Post by Sora Weaver on Apr 26, 2021 22:33:15 GMT -5
Sora laid in bed, total darkness save for the screen in front of his face, swiping from sound
Alright, we're here, just sitting in the car
to sound
If you're feeling like you need a little bit of company, you met me at the perfect time
to sound
19 dollar Fortnite card, who wants it
to sound
Ever seen a ghost
Over and over again, filling his ears with mindless noise for as long as possible.
Until the phone dies.
Dropping it on the bedside table makes a thud, fumbling for the charging cable a few rustles and clinks. The soft whoosh of charger into phone, before the absence of all noise. Just silence all around Sora, as he lays alone in his small apartment.
He knows it's going to start soon, because his brain no longer has its nightly distraction. It's going to start again, as it has every night since he got the text from Jin about their first match.
"Hey bro, we got a title match. It's like first blood or something, you'll be fine. We got this!"
The details didn't make it better. Seven other competitors in a match type Sora had never competed in. Normally in his deathmatches bleeding was a requirement, not an avoidance. This was totally different. How does a deathmatch specialist avoid bleeding when that's all he's done his entire career?
Then all these people, these variables. The only one he knew was Jin, and he was really good. All these other people could be just as good, and if he loses on his debut...
Then it began. Just like clockwork.
In one ear his mother, the Japanese perfectionist rang out
Don't disappoint me
Be the best
Failure is unacceptable
Do better
Your best isn't good enough
Be better
Nothing else matters
It never stopped, not fully. It left him alone for days at a time, usually when things went well. His first win in pro wrestling, the day he got promoted at his old job, even the day he graduated high school. Those brought peace, quiet, and restful nights. Sora savored them, treating them like precious morsels to a starving child.
But then nights like this. Where expectations, failure, and the unknown all collided in a Big Bang like catastrophe inside his mind. It left him unable to sleep, unable to focus on workouts so much that he often didn't bother, and ruined his diet as he binged junk food trying to generate enough happy chemicals in his brain to drown the sadness in the darkest waters.
It always resurfaced.
"How do you take all that violence" fans would ask him every once in awhile when they saw him out and about. How someone that looked like Sora could be such a magnet for pain, yet persevere. How he kept going in any one fight, or how he'd made the last few years of his life about self mutilation for money. It bewildered some, fascinated others, but for all of them it spawned confusion.
The answer changed depending on his mood. "Red makes green I guess" with a chuckle if Sora's mood was up.
"I do what is necessary" on the days he wasn't feeling sociable.
Silence for when he didn't feel obliged to answer.
None of those were the real answer of course.
Nobody cared enough to ever hear the real answer. Sora knew he wasn't a person to them. He was just a performer, a fleeting moment in their consciousness every so often when they bought a ticket. He was a zoo animal, a circus clown, the chemical boost for them that he could never himself find.
The barrier between him and them was human existence. They had it.
He didn't.
So he lays awake, tortured. Knowing that no relief will come, because there's no help. All there was, until the unknown became known, was agony. DangerZone was still days away, and every minute felt like eternity. This ritual would persist until he got to Chicago, until he got in that ring and stared all those people down for the first time.
Save for one, who he had seen many times before.
They stood between salvation and damnation. Between the darkness of the depths, and the fresh gulp of air.
He needed that breath badly.
But he wasn't sure he could get it.
Every match I wrestle, no matter how many people are in it, I'm outnumbered. From the day my feet first touched canvas, I've been outmatched. The more people in the match, the worse the odds get. DangerZone isn't different. My opponents have to fight seven people.
I have to fight eight.
It's not just Jalen Prince, who seemed like a nice enough guy. Disliking someone who believes in uplifting marginalized communities is hard. Then he threw it all away. One minute happy about how accepting Rev1 is, then on the other end degrading Chase Blackley. Making assumptions and outright accusations with no proof, all for the purposes of hurting and degrading him. Your insecurity is leaking Jalen, and it's an embarrassment. You've absorbed all that darkness you've received your entire life, and now you're intent on putting it right back into the world instead of letting it die inside you. It'll be your downfall.
It's not just the Narcoleptic Ninja who shares a similar parentage with me, just a different means of achieving it. The difference is I don't treat my heritage as a joke for entertainment. I'd rather continue treating my body like a pin cushion than prostitute the proud legacy of my mother for a paycheck. I've struggled my entire life in two worlds, and you've bastardized one of them for what? Amusement? Either way, do not for a second think I will let that go. It can't stand, and neither will you as you watch the blood of your disappointed ancestors run down your fat cheeks. I don't have much pride, but I will defend what little shred I have against fools like you.
It's not just Richard Dweck, who will use childish insults and wordplay I heard in school hallways all my life to try and tear me down. All flash, no substance. Another social media starlet who thinks because he's drifted around for years he's something. That he's a survivor because of tenure. No, you've lasted this long because nobody cares enough about you to evict you. You just exist, a legend in your own mind but a footnote in history. A 250 pound walking delusion who can bleed first and finish last.
It's not just Jason Ryan or Arcana. One of you showed respect, the other showed ignorance. It's irrelevant though, because neither of you matter. You're here to make the numbers work, nothing more.
It's not just the champion Jessie Lee. You're an interesting one Miss Lee, a cut above most of the others. You rely on a swagger that seems unmatched by just about anyone on the roster, and have ridden that into the stars of success. To anyone you come across, that bravado and confidence seems a sword. Meant to slay your enemies and bring you victory, and that title around your waist shows it's been effective.
Except it's not a sword.
It's a shield.
All those emotions, that confidence, that arrogance even isn't there to attack your enemies. It exists to defend you, because you need the help. You lose your first match, and with that the first impression is Jessie Lee is a loser. So what happens next? You belly up to the bar, start smacking anything with a pulse, and come away with a shiny reward. It's no coincidence that after the loss you found this certainty. You needed it. You need them to believe you have it all together. That all of this is planned, and that when they stand across from you they're facing a buzzsaw.
But they're not.
They're facing a little girl who knows the only way to survive in a world of giants is to strike first, strike hard, and get your bluff in early. To handle business up front, so nobody questions it later. I see straight through it though. Nobody in this match knows more what it's like to project and advance like me. My entire life has been faking it until I make it, if you will. In Chicago, I expose it in the course of taking your title and your blood in the same match.
Jin...
My friend. My stable mate. I don't want to fight you. I wouldn't have chosen to fight you, but here we are. I appreciate what you said, and I want to believe you. You've been a kind man, you've been there when I've needed it. That won't change after this match, no matter the outcome. This is just a one time only incidental collision.
But then I saw everything else you said, about everyone else.
All those mean things about all those other people. Like a corporation through a rain forest, with no regard for anything you just cut them down. Like it wasn't even about who they are. It was all schoolyard insults, cheap jokes...it was cruel.
If you'd say that about them...did you lie to me about what you said?
What would you say about me if my back was turned? What will you do if it comes down to it?
Can I trust you? Are you going to show me a flower to my face, only to put a knife in my back if it comes down to us for the title?
Deep down, I know I can trust you. All of this is my neurosis manifesting into paranoia and mistrust. Yes of course you'll do what is necessary to win, that's the job. But it's nothing personal, I just have to keep telling myself.
Which leads me to the last person in this match I have to fight.
Me.
My greatest threat in this match is myself. No matter how large, how violent, how destructive everyone else is in this contest I have to overcome them AND myself to win. Nobody else has that disadvantage, because they're all stable. They don't live split between two worlds, two parents, and about fifty different traumas that tear at their mind and soul every waking moment. If I win this match, this title, it'll be not just because I overcame all of you.
I overcame myself.
While I'm confident I can beat every single last one of you, yes even you Jin, I'm not sure I can clear that final hurdle. I'm never sure until it happens, and as a result it means I have to fight harder. It means I have to push through, head down, focusing on the task at hand while blocking out all those voices in my mind that yell NO at me. That distract me, haunt me, and degrade me until I either silence them or they silence me.
If everyone else loses, they go home and say "Better luck next time." If I lose? I have to live with my brain berating me endlessly.
Scolding me for not doing what it took.
Torment me for endless sleepless nights and miserable days, all because I didn't get the job done.
This win, that title is my salvation. You all just want it for money, for stature, for advancement.
I need it for peace.
I need it to live.
How can any of you hope to stand in the way of that?
You won't. So you better hope I do it for you.
Otherwise you don't stand a chance.
Alright, we're here, just sitting in the car
to sound
If you're feeling like you need a little bit of company, you met me at the perfect time
to sound
19 dollar Fortnite card, who wants it
to sound
Ever seen a ghost
Over and over again, filling his ears with mindless noise for as long as possible.
Until the phone dies.
Dropping it on the bedside table makes a thud, fumbling for the charging cable a few rustles and clinks. The soft whoosh of charger into phone, before the absence of all noise. Just silence all around Sora, as he lays alone in his small apartment.
He knows it's going to start soon, because his brain no longer has its nightly distraction. It's going to start again, as it has every night since he got the text from Jin about their first match.
"Hey bro, we got a title match. It's like first blood or something, you'll be fine. We got this!"
The details didn't make it better. Seven other competitors in a match type Sora had never competed in. Normally in his deathmatches bleeding was a requirement, not an avoidance. This was totally different. How does a deathmatch specialist avoid bleeding when that's all he's done his entire career?
Then all these people, these variables. The only one he knew was Jin, and he was really good. All these other people could be just as good, and if he loses on his debut...
Then it began. Just like clockwork.
In one ear his mother, the Japanese perfectionist rang out
Don't disappoint me
Be the best
Failure is unacceptable
In the other his father, the supportive American
You'll be just fine
Do your best
All you can do is try
Do better
Never give up
Your best isn't good enough
Give it your all
Be better
We'll always love you
Nothing else matters
Nothing else matters
It never stopped, not fully. It left him alone for days at a time, usually when things went well. His first win in pro wrestling, the day he got promoted at his old job, even the day he graduated high school. Those brought peace, quiet, and restful nights. Sora savored them, treating them like precious morsels to a starving child.
But then nights like this. Where expectations, failure, and the unknown all collided in a Big Bang like catastrophe inside his mind. It left him unable to sleep, unable to focus on workouts so much that he often didn't bother, and ruined his diet as he binged junk food trying to generate enough happy chemicals in his brain to drown the sadness in the darkest waters.
It always resurfaced.
"How do you take all that violence" fans would ask him every once in awhile when they saw him out and about. How someone that looked like Sora could be such a magnet for pain, yet persevere. How he kept going in any one fight, or how he'd made the last few years of his life about self mutilation for money. It bewildered some, fascinated others, but for all of them it spawned confusion.
The answer changed depending on his mood. "Red makes green I guess" with a chuckle if Sora's mood was up.
"I do what is necessary" on the days he wasn't feeling sociable.
Silence for when he didn't feel obliged to answer.
None of those were the real answer of course.
Nobody cared enough to ever hear the real answer. Sora knew he wasn't a person to them. He was just a performer, a fleeting moment in their consciousness every so often when they bought a ticket. He was a zoo animal, a circus clown, the chemical boost for them that he could never himself find.
The barrier between him and them was human existence. They had it.
He didn't.
So he lays awake, tortured. Knowing that no relief will come, because there's no help. All there was, until the unknown became known, was agony. DangerZone was still days away, and every minute felt like eternity. This ritual would persist until he got to Chicago, until he got in that ring and stared all those people down for the first time.
Save for one, who he had seen many times before.
They stood between salvation and damnation. Between the darkness of the depths, and the fresh gulp of air.
He needed that breath badly.
But he wasn't sure he could get it.
Do your best
Be the best
It never ends.
========
Every match I wrestle, no matter how many people are in it, I'm outnumbered. From the day my feet first touched canvas, I've been outmatched. The more people in the match, the worse the odds get. DangerZone isn't different. My opponents have to fight seven people.
I have to fight eight.
It's not just Jalen Prince, who seemed like a nice enough guy. Disliking someone who believes in uplifting marginalized communities is hard. Then he threw it all away. One minute happy about how accepting Rev1 is, then on the other end degrading Chase Blackley. Making assumptions and outright accusations with no proof, all for the purposes of hurting and degrading him. Your insecurity is leaking Jalen, and it's an embarrassment. You've absorbed all that darkness you've received your entire life, and now you're intent on putting it right back into the world instead of letting it die inside you. It'll be your downfall.
