways 'fore I had to hit the ring."
His voice is hoarse and he clearly takes a drink of something before continuing.
"I felt like an outsider. I felt like a stranger in a strange land – alienated. I don't remember the match. I don't think it's online anywhere because phones were shit then an' nobody thought to record some indy show. The ones that matter most, weren't the ones I can relive like that. They're not on any highlight reel. They were personal triumphs. They were about more than cheers or asses in seats or merchandise sales. They were about perseverance. They were about finding that line in myself an' erasing it like it was drawn in sand at low tide. I know where it all ends now, where the bottom lies."
Collins pauses for a second, the silence almost pensive.
"Sometimes I think I should just retire. Find another job an' get the fuck out of sight. Just drop right off the radar. I think I'm in the wrong place, at the wrong damn time 'cause I don't feel anything for these people – I don't really care if I win or lose. I keep tryin' to find it in me, to dig down an' find that righteous indignation. Sure, Graham Clauson laid out a guy in a wheelchair – why's it my job to clean up the shit around here? All I wanna do is wrestle. It makes sense out there. Some nights it's all about the bullshit posin' – shit-postin' nonsense. The trash talkin'. The flexin' of muscles an' dicks – I'm over it. I don't fuckin' care about any of this anymore. Yeah. I'm the guy. I'm the best an' this gold spells that out so I don't have to – nothing's changed. I'm still me. I'm still woefully unprepared, complete trainwreck. I can't do these nights where it's about accomplishments, about who's got the biggest dick or who can piss the farthest."
There's another amused snort.
"You came here to hear it, right? Wanted another indignant rant. Sure. Here goes. Fuck Graham Clauson. Fuck Tommy Snow. I don't even remember the other chick's name. Angie? Abby? Amy? To hell with her too – this is the night I stop hidin' from the truth. This is the night I stop pretendin' I wanna be a golden boy. IT's not about that. Our night, at MSG… it's gonna be about survival. Everyone knows those're the nights I like best. Those are the nights I call my own."
Conviction rings out long after the last syllable before the audio cuts off from static to silence.
———♦———
Las Vegas || October 12, 2019 (off camera)
"It's not stress!" He knew he was shouting; he knew he looked crazy when he was sweat-soaked and dishevelled from the run. "Goddammit, Han... I'm telling you the truth! It was him. I swear it."
Hannah stood in front of the kitchen sink, the wet dishtowel in her hands. They had a dishwasher but she still preferred to wash things by hand when it was a small load. She'd just finished cleaning up the last of the dinner dishes when he burst through the door, breathless and barely coherent. She glanced towards the doorway, trying to give him a hint to lower his voice.
He sank into the breakfast nook, elbows thumping against the table as he put his head in his hands. He was still out of breath, so winded he felt almost lightheaded – a panic attack was looming, he knew. It had been years since he'd had one. "The girls're asleep." He said it softer, nodding to himself. He'd learned the grounding technique years ago; all thanks to that therapist he'd seen just the one time. Recite the facts. He let his fingers fall from his face, flexing them a few times before laying them on the table top. He started to trace the veins in the marbled pattern.
"Lex?" Hannah slid in across from him, reaching out to touch the hand that wasn't moving. He grasped her fingers, twining his in that old hat way that was so comforting he let out a sigh.
"I know what I saw." He repeated it stubbornly, feeling the tightening in his chest starting to abate a little. "I know how it sounds. I was unlockin' the car after my run-"
"At the Canyon?"
Once he'd found the paved running path at Cottonwood Canyon, it had become his new spot. He went there in the late evening, just as twilight was coming on. Now that the weather was getting cooler, it wasn't anywhere near as packed.
"Right. I was just gettin' back to the car an' there was this big SUV idlin' there. I thought he was lookin' for a spot but there were a couple empties near the back. I was unlockin' the car when it rolled by – got a good look at the guy behind the wheel – we locked eyes. It was Clay. I shit you not, Han. It was. I'll fuckin' stake my life on it."
"Honey," Hannah gave his hand a squeeze, "you shot him. His blood was all over me. All over the wall – there's no coming back from that. He's dead and that piece of shit motherfucker's rotting in the ground while his soul burns in Hell." The words carried enough vehemence to match the anger flashing in her eyes even though the words were said mildly enough.
"Buried – right." He snorted in derision, "I didn't actually see that happen. We just took their word for it."
"And if they threw him in the incinerator instead? Who cares? Point is, he's dead, Lex. You couldn't have seen him following you in some mysterious black SUV. This isn't TV and I'm pretty sure ghosts don't drive SUVs." She smiled, trying to get him to lighten up. Truth was, his insistence was gnawing at her insides, making her worry. Lex was a lot of things, but he'd never been prone to hallucinations.
"I know." He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "This is real life." He stayed silent for a few minutes, listening to the clock ticking on the wall and the soft rhythm of Hannah's breathing. Finally, he shook his head. "You're right. Was prob'ly a trick of the light or somethin' – maybe I am more worried about this damned match than I thought."
"You wanna talk about it?" She moved to her feet and gave his hand a gentle tug when he didn't answer. "C'mon then, champ. Let's go get you into a nice hot bath. I'll rub your shoulders. We'll just talk about nothing for a while – forget all about that stupid belt. Okay?"
"Yeah." He let himself be pulled, acceptance washing over him as the adrenaline faded. This was probably going to end up being his last month wrestling for a long while – he wasn't sure he had the heart to tell her that, let alone anyone else. He resisted her attempt to leave the room, instead tugging back to catch her in his embrace and he kissed her gently on the forehead. "No matter what happens... i-if I don't make it out alive," he said it softly, the words almost ominous, "remember I love you. Always have. Always will."