[finnwhelan]

FORGETFULNESS
I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. - Maya Angelou


••••••

TWO-ISH WEEKS AGO…

Being nice? She was flirting with you.

The waves rushing against the side of the cruise ship, no matter how far up from the cabins it was, was audible in the silence. It cascaded upon him as he laid there, eyes open as he stared at the ceiling nonchalantly. A bottle hung from his fingertips – Jameson, the thing he used to drown his sorrows in over and over again, a favorite – off the side of the bed. The room spun. It tumbled and weaved, but he knew it wasn’t from the seafaring voyage. They’d made these boats ridiculously smooth over the years. They were moving, but he wouldn’t even have recognized it.

The way she touched your arm, the way she looked at you…

The way her nose flared, the terse pose in her body. Of all the things in the world to be mad about, it was an unimportant little girl who he’d ignored not only because she was probably half his age (or at least looked it), but because he wasn’t particularly the type to flirt with waitresses at a nondescript diner.

Yes, you made that abundantly fucking clear.

Not only was it the anger in her voice, it was the fear that settled within it. Hidden beneath the overtones of aggression and frustration was that miniscule bit of her fear that she thought she’d disguised well enough. But his question was a true question, and it wasn’t bullshit just to piss her off like he so easily did. Her excuse to live in his apartment was that she just needed a place to stay after her break-up with Billy, but eight months later, she was still there.

She was still there, walking around in her short shorts and her tank tops, trying to pull down the collar just enough for her cleavage to be abundantly visible.

She was still there, leaning up against him as he watched television, her back against his body as he lazily laid it across the back of the couch.

She was still there, her toothbrush laying haphazardly on the bathroom counter and her haircare products laying on the floor of his shower.

My game?

She wouldn’t speak to him after that. Refused to open her mouth as they (he) lugged their belongings up the ramp to the boat. Refused to look at him as they went to their separate, but adjoining rooms. Slammed the door in his face once he’d gotten her suitcase into her room. She was the typical woman scorned, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. At least…in that moment.

He got it now.

Even in his quest to just continue pissing her off, he’d hurt her. And for someone like Kayla, that was significantly difficult to do. Everyone who knew her knew that it was impossibly difficult to get through the layers and layers of self-aggrandizement pushed from trauma that Kayla had to even remotely cause her pain. She was conceited with walls as strong and tall as Fort Knox. She was not a happy person, at all, but somehow, he’d broken through all of those with a statement that, while completely true, seemed to affect her more than it should have.

They weren’t together. And they wouldn’t be together either. While there was a level of obvious comfortability that they seemingly had, there was a lot that Kayla needed to figure out about herself before Finn would even touch the topic. He wasn’t going to jump into a relationship with a woman that barely trusted herself, let alone him. And no matter what Kayla said, that’s how he saw it. She was used to making herself the bad guy in every situation because it didn’t require her to feel anything, didn’t require her to own anything. He got it.

But he didn’t want that.

He didn’t want to lose their comfortability. Didn’t want to lose their friendship because he turned out to be what she didn’t want. He already went through this once, he didn’t want to lose another significant person in his life simply because they thought they wanted something they didn’t want. As much as he was an asshole on the outside, he was still a remarkably good person whether people believed it of him or not. He helped people when he could, he pushed people to do better. He was a guide when he needed to be, and how absolutely altruistic of him, if someone needed a place to fucking live, he gave it to them free of charge.

She had a perception of him that wasn’t particularly true. That he was all aggression and anger, ready to chomp on someone else the second they bared their own teeth at him. And maybe she was prodding at him to get him to do that with her. Gnash back. Get angry. Treat her with aggression that she might somehow get off on. No. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. So he treated her with indifference and much more, he ignored her. It would make her rise.

And he dearly wanted to see how she rose to the occasion.

He had a hand over his Jameson as he leaned against the bar earlier in the evening, and he seemed to be conversational with the bartender. They had odds on the match: Finn said he was definitely losing and when the bartender asked why, he said he had bigger fish to fry in this sea. The man chuckled and went off on his way to help the next guest. Which was when he saw her, talking to some fan who must have gotten her attention. Their eyes locked for a second, and for that second, he could see that a glimmer of happiness flood her eyes. No one else would have recognized it, but it was there. And then it was gone, the second his eyebrow raised, he remembered their tweets and lack of texts, and he turned his head, ignoring her entirely.

