“She was the one who showed me all the dark wonders of life, the real life, the life I’d only seen flickering from the corner of my eye. Did I ever feel anything at all until she showed me what feeling meant? Pushing at the corners of her cramped world with curled fists, she showed me what it meant to live.”
― Megan Abbott, Dare Me
Undisclosed Location
Elizabethtown, NC
20.08.2005
4:36pm
“Come on Red, you can’t tell me this isn’t kinda cool…”
Amber kicked the shards of a brick across the rotten floorboards in protest, the thin powder of brick dust exploding like a pale rain around her worn converses. Derelict and decaying, the musty aroma mingled with something faintly coppery and alkaline as Amber tried to put from her mind how it reminded her of the taste of blood in the back of her throat.
“It's just like in movies, you know?”
Amber’s clear lack of enthusiasm did little to temper Cassidy Parker’s overt excitement at exploration, after all they’d been travelling for several days straight- cooped up in a van with adults far more invested in staring at the backs of their eyelids or too busy trying to talk over her head with stories of an illicit nature like she hadn’t heard them all only with far more slurring and the stain of whiskey on their breaths.
Truck stops did little to break the monotony- deep fried nothing and gasoline fumes, the magazines were all months out of date and even the newspapers seemed to curl at the edges as though trying to quietly disintegrate.
However when Cassidy spotted the abandoned house not far from the fairgrounds, she had immediately set to work pestering Amber about going exploring. Four days she’d managed to keep Cassidy at bay, four arduous days filled with excuses and avoidance, four days of being worn down by the sheer energy levels and eventually her patience wore so thin she knew she might not sleep a wink if she didn’t relent.
At 14 Cassidy was Amber’s junior by three years- somewhat akin to an annoying little sister with far too much energy and a startling charisma, thick blonde curls fell around her face and cascaded over her shoulders as warm brown eyes studied the world through a microscope.
Pale skin stretched over her sinewy form as she swept from room to room, her frame like that of a ballerina without the function muscle mass, like a praying mantis perhaps made of all limbs and earnestness.
“Yeah, and in those movies pretty little things like you end up looking like a sleeping bag full of cranberries that got run over with a tractor.”
Part of a floorboard crumbled beneath Amber’s foot as she caught herself, sweating profusely under her breath about the stupidity of this whole venture, Cassidy however seemed far more enamoured with some of the rough graffiti that had peeled away in places, her fingers traced over where the letters had faded- perhaps a proclamation of simply being there or the curving strokes of a short term relationship sprayed with a lustful and equally short term sincerity.
Amber appreciated the artform, when done well at least- which this had not- however it was the way the word forever seemed to be thrown around so freely, that it could be intended as something infinite and yet last only three days cause some people aren’t mentally equipped to handle monogamy.
Metallic and caustic gave way to something more acidic, an unmistakable tang of built up ammonia and perhaps bile if she really thought about it for long enough. She tried to avoid making eye contact with what she presumed was once a mattress, it's remains scattered and soiled by rats or something slightly larger, she couldn’t even begin to think of what it's use might have been before… and perhaps still.
Amber gagged slightly, bile tickling at the back of her tongue as though trying to negotiate for an exit. Even though the windows had been broken out, shards stuck and weathered in their decaying frames, fresh air still couldn’t permeate the space- an air lock of acrid malodor, the atmosphere so heavy that there wasn’t any room for oxygen to move.
“Hey Red, what if there's a dead body or something?”
“It smells like there already is…”
“Oh come on, it's not THAT bad.”
“I’d rather hang out in a truck stop toilet getting propositioned by lesbian truck drivers than breath in some dead person DNA. Come on Cass, let's just get out of here otherwise the next dead body might just be yours.”
Cassidy mockingly poked her tongue out, while Amber wrinkled her nose up so hard it was a wonder that it was still properly attached to her face.
“Jesus christ, put that thing back in your head before I rip it out and use it to clean my shoes.”
“No you won’t. You like me too much, and besides- who else would put up with your miserable ass?”
Cassidy ventured towards the front door, well where the front door used to be Amber had presumed, now only a set of hinges hung precariously as the wood seemed to fall apart around them.
It wasn’t the gasp that set Amber’s heart racing, nor even the fact she could see Cassidy frozen, partially silhouetted in the front door by the sinking afternoon sun.
It was the voices. Multiple. Angry.
Closing the gap, Amber could start making out words now- mostly curses mixed with the occasional accusation, a cacophony of sounds spewing with a determined vitriol. Female. Young, probably teen. A vicious whine like a hornet, only with far more hormones and a shittier attitude.
“... saw you carny slut. Think you can just get away with messing with me, you got another thing coming.”
“Fuck her up”
“Yeah, she’s got it coming”
Maybe they didn’t know Amber was there, maybe they just didn’t care but none of them reacted much when the redhead leaned almost leisurely on the door frame, trying to avoid having to get another tetanus shot in the process.
“Problem?”
Cassidy was the first to acknowledge Amber- the knowing look of guilt and realization plastered across her face. Amber hadn’t noticed how heavy the smattering of freckles across her nose was until now, framed by the glazed over deer-caught-in-headlights look in her eyes.
She was looking for hope, for validation perhaps, for something… Something that Amber wasn’t even sure she could provide.
“You wanna tell your girl here how you think you’re a clever little bitch, you didn’t think I’d remember your face after I caught your sticky fucking fingers in my bag last night?
Well, guess what…”
Amber tuned out slightly as the slurs continued to pour, groaning internally as Cassidy could do little more than give her something amounting to a sheepish affirmation of wrongdoing. It was Amber’s fault, she’d been teaching Cassidy how to pickpocket and more importantly… how not to get caught.
She wasn’t supposed to be going off by herself trying it, Amber swore loudly under her breath capturing the attention of the lead antagonist.
“Look, I’m sure theres some kind of misunderstanding or something… Cass, just apologize. Get it over with and then we can all move on, yeah?”
Operation peacemaker was in full swing, however it didn’t stop the redhead from sizing up the girls. All of them seemed built from the same familial stock, although maybe that was more a small town breeding issue rather than anything else- none of them particularly menacing despite their best efforts, the type of girls who’d tell everyone they smoked behind the bleachers and played truant when really it was mommy and daddy letting them have a day off and not keeping contraband out of reach.
Snickering became full blown laughter in a matter of moments, the girls looking to each other in comical disbelief.
“You think an apology fixes this, you think that's good enough? Nah, that's not how we do things around here.”
Amber presumed she was trying to square up, that she was trying to look intimidating however she was heavily flat footed, her fists curled awkwardly in a way that would break her thumbs if she threw a punch and her smile was… way too easy of a target. With a deliberately methodical pace, Amber drifted down the concrete steps allowing each thud to resonate for a moment before the next until the muffle of hard ground and dust tempered the noise.
“How you do things… Huh, well that's a bit of a problem in itself then, isn’t it?”
Without breaking eye contact, Amber placed herself between Cassidy and the group while allowing a sly half smile to cross her face. It was a few moments of awkward silence before Amber cleared her throat, trying to clear the last residue of mildew from her throat.
“Cassidy. Get out of here.”
“Amber I-”
“Go.”
Terse and commanding, the guilt only sunk deeper into the blonde as she sidled off to the side, at first a walk and then breaking into a run in the direction of the fairgrounds. One of the group made a move to follow, however Amber's hollow dead eyed gaze kept them all planted firmly in place.
“I dunno who you think you are standing up for her but-”
“No buts, your problem is with me now. Not her. Whatever she’s done, you take it up with me or you fuck right off and leave us the hell alone.”
Another few chuckles rumble through the girls as though they’re on the same wavelength, Amber presumed that since they likely didn’t have a lot of brain cells between them that it greatly reduced the difficulty.
“Her. You. Same difference really.”
Amber saw the punch coming before the girl even reared back, there was something so oddly satisfying about watching someone with no clue telegraph their shot while still thinking they had any element of surprise. Years of muay thai kept her on her toes, years of panantukan ept her footwork difficult to read… and years of just straight up fights forecast the outcome like standing outside and predicting the weather two minutes into the future.
Four versus one.
Shitty odds. Still didn’t stop Amber coming in and headbutting the lead antagonist between the eyes with a satisfying crunch, cartilage snapped beneath the pressure and Amber caught some of the first spurts of hot gushing blood as it poured from her nose.
Stumbling backwards, Amber knew she left herself open however the message had been sent. Wild fists with poor technique made contact, each not doing much but their sheer combined weight beat her down towards the ground- sometimes a lucky strike might connect with something more fragile like a liver or kidney.
Crumpling to the floor, Amber covered up as best as possible while still lashing out when opportunity arose, one girl stomped at her face and caught her in the nose, the viscous blood tricking into her mouth as she fought for a breath not contaminated by dust.
Metallic on her tongue, she wanted to be sick until an errant kick caught her in the stomach and forced a dry retch from her body. One girl got caught with a nasty kick to the thigh, stumbling backwards the obscenities were followed by a kick to the spine that sent a tingling down Amber’s arms.
She didn’t know how long they were at it for, huffing and puffing angrily above her with insults that failed to do more than wound their own intelligence. Playground nothings, threats of violence trying to look cool when their punches did little more than crack knuckles.
Eventually their contemptuous onslaught gave way, satisfied with their work they helped each other limp away as the leader, still cradling her face- everything below her crumpled nose bathed in thick, crimson blood and mucus, spat venomously at Amber as she tried to drag herself out of the dust.
“That’ll fucking teach you.”
It wouldn’t. She’d be over it in a couple of days, superficial wounds although her pride was only slightly more damaged as Amber wished she’d knocked a few teeth out to do with it.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry… I just- I’m...”
Despite Amber’s determined stance, Cassidy hadn’t gone far. Kneeling in front of the redhead, she seemed momentarily lost for what to do, her shame and culpability reddened in her cheeks and sunken into the crevices of her grimace.
Amber quietly dusted herself off as she pushed herself up to sitting, she could still feel the trickle down the edge of her chin while trying to ignore the warmth trying to creep between her lips. Using her t-shirt, Amber tried to wipe away the worst of it, only succeeding in smearing it further as Cassidy tried to help her up- Amber waved her off though, unsteadily finding her feet as the younger girl tried to search for something meaningful to say.
“Amber, I’m so-”
Another dead eyed gaze cut her off abruptly.
“... They won’t bother you again.”
******
“You know, I’ve heard that possession is supposedly 9/10ths of the law but I can’t imagine whoever came up with it ever intended it for this context.
Curious, don’t you think?
A mechanism of protection in the same way that split personalities form and function like an emotional armour, protruding spikes around ones fragile psyche with the distinct intention of impaling everything within proximity. Mental illness certainly isn’t something to be joked about, as I’m sure a vast majority of our peers in this industry are either wired wrong, or pretend to be cause they think it makes them look cooler.
Really, the only voices those ones should be listening to are the ones telling them to fuck off out the door.
It's not a strength though, nor is it a weakness- it's just a part of you. Yin and yang, two halves to a whole even if the split is creeping into 80/20 territory. You might be the original, sure… but you aren’t in control, are you?
Some might compare you to Jekyll and Hyde but the truth is far more banal, theres no dramatic transformation by candlelight, no screams of disgust and terror as you morph into an uncontrollable killing machine.
Lights come on, and Melissa Aki switches off.
I wonder though, am I a threat to you?
Does someone like me bring out the worst, that darkness deep inside that's just begging for a chance to put the stupid big mouth redhead in her place. Does someone like me draw out something in you that you loathe, that leaves you feeling hollow in its wake and covered in someone else's blood… which certainly isn’t exactly sanitary in this pandemic.
See, this is the part where you do one of two things…
Your demon side will tell me that I’m no threat, that everything I’ve done up to this point is entirely irrelevant and that I can’t possibly be on your level when it comes to ultraviolence and generally being a piece of shit human being.
In which case I tell you that you’re one head twist away from being a poor mans Exorcist and that ya’ll really need some Jesus.
Or two… You’ll make it sound like this is a big deal to you, that you’ve either heard of me or seen my work and that you really respect me cause that's just what you do, you hope we’ll have a great match and in the end be respected rivals without having tried to bleed each other dry.
In which case I’ll still tell you that you’re one head twist away from being a poor mans Exorcist and that you most definitely need to invest in some serious Jesus.
I’m sensing a pattern here Maki.
I want to believe you are everything you’re made out to be- that your reputation of sheer carnage isn’t just because everyone else has been subpar and would consider a chair something of an exotic weapon… and I have no doubt that if you truly set your mind to it that you could absolutely splatter my future grandchildrens DNA all over your breakfast and still have an appetite for destruction.
All I’m getting though is that you wrestle a bit of deathmatch, talk a bit of cray-cray cause everyone loves a psycho till they start leaving body parts in their freezer and crawl on all fours cause it looks more animalistic and visceral, you know until you blow your knees and wrists out.
Might be the first person to do such things without having their head shoved under a table, so kudos on that I guess?
Still you feed into the cliche, a maligned and desperate cliche worn down to a painful nub on the middle finger of the wrestling industry and for what exactly?
A reaction, a cheap pop for some shock value- humans by nature are macabre creatures in that we abhor violence and yet are drawn to it like moths to a tyre fire. In one breath we refuse to condone acts of depravity, yet we turn on the television or shell out dollars for tickets to shows promising that someone will be hurt.
Somehow the greater the violence, the more attractive it becomes.
Fucking shock value Maki.
Ultraviolence isn’t just some kooky buzzword, it's not flavour of the month cause somehow blood is only barely thicker than a melting gelato. Deathmatches aren’t just some throwaway gimmicks proposed to get a few extra asses across seats- this isn’t a game for edgelords and emo’s desperately needing a haircut cause no one understands the pain of being them.
You wanna talk about pain Maki, about giving and receiving in kind like somehow stubbing your toe backstage is equivalent to digging shards out of your forearm weeks after a match cause you can feel it scraping against a bone, or comparing a paper cut to stitching yourself back together in a shitty hotel room cause the local nurses just think you’re taking the piss now.
You wanna preach destruction when in fact the only thing you’ve likely destroyed recently was a public toilet and the last shreds of dignity after an especially bad Taco Bell
We’re supposed to be better than this, but we aren’t… Maybe Seleana is our saving grace, that she might save this match from the quagmire it's becoming, but you’re just smoke and mirrors when I wanted you to be more. It's my fault though, I set the expectations to a level you could never have hoped to reach in that I admired your work only to realize it's just parlour games, smokescreens and a shaky hand for applying facepaint.
Demon Maki held some promise, regular Maki just wants to do good right?
She’s somehow pure and decent in comparison.
… which does absolutely nothing to stop me wanting to plant my converse sneaker through the back of your skull via the front door.
Ugh, I always forget how cringe this stuff sounds until I say it… Must make me sound like a big ole hypocrite right, deriding everyone else for their bullshit and then spraying venom like I’m marking my territory.
Hell, maybe I would be if I wasn’t just like the postman and always goddamn delivering. Win or lose kiddies, someone’s eating that canvas or the soles of my size 9’s. For you though, unlike the postman, I’ll even bring it on Sundays.
There are those that would compare us like we’re been cut from the same cloth- but you gotta think that's like trying to compare thousand thread count luxury with a square of used one ply. We’ll just try and ignore the brown stains this time, say it gives character.
Credit where recent credit is due- I mean you beat a former champion in your debut. Candy, you know, who happened to lose an inferno match recently, who lost her title recently. So, you beat a broken down, slightly charred version of someone who first walked into SCW thinking it was just a really violent My Little Pony convention.
Only reason she’s stayed this long is cause she’s still really determined to get Rainbow Brite’s hoofprint planted squarely between her eyes.
God, if that's not a deflating start to your tenure then I don’t really know what else to tell you…
Okay sure. You’ve got a demon inside of you… that's great. If you could just go over there and line up behind everyone else who walks into a company telling everyone they are, in fact, a badass… That’d be just lovely.
What you need to start comprehending real quick though, is that I’m a sick amalgamation of all the worst things Mother Nature herself could muster, and pre-packaged in a cage of skin and terrible decision making. You might summon power from the underworld, but I’m a dying star going supernova in slow motion determined to drag everyone down with me simply for being within the proximity.
By all means though, continue to make your empty threats and tell me all the ways I’m about to get scattered across that ring, the peculiar way you plan on using chunks of flesh for a terrible jigsaw and that my eyes might look nice in a jar overlooking the scenic barren hellscape.
It ain’t special, it certainly isn’t original- I mean I hear worse on a typical Tuesday and thats even before I get on social media- the best of your cutting verbal jabs wouldn’t even crack the top 10 on slow day of ‘You Mom’ jokes and poorly sexualised innuendos.
All I ask Maki, is that you give me something I can at least roll my eyes at cause I’ve still gotta prove that I haven't fallen asleep or just straight up dropped dead out of boredom from this grandiose show of imitation badassery and rampaging mediocrity.
Come Climax Control- it's the ever classic story of angels and demons… Hang on, someone call Dan Brown and tell him I’ve got a fantastic novel idea.
One he can massacre just like I’m about to during this stupid fucking triple threat match.
******
Carnage Arena
Baltimore, MD
22.06.2020
11:43pm
Amber hadn’t hurt like this for a long time.
As a veteran of ultraviolence, a delightful oxymoron if there ever was one, she’d endured far greater pain than most people should ever have had to endure- but this was different. This wasn’t shredded flesh oozing blood and muscle tissues twitching under bright lights, this wasn’t pulling shards of broken glass from skin nor retrieving an errant thumbtack from the underside of one's tongue.
Hell, this wasn’t even broken and splintered bones left to repair awkwardly cause the idea of someone else stepping into your place as you healed was a far more wounding prospect.
No, this was an ache that resonated from the inside of her bones. Radiating outwards as though nuclear fusion spontaneously erupted between the calcified layers of her 5’8” frame. It was fearsome, unending spasms that mimicked the thunderous pulse inside her chest- her forearms finding traction on the beige tiled wall in an effort to keep her semi-upright.
It was still being a goddamn fucking world champion. It was breaking a voodoo that had haunted her entire career, the anvil above her head falling around her like confetti instead of the usual crushing impact she’d grown to expect.
Until tonight, Amber Ryan had never successfully defended a world title.
In her nearly 13 years as a contracted professional, Amber Ryan had only ever been a world champion on three occasions. World class, but never enough for a shot at the best and constantly chased by the moniker of ‘one of the best never to be world champion’. So many people had wasted their breaths telling her how good they thought she was, but when the time came to put up or shut up- those same people changed their tunes cause people like her, people with a storied history in ultraviolence, with authority issues, with being a constant liability…
They looked great on a marquee, right next to a world title match. Right below a main event. Left of centre cause she couldn’t be trusted not to kill or be killed despite their insistence to just ‘be herself’.
Through gritted teeth, Amber arched her back further into the rushing water in hopes that the searing heat might somehow slough the skin from her bones, that piece by gruesome piece she might wash away every doubt and every insinuation ever made about her down the drain.
Bruises bloomed in sickly blacks and purples, scars blanched by the dull fluorescence- she’d worn every terrible decision she’d ever made like a macabre suit of armour, proud and flawed in equal measures.
Thick tresses of crimson hung lank around her face, the water dripping through as her hand fumbled for the tap- there was only one she’d needed to turn, after all many said there was plenty enough cold inside her that her shower wouldn’t require any assistance.
For a moment she watched the last splashes of water disappear around her feet, swirled with what remained of her self doubts and career uncertainties. In the locker room, she could hear the text notification go off- obnoxious and tinny as though it might somehow motivate her not to simply ignore it for fear of repetition.
It never worked though, and she’d never gotten around to changing it.
Grabbing her towel from the rail, she gingerly wrapped it around herself, the bruises protesting angrily as the material grated against her blossoming skin- no doubt the notification would be about an upcoming Sin City match, another opportunity many would have called it…
Opportunities though implied that they had direction- and right now… the redhead with a world of hype and reckless nature seemed to be adrift, grasping for something tangible that might prove she was worth what everyone said she was.
A win, a no contest and a loss.
Catching sight of herself in a fogged mirror, even her reflection seemed to disapprove. It wasn’t as though she expected to simply walk in and blitz the place, no that would be far more ignorant than even she’d stoop to- however she’d allowed herself to get sidetracked, driven to distraction more than she’d openly care to admit.
She had to admit, her life was becoming more and more like a circus- and she’d never learned quite how to juggle.
It was supposed to be a proving ground, a second chance at a first impression.
Jessie Salco had been a message. Myra Rivers had been a miscalculation. Mercedes Vargas a misdirection from someone else's abuse of power and determination to squeeze every drop of goodness from the ‘deranged mercenary’ type.
Running her hand through her still saturated tresses, water trickling down her arm and back, she tried to make out the woman who stared back at her- and how that woman couldn’t possibly be her. Reflections were cruel, highlighting and exposing everything about oneself that could be rightfully despised- self reflection was even fucking worse cause that mirror couldn’t be broken, nor did it have the capacity to be manipulated.
How many more missteps could she afford?
How many more times could she fail to live up to an expectation and still have people look at her in the same way?
Curling her toes reflexively against the cool tiles, Amber leaned closer to the mirror using the side of her fist to wipe away some of the fog but succeeded in smearing and smudging, leaving a trail of condensation and residue across the surface.
There was a cut on her lip, bottom to the right… Off symmetry... which bothered the redhead more than she preferred to admit, it seemed to have stopped bleeding though leaving little more than a raw graze between cracked and peeling lips.
No, her focus had been elsewhere.
Carnage, sure. Being a world champion had it's perks but also it's responsibilities and it was no secret that she’d had falters in her objectionable confidence in the lead up to her defense, that the missteps in Sin City had rattled her cage with the tremors reaching far deeper than she let on.
She was an animal with a natural disaster confined between her ribs that she was woefully ill-equipped to control, a desperate and arguably despicable human being whose moral compass was permanently stuck in the south cause it seemed to be the fastest way to hell.
There was something far more…
She couldn’t aptly describe it, even if she tried.
Roxi motherfucking Johnson.
Parallels. Constant and yet somehow always just a hair's breadth from collision. Years had been spent comparing and contrasting them, Amber had been more than once referred to as Roxi’s evil twin despite having been active in the industry for longer. Despite having an identity outside of being a tired daytime soap cliche.
Despite being the only one willing to truly embrace what they were capable of.
Roxi thought this all an illusion, but truth be told things likely had never been so real- that the threat Amber supposedly posed was far greater than the surface deep pipe dreams she’d so readily bought into.
Amber was presenting an opportunity, time and time again as though she herself hadn’t been acquainted with the true definition of insanity. Wasn’t that what the company was about, after all? Good fortune to those who earn it, a fighting chance to validate existences otherwise meaningless and trite.
Roxi was great, Amber had no doubt about that… but she was blind. Blind and determined that her point of view was the only authentic one, she took everything at face value despite the fact each layer of their interactions had been crafted as a journey of self-discovery.
Amber’s lip curled slightly- the blind could be led, but the willfully ignorant would never learn.
Bored of a reflection that didn’t feel like it belonged, an imitation of life that only served to mock and betray- Amber tore herself away, leaving waterlogged footprints in her immediate wake. Vapor dissipated around her as the thickness of the artificial humidity abated enough that she might steal a breath that didn’t feel like 70% water.
With the towel still tightly wound, Amber moved into the larger locker room space before fastidiously dropping down onto the wooden bench- her thick tresses pulled over one shoulder and dripping onto her open duffel bag.
Beside her, the cracked screen of her phone illuminated with missed calls, messages and notifications. Mostly congratulations from acquaintances trying to be friendly, the wave of social media crumbling the moment it reached its apex.
In 12 hours few of them would remember, and less would give a fuck even if they did.
Others were those closer, their messages more than polite small talk and generic good wishes crudely disguised into looking remotely original.
Mac had tried to call her multiple times, although those were more deliberately missed knowing how strongly he’d disagreed with her accepting the match to begin with- his concerns and affections borderline suffocating and yet strangely comforting.
Sure enough though, a notification stood out among the myriad.
Sin City Wrestling Climax Control 273.
She didn’t understand why her stomach seemed to fall through the floor, or why her heart nestled so deeply into the back of her throat she might have seen the pulsating edge if she looked hard enough just beyond her tonsils.
Amber wanted a cigarette, she wanted 5 shots of god awful tequila, 14 hours of an uninterrupted sleep so deep the rest of the world might think she was dead and coffee so strong it might make her heart explode inside her chest.
All she got though, was another second chance.
******
“Congratulations, right?
That's how these things are supposed to go, you’ll have to forgive me cause most of my social interactions usually end up with me insulting someone and then getting into a fight. Although if I’m honest, I don’t really see this ending any differently.
Congratulations to the new Bombshells Roulette champion- who absolutely did the bare minimum to qualify and then finally succeeded when she had absolutely no right to.
Whoops straight to the low hanging fruit we go…
You know what, let's mix this up a little. Lets save the real obvious argument for those who need it cause there are far deeper issues to poke and prod at, and if I get to upset the proverbial apple cart you know I’m all about it.
Been a pretty terrible 2020 right, Seleana? I mean aside from being married to Crystal Insert-Last-Name-Here-Depending-On-Whether-Mercury-Is-In-Retrograde-Or-Not… In which case, you have my total sympathies.
Seriously though, must have felt pretty damn good to break the voodoo right? A win on the board, a shiny new belt on your shoulder- really good times and veryones got your name on their tongues. All of a sudden, you’re relevant again… You’ve got a face, a name and something to work for. Everyones as happy as they can be for you give the kinda bleh circumstances and then…and then your wife sweeps in, steals the spotlight cause heaven forbid she isn’t the centre of attention for two minutes...
And you do absolutely nothing.
See that, that right there is what pisses me off most about all of this.
Between you and me, I actually couldn’t give a shit what title match she gifts you cause if you’re good enough to win it and you’re good enough to keep it then the circumstances become irrelevant. What bothers me is that you LET her, you stood aside with a belt on your shoulder and a stupid grin on your face as she took everything you had accomplished and shoved it aside to make room for her ego.
Winning the Roulette title is a goddamn safety net for your career Seleana, cause lets face it sweetheart- you were beyond the point of a freefall and we’d all lost hope that you’d do anything except become another bloody smear on a canvas.
You’re playing second fiddle to a woman with a personality disorder beyond the point of classification, a running joke that does nothing but drag your name down with it. She needs validation like everyone else needs oxygen and it sickens me to the depths of my stomach that you enable this shit so readily.
If you think that cause you’re suddenly a champion that people will take you seriously then you’re dumber than even I gave you credit for, that it earns you this modicum of respect that you just yeeted straight out the window.
My problem with you Seleana… You have no fire. No backbone. The only thing keeping you upright is your wife's hand between your perky little cheeks wiggling your tongue with words straight from her mouth.
Gone is the woman who won the Bombshells World title, gone is the woman who earned her place in the upper echelon irregardless of how shallow the talent pool might have been at the time- now all we’ve got is this pretty little blonde husks who says what she's told to say, acts the way shes told to act and smiles like a puppet when the adults are talking.
What you are is an aberration in the data, a vacuum of personality in place of something or someone far more meaningful. You’ve been filter fed this liquid diet of false confidence and now you’re stepping up against two women far more willing and capable of putting your pretty little face through the floor than you would ever dare to admit.
However aberrations don’t last and nature, well nature despises a vacuum.
Make no mistakes, I’m a firm believer in opportunity… mostly for the fact that I should never have gotten one. Everyones done their research, they know my background and all the reasons that by every moral and ethical right I have no fucking business being where I am today.
I didn’t learn in a school, I didn’t graduate classes perfecting wrist lock takedowns I would never use or learning all the ways to go tell someone to go and poltely fuck themselves without actually saying as much.
People like me, we thrive off opportunities and we scratch and claw to hold onto them cause the next one might never come… and then we come across people like you, with all this potential to be talented and charismatic taking the world by storm- and instead, you’re a wallflower. A conduit for someone else's message.
You have every gift this god awful industry can provide and you do nothing with them.
I have lived and died for wrestling, I’m a walking DOA trying to make sense of why I’m still here and you take this gift- and you let someone else walk all over it like it meant nothing. You had that Roulette championship for 10 seconds before you managed to devalue it beyond repair.
Don’t get me wrong, that title isn’t in my crosshairs however that doesn’t make me any less miffed about your casualness of holding it.
Forgive my bluntness, or don’t cause in reality it's not gonna change anything I’m about to say… But either fucking care or don’t.
Show me some fire beyond the burning sensation in your crotch from that carefully cultivated yeast infection your wife couldn’t possibly have given you- they have creams for that by the way. Over the counter. Very discreet.
You leave me so underwhelmed Seleana, that it makes me wanna throw myself into orbit and scream into the void. I mean, it's not like anything will hear me any better out there than they do here.
It’s just that I’m just so fucking sick of listening to everyone try and tell me that their name is worth something, that they have to give themselves a poorly rated TED talk before stepping out in front of me like it’ll change the fact they’re about to be hit by a bus.
Blonde. Beautiful. Utterly void of anything not garnered by osmosis from your wife- everything you have to say is generic bullshit spewing out of a mouth with far too many perfect teeth and your attempts at conviction and sincerity are being betrayed by the dribble of bodily fluids running down the inside of your leg.
Don’t be embarrassed though, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last… which oddly enough feels like the story of your career. A constant middling, average and uninspiring to the point that even being wildly predictable gives you some kind of personality edge.
Maki. Seleana.
What you are and what you aren’t doesn’t really matter, does it? Be it demon or dishwater alike- I’m making it known that I did my part, I played nice with shaking babies and kissing hands. I have given respect where it's due yet my patience has worn a little thin cause I’m on an uneven spectrum where my every move seems to be ugly and reprehensible simply because it doesn’t fit the preferred narrative.
I hope your happy Roxi, truly, cause what happens at Climax Control falls squarely on you. On your choices, on your perspective and on your ignorance.
See I’m beyond the point of visible light now, ultraviolent ultraviolence with a kick in the ass and one in the head for good measure. Fuck, come Climax Control kiddies, you’ll wanna be calling me ‘infrared’ cause frankly- neither of you will have any fucking idea what’s hit you.”
******
Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
02.07.2020
8:51am
Even two weeks afterwards, Amber's apartment still somehow smelled like goddamn roses.
It had been a really sweet gesture, albeit absurd and mildly infuriating as Mac had her apartment literally filled with roses for her 32nd birthday. She had smiled broadly to his face, while internally questioning the logistics of such a venture and how it might have been conceived as a ‘good idea’ to begin with. God, he looked so satisfied with himself that it almost pained her to have to almost force gratitude and praise- she wanted to be delighted but could only muse about the impracticality.
No one had ever done something like this for her before… Maybe this was why, she contemplated silently as she shifted the thick strap of her duffel bag so that it might not cut so deeply into her shoulder before allowing it to fall away onto the floor with a weighty thud. No doubt the downstairs neighbour would complain, but they also had a terrible taste in 4am music so the occasional petty shot would always be taken.
Trying to breathe deeply, Amber spluttered briefly as the saccharine odor clung thickly to the sides of her throat.
Baltimore to Atlantic City. Atlantic City to Las Vegas. Rinse and repeat as required for thorough exhaustion.
Amber had brought this all upon herself, trying to use wrestling to clear her head from the other pressing issue that snuck up on her consciousness. If she could just stay busy…
Red.
It was easily missed at first glance, small enough to be lost but large enough that the crimson hue stood out against the formica countertop. An envelope sealed and without signature- as if Amber needed one to recognize her dead man's errand deciding it didn’t want to simply be ignored.
Wracking her brain, Amber tried to recall the last time she’d seen one while idling twirling it between her fingers, procrastination and hesitation leaving her already frayed nerves angry and raw.
Boardwalk perhaps, she’d played mind games with people leaving notes and paint traps for those unsuspecting enough to fall from her good graces. Before that, she couldn’t even begin to fathom. Cassidy and Amber used to trade notes in these envelopes they’d fold, mostly idle nothings and trite teenage ciphers that always felt far more significant than they actually were.
First kisses and teenage flings. Crude codes and grievances about a world that just didn’t understand them. Dreams and fears scrawled and squirrelled away into obscurity.
God it used to feel so important- as they got older though the notes grew less and the girls grew steadily apart, their aspirations no longer cohesive nor their futures in the same direction.
When Amber finally left, mere weeks before her 20th birthday, Cassidy left her an envelope.
Maybe they knew it’d be their last.
Maybe that's why she left it empty.
Amber breathed deeply, Cassidy’s envelopes had always smelled faintly of cinnamon like she’d somehow dusted her hands with spice before determinedly folding each edge to a sharpened point. A sharp ache twanged in her chest like someone had used her heart as a guitar string plucking an unknown melody through her sternum.
Perhaps she should have been far more concerned with how the letter got into her apartment, how it hadn’t been there when she left and how nothing else had been touched- that time would eventually come, for now though Amber could only bring herself to inhale reflexively as her fingers shakily pried the envelope apart.
Small, white and folded neatly in half- Amber hesitated as the envelope fell away from the note inside. She couldn’t tell if it was her thunderous pulse in her ears or raging nervous system telling her how wrong everything about this was- that had her more on edge. Barely able to even manipulate her fingers, it was as though her fine motor skills were being remote controlled from three stories down- the envelope falling onto the countertop before Amber managed to unfold the white paper, generic and cheap as though taken from a hotel notepad and torn in two.
Something inside her sank through the floor while the bile rose in her throat. A single sentence, words recalled so vividly it was a wonder that they still existed in either of their psyches- Amber barely had time to make it to the bathroom before she doubled over and dry wretched into the sink, heartache and melancholy wrenching her battered frame.
Fluttering to the linoleum floor, the note landed partially opened- handwritten in a pen scrawl as though in a hurry to get a solitary thought onto paper before the moment was lost.
“‘We don’t run for the sake of running. We don’t run to or from anyone- sometimes we just don’t want to be found.’
You taught me that, remember?”
