Author Topic: ... The Dessication Of Achievement ...  (Read 552 times)

Offline DistortedAngel

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... The Dessication Of Achievement ...
« on: April 08, 2022, 02:23:34 PM »
“I’d find someone else. No distractions. Men get in the way of ambition. Plus, they laugh at you when you fail”
― Rose Pressey, Flip That Haunted House






Undisclosed Accommodations
Zakynthos, Greece
06.04.2022
04:08pm





… “You went back.” …

Maybe I never truly left.

… “Why? There is nothing there left for you” …

Because you took it all from me.




There was no denying that Greece was a beautiful place, although Amber admittedly hadn’t had much of the stomach to enjoy it. Sightseeing and a seemingly never ending horizon of crystalline blue did little to satisfying the gaping void in her chest, white marble and and the allure of the ancient worlds secrets weren't quite enough to satiate the ravenous nothingness that had been consuming itself like an ouroboros of self-loathing since Blaze Of Glory.
Even the nightlife- full of soul-filling vibrancy and enough booze to drown a man if he so wished only seemed to leave an aftertaste she couldn’t wash out. A warmth of clear spirits that sparked against the embers still smoldering under her sternum that burst into a raging inferno and sucked the ozygen from her lungs in a blink.

Still, when it was time she would smile for the cameras. Fulfill her duties as a representative of SCW despite the little voice in her head screaming to stay locked indoors cause everywhere else was too… people-y. Hollow and forced, she wondered whether it showed through a lens when all they wanted to see was the supposed brilliance of a worl--- former… world champion still in the heights of her stormy legacy. Would they see how well practiced it all was- day after day staring into a mirror and wishing the bloodshot streaks from her eyes and nervous twitches from her expression as she swallowed the bitterness, only to be replaced by grace and dignity.

If she were lucky, they’d be satisfied. They’d tell their friends and family that she wasn’t nearly the person they saw on TV… that she was better than that, if only for a fleeting moment in a camera's shuttering eye.
If she were lucky, the whole thing would be over before the facade fell to pieces and the tears of loss that were lost to the shower would well once more.
No, Greece was absolutely stunning in all the ways she’d ever imagined. A whole beautiful world out there on her doorstep and to think… Amber Ryan wanted fucking none of it.

Maybe it was simply because her heart was no longer in it.

Mac was due to arrive in the next day or so having been forced to wait due to commitments made and champions responsibilities. A small twang radiated in her stomach at the thought as she leaned further over the balcony railing, the afternoon sun causing the freckles of her exposed shoulders to seemingly glow an almost sickly gold. Those used to be her responsibilities too…
She couldn't deny things had been tense, that she hadn’t exactly been easy to be around for the past few months- moments of brilliance and small reminders of who they were patched the holes briefly enough and Mac’s ability to tolerate her overwhelming emptiness should have seen him canonized at least six months prior.
Perhaps things would be better now… that bristling intensity she could no longer contain had been dulled to a pulsating ache that left her irritable but calm, particularly towards the end.

… the end. Huh.

It still tasted like bile on the edge of her tongue.

Partially strewn across the benchtop just inside, and rustled by an occasional errant breeze, the condensed remains of what had been a box of hastily collaborated documents delivered on the eve of… well, the end…now peeked from the edges of a cheap, manila folder.
Amber knew the contents back to front by now, scouring every written syllable and every image for a rhyme or reason- something to connect the dots that danced in front of her eyes. Someone like Masque didn’t just materialise from the depths of imagination and waltz into ones reality, they were forged, they were moulded, and they took… and they took… and they fucking took while justifying it as charity for the soul.

It had been Amber who failed out there though. Failing to fulfill the expectations, the weight on her shoulder suddenly lifted as though the universe were doing her a favor. Everyone had stopped talking about it once they realized the reality- gone back to their regularly scheduled programming of self-congratulatory circle jerks and pity parties in the face of inevitable raze and ruin.



… “You went back.” …

I never should have walked away.




Surreptitiously, the door rattled on its hinges although Amber didn’t need to open to know who stood on the other side- the cadence of knuckles across its surface, the long pause and shuffling of shoes far too expensive to be worth anything close to the tag.
She’d been around Matt Knox far too often for him to be anything less than obvious at best and disruptively oblivious at worst.