He could envision her face going red in irritation. But he didn’t look. He smiled slightly, chuckling to himself as he shook his head. The bartender handed her a drink and she sat with the fan. She was trying to make him jealous – as jealous as she had been about the vapid waitress who asked about his tattoos while probably just trying to get a better tip.

“You know that one?” The bartender was an American, like many of the people on the cruise. African-American, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, actually,” he replied, setting down his glass of Jameson. His eyes settled on the mirror, watching the usual expression of annoyance cross her face as the guy started talking to her.

“Ex-lovers?”

“Not even,” he snorted, shaking his head as she looked up at him one more time. He could feel the sneer she adopted as the guy obviously came onto her. He looked at the placement of his hand, the way he leaned into her. The way she leaned into listen, but immediately turned her head away and ripped her hand back. An inner eyebrow raised, but Finn had learned how to keep his emotions from showing on his face. He’d learned to keep his thoughts from rising in his expression. That was the benefit of having been trained by someone in the Yakuza.

But he was surprised.

She got up and began to make a beeline for him, and he was about to suspect that Kayla would sit next to him, ignore him as he’d ignored her, but stay nearby. And he was prepared. But plans never went the way that they were expected. His phone rang. He swore, reaching for it out of his back pocket and looked at the name. Addisyn. She never called.

The call was inconsequential, but it forced him out of the bar area and out onto the ship’s deck so he could hear her. She asked him why he hadn’t posted any videos and he gave the same reason that he told everyone. She asked about Kat, and she asked about Kayla. He gave nonchalant answers and shrugged his shoulders. By the time he’d returned to the bar, Kayla was gone.

So he stayed. With Miles until his god awful girlfriend went too far. With Lach and Malachi until they got too knackered to survive. With (godforsaken) Alicia until they had no more insults to give one another. By the time he was done, it was early morning hours and the bar was closing for the night. He ordered a bottle of Jameson, stumbled his way down the stairs and into his room. He struggled with his boots, knocking over into the opposite wall, chucking them at it a second later. His pants (why in the fuck did they have to be so tight?) were next, followed by the ripped up shirt he wore. He landed with his eyes upwards and looking above him at the ceiling.

He didn’t know for how long he laid there, the half-empty bottle of Jameson dangling from his fingers, the sound of silence echoing across the ship. The pleasant buzz of something that destroyed and dulled his senses overcame him and he finally felt himself smirk slightly. Maybe finally he’d sleep.

“Fuck,” he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment. He didn’t drift. He couldn’t drift.

“UuuuuuuugggghhhhhhHHHHHH!”

Finn tilted his head and looked at the door. There was stomping, and there was a commotion as the lock was fumbled with until it turned. Without any warning, or a knock, there she was. Kayla. Like a hurricane, she battered her way into the room and left chaos in her wake without even the slightest provocation. She, too, had a bottle of alcohol she must have taken – vodka – and her eyes were alight with anger.

“Why, hm?” She snapped at him. Finn sat up, dropping the bottle of Jameson on the floor and tilting his head. “Why did you just allow that stupid little brat to flirt with you?”

“Why are you still hung up on this?” He retorted, turning to look at her on the bed. “It was fuckin’ inconsequential, Kay–”

“It wasn’t!” She snapped, pointing a finger in his face. “You think it was, but you couldn’t even see what she was doing!” Kayla reached over, mocking the girl again, tracing one of Finn’s colorful tattoos upon his arm. “Oh ehehehe, that’s such a cool looking upside down cross. Did you get it before you colored in the rest? Oh, your hair accents your eyes so well, it looks good!”

“Kayla, she was wanting a better tip and learned that if she complimented her customers they might give her more,” he replied dryly. That was partially a lie. He knew she was flirting. He just didn’t give a shit. “And even if it was flirting, I’m pretty sure it was not reciprocated.”

“And then you ignore me for four days straight the second we get on this stupid fucking ship.” Her words were slurred slightly and she too dropped her bottle of vodka. She took a couple of steps closer and crawled onto the bed. “There was no fuckin’ game, Callien. I know your shitty little weasel brother weaseled his way into your brain and told you that there had to be some ulterior motive as to why I’m…I’m…”

“Still living in my apartment?”

“Kick me out.”

“What?” He did a double take.

Her head was tilted upwards, her makeup smeared at the corners of her eyes. She was defiant, her nose twitching in irritation. Her lip moved with just the smallest fractional frustration. “Kick me out. No balls. You won’t.”

“Kayla.”

“Kick me out!”

Even drunk, Finn still seemed to have all of his faculties. Or at least, all the ones that mattered. She reached out, grabbing hold of his arm and clenching her nails into his skin. He didn’t know if she meant to claw him, or if she was just trying to tie herself to him physically. Regardless, Finn’s opposite hand closed around her wrist and he quickly pinned it behind her back and himself, guiding her semi-forcibly back to the door.

“That–hey!” She growled, trying to adjust her stance as her feet stumbled against the floor. With careful footsteps of his own, he led her – rather pushing her – towards her room, following her without a word. “Finn!”

At the foot of her bed, he gently pushed her and she dropped onto the end of it. Her head whipped around and she looked at him, almost surprised. A slight smile came to her lips, but it was quickly diminished when she realized that he’d already turned back around and was heading back to his own cabin. She scrambled to get up, but he had the door halfway shut behind him.

“Go to bed, Kayla.”

The door slammed behind him with a finality even she couldn’t deny.

••••••

You know the only way to feed a Troll is to recognize its existence, right?

I don’t know how long we’ve been perusing the internet with Facebook statuses and bullshit aimed at one another for the sheer pleasure of disrupting the norm. It’s easy to hide behind identities and not have to answer for our sins and our transgressions. It’s easy to hide behind a bluster of confidence and an angry disposition because you don’t want someone to see who you are. It’s also easy to hide behind arrogance and gatekeeping in the attempt to be a good competitor, but a lot of others don’t see it that way.

Regardless of the fact, I’ve been semi-listening to the airwaves regarding me and I’m just so fuckin’ tickled to tell you that I literally do not give a shit about anything that a majority of you dipshits have to say. This is the thing that happens, over and over again. You get content in your positions within the company you work in for more than a year, thinking that over and over again, you’re going to do well and that the higher ups give a shit about you, but at the end of the day…they don’t. You get complacent because you think you’re the greatest gift to wrestling and you think that this sandbox is the only thing out there.

Also pleased to tell you that I’m a fucking champion come this time on tape delay Sunday. World Champion. You see, Alexander Raven over there can sit there and talk about how I have all these failures and Goth can…I dunno, I didn’t even honestly watch that last promo because I’ve solidified myself out of contending for that championship because I’m not fuckin’ interested.

Yes. Finn Whelan isn’t interested in a championship.

It’s not a crazy thing though. It’s not the right time. Not the right time to contest, not a right to fly, not a right time to do anything but create for myself the name that I’m known for. Relentless. A pestilence upon people. A fucking nightmare to face. Why? Because I don’t give any shits about what happens to my opponents anymore, and maybe that makes me an unsafe worker, but what would expect from a man who considers brawling a fun time?

Right.

But this week, I’ve got the Troll. Who’s spent about 3 hours on Twitter trying to troll people, and sorry, but I’m not engaging. Why?

Because that’s how you feed trolls.

Instead, when we get to Jaipuri, I’m going to do what should be done to Trolls.

I’m going to make sure this fuckin’ dumbshit gets kicked in the teeth, and I’m going to break his fingers so he can’t tweet dumb shit to fill my timeline for at least another month. And in the process, I’m going to ensure that people remember that idiots shouldn’t be in the wrestling ring. It’s a hazard, and quite possibly a biohazard when it comes down to it.

Nah, definitely a biohazard.

…

Yeah. Biohazard.

And the following weeks? Keep an eye on me when you see me. I’m not gunning for the low brau shit anymore.

Rise high.

Rise mighty.

Rise relentless.