It's not just the Narcoleptic Ninja who shares a similar parentage with me, just a different means of achieving it. The difference is I don't treat my heritage as a joke for entertainment. I'd rather continue treating my body like a pin cushion than prostitute the proud legacy of my mother for a paycheck. I've struggled my entire life in two worlds, and you've bastardized one of them for what? Amusement? Either way, do not for a second think I will let that go. It can't stand, and neither will you as you watch the blood of your disappointed ancestors run down your fat cheeks. I don't have much pride, but I will defend what little shred I have against fools like you.
It's not just Richard Dweck, who will use childish insults and wordplay I heard in school hallways all my life to try and tear me down. All flash, no substance. Another social media starlet who thinks because he's drifted around for years he's something. That he's a survivor because of tenure. No, you've lasted this long because nobody cares enough about you to evict you. You just exist, a legend in your own mind but a footnote in history. A 250 pound walking delusion who can bleed first and finish last.
It's not just Jason Ryan or Arcana. One of you showed respect, the other showed ignorance. It's irrelevant though, because neither of you matter. You're here to make the numbers work, nothing more.
It's not just the champion Jessie Lee. You're an interesting one Miss Lee, a cut above most of the others. You rely on a swagger that seems unmatched by just about anyone on the roster, and have ridden that into the stars of success. To anyone you come across, that bravado and confidence seems a sword. Meant to slay your enemies and bring you victory, and that title around your waist shows it's been effective.
Except it's not a sword.
It's a shield.
All those emotions, that confidence, that arrogance even isn't there to attack your enemies. It exists to defend you, because you need the help. You lose your first match, and with that the first impression is Jessie Lee is a loser. So what happens next? You belly up to the bar, start smacking anything with a pulse, and come away with a shiny reward. It's no coincidence that after the loss you found this certainty. You needed it. You need them to believe you have it all together. That all of this is planned, and that when they stand across from you they're facing a buzzsaw.
But they're not.
They're facing a little girl who knows the only way to survive in a world of giants is to strike first, strike hard, and get your bluff in early. To handle business up front, so nobody questions it later. I see straight through it though. Nobody in this match knows more what it's like to project and advance like me. My entire life has been faking it until I make it, if you will. In Chicago, I expose it in the course of taking your title and your blood in the same match.
Jin...
My friend. My stable mate. I don't want to fight you. I wouldn't have chosen to fight you, but here we are. I appreciate what you said, and I want to believe you. You've been a kind man, you've been there when I've needed it. That won't change after this match, no matter the outcome. This is just a one time only incidental collision.
But then I saw everything else you said, about everyone else.
All those mean things about all those other people. Like a corporation through a rain forest, with no regard for anything you just cut them down. Like it wasn't even about who they are. It was all schoolyard insults, cheap jokes...it was cruel.
If you'd say that about them...did you lie to me about what you said?
What would you say about me if my back was turned? What will you do if it comes down to it?
Can I trust you? Are you going to show me a flower to my face, only to put a knife in my back if it comes down to us for the title?
Deep down, I know I can trust you. All of this is my neurosis manifesting into paranoia and mistrust. Yes of course you'll do what is necessary to win, that's the job. But it's nothing personal, I just have to keep telling myself.
Which leads me to the last person in this match I have to fight.
Me.
My greatest threat in this match is myself. No matter how large, how violent, how destructive everyone else is in this contest I have to overcome them AND myself to win. Nobody else has that disadvantage, because they're all stable. They don't live split between two worlds, two parents, and about fifty different traumas that tear at their mind and soul every waking moment. If I win this match, this title, it'll be not just because I overcame all of you.
I overcame myself.
While I'm confident I can beat every single last one of you, yes even you Jin, I'm not sure I can clear that final hurdle. I'm never sure until it happens, and as a result it means I have to fight harder. It means I have to push through, head down, focusing on the task at hand while blocking out all those voices in my mind that yell NO at me. That distract me, haunt me, and degrade me until I either silence them or they silence me.
If everyone else loses, they go home and say "Better luck next time." If I lose? I have to live with my brain berating me endlessly.
Scolding me for not doing what it took.
Torment me for endless sleepless nights and miserable days, all because I didn't get the job done.
This win, that title is my salvation. You all just want it for money, for stature, for advancement.
I need it for peace.
I need it to live.
How can any of you hope to stand in the way of that?
You won't. So you better hope I do it for you.
Otherwise you don't stand a chance.