Both of them knew the door would be unlocked.

Perhaps he continued to hope that there might be a shred of self-preservation left in her bones as she allowed them to dessicate in the sun.

“Red, I know you’re in there. Mostly cause I haven’t heard screams from the lobby, so I can presume you haven’t yet thrown yourself off the balcony…”

There was a sliver of levity among the veiled concerns. It wasn’t as though the thought hadn’t crossed her head more than once.

“... you know, you didn’t have to crawl into the arms of a sociopath to get my attention.”

Amber rankled at the comment, however she swallowed the snarl and replaced it with something more akin to the smile of a housewife who’d been secretly lacing her husband's food with arsenic for the past two years.

“I know you don’t like Mac, but that's a bit rich coming from you… I won’t lie though, now you’re here, that balcony is looking a lot more tempting.”

Pushing off the rail, she did little otherwise to acknowledge as she fronted towards where he’d already started lazily flipping through the manila folder. Perhaps if she acted as though she didn’t care, he’d simply leave… nothing to sink his teeth into but the airs of a former champion too busy reconciling to deal with his petty bullshit.

“I'm so sick of ghosts, Red. You're the only one I keep coming across that I'm glad is breathing..."

A dry chuckle emanated as he pulled a flyer from the grips of the pages either side, the edges were slightly water damaged and the lower right corner had a chunk missing that obscured details long since forgotten. Dated May 2017. It featured a much younger- although very recognizable redhead across from a less familiar man, almost unremarkable save savvy glint in his eye and the big, gaudy belt on his shoulder. ‘Dealer’s Choice. Ryan vs Fexxfield for the Atlantic City title. Unstoppable vs Undeniable.’
A smile crossed his pallid features as his gaze found hers as she lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame dismissively. Insulted by his continued indulgence in her personal affairs.

“It's why I had to check your pulse back in the Bahamas."

If it weren’t so brazen, she might have thrown him off the edge instead.

“You’re a real piece of shit. You know that? I hope you brought something more poignant than wet dreams and a flaccid side eye to this conversation…”

“It happened, Red. Didn't kill us, we stopped just short of that. But I understand. I'll keep up the brave front against your continued advances."

Narrowing her gaze, Amber bit the inside of her cheek painfully. Bolstered by the spreading taste of iron on her tongue, she fired back instinctively.

“Nothing happened. Not a damn fucking thing, Matt. You’d do well to remember that.”

As though barely touching the carpet underfoot, Amber deftly stormed over and snatched the flyer from his fingers and quietly returned it back to its residence- not before Matt had managed to pull a further swathe of notes from inbetween much to her chagrin.

“You are allowed to feel something, you know that right?
I get it, I know what it's like to have all the validation and prestige you’d built from the ground up just ripped away like you didn’t deserve to revel in your own achievements.”


A small shrug as more papers flicked through his fingers- gaze absent-minded as the words did little to sink in. Another flyer for Boardwalk Wrestling last event in August 2017 ‘Dead Man’s Hand. 4 Way Ladder match for the Atlantic City title. Meyhu vs Edwards vs Ryan vs Fexxfield’.
Alongside a couple of color photos that were yellowed slightly at the edges falling to the countertop- a redhead with a genuine and sincere smile alongside a man in a worn fedora with a certain glint in his eye. Dated June 2017. That same pair almost nose to nose in a ring, garish belt held aloft between them as they both understood the ramifications of what came next. Dated May 2017.

“Granted, I wouldn’t have recommended throwing all your efforts into being a puppet for the resident Hannibal Lecter type though either.”

Swatting his hand away from the nearest photo, Amber sucked down a breath as the nostalgia flooded her veins.

“I spent almost a year being told contradictory arguments by everyone I faced. In one breath, they’d swear they were different and that they could be the one to beat me- in the very next I was an unstoppable monster they’d be lucky to survive with a classic overachieving underdog story.
Masque is the only one who told me the truth. Her truth. She was the only one to look me in the eye and tell me that I was wrong- that I could be better. Things I didn’t wanna hear cause I was fucking terrified they were true.”


Leaning her elbows on the countertop, the expression of forced indifference made way for something a little more sincere.

“Even now, I still can’t fucking decide if I’m furious or relieved…I should feel like theres a weight off my shoulders, that I’ve had a burden eased maybe.”

Matt shook his head thoughtfully, as a carefully placed hand on her shoulder blade caused her to flinch involuntarily away.

“I think you’re only leaning into that because you can't swallow failure even after sustained success…”

“What if you’re wrong… what if we both are. What if Masque was the only one who saw me for what I really was this whole fucking time…”

Silently Amber wasn’t sure she believed her own words, coming easier than a hard to swallow truth- after all, in the search of validation for her pain, she’d only managed to find sunshine. That weight had never come off her shoulders, she could feel it shift unsteadily as she moved- still expectant to live up to an unwritten reputation- no, it had come from somewhere else. A gaping hole between her ribs spoke volumes, that weight torn from somewhere far more personal and internally she couldn’t help but begin to question just how long one might survive without a pulse.



… “Why? There is nothing there left for you” …




******



“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to one day wake up, and be tired of paradise?

Everything you ever worked for at your fingertips, and you resent it. Like it's fundamentally changed who you were- or at the very least who everyone thought you should be. Everything you ever thought you wanted, that you earned basically within your touch and yet it hurts so much to hold… still you do though, knowing the cost will come.

You’ll smile Kat, and you’ll tell me that you understand better than I know. That your multitude of achievements elsewhere counteract the fact that you’ve walked into SCW and tripped over yourself at every given opportunity.
Moments where you were promised to excel, you got a little muddled… a little distracted… maybe the light was in your eyes or the crowd noise was too loud and you couldn’t hear yourself think.

Don’t get me wrong, I love you like my blood. Maybe even more than…

… but don’t stand there and pretend like you aren’t as fucking predictable and outrightly disappointing  as everyone you say you’re worth more than.

Maybe this is the point where you’ll come at me and claim you’re being dismissed as less than a threat- thing is, at this very moment… the only thing you’re a threat to is my insomnia. I’ve got a personal best streak going and you’re going far to jeopardize that.
Despite your greatest efforts which amount to little more than tantrums and night terrors of inadequacy- you have to remember that some things in life and in wrestling are bigger than you and the things you ‘want’.
Don’t get me wrong, you are more than just another gear in this machine Kat, you’re special my darling… special just like everyone else.

What you need to understand though is that I’ve got this gaping wound in my chest Kat… and I can't seem to do a damn thing about it. I’ve tried to stitch myself back together, I’ve tried to fill the void with every distraction under the Grecian sun, I’ve even asked nicely to stop pouring blood across idyllic white sands. Everything I’ve kept inside is laid bare for the world to see, the little gremlins working tirelessly to keep this carcass upright are on display like a macabre museum piece.

Metaphorically, I’m bleeding out Kat, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Do you know what the worst part about it is though…

No one gives a fuck.

I spent almost a year as World Champion, I rebuilt this fucking division of my own back, I gave opportunities to those who would never see one otherwise and I lit a proverbial inferno beneath the asses of those who grew complacent in their spots.
357 days and not a single person has a fucking thing to say. Hell, I went out there in front of the world and I told the new champion to not let me down… to make what I had built continue to mean something… to make her victory worth everything I had given. I bled for everyone to see- and it took a reminder on social media to make her acknowledge that I had spoken in her general direction.

Now you wanna stand by and try to say you’re gonna go out there and make a statement.

I might not be the centre of the SCW Universe, but I’ll be fucking damned if I’m getting relegated to the annals of time before I fucking say so.

You have a mission apparently, like only now winning matches seems to matter. I know you’re as capable as you are destructive- on your best day I’m sure much of this roster has plenty to fear- but you’re narrow minded Kat. You got tunnel vision bad, you lose sight of the bigger picture.
Laser focused to the point you’re so worried about getting to the end that you bore straight through any worthwhile achievement and reasonable gain along the way cause reaching the end is supposed to be enough of a victory.
You’re seeking a destination while bypassing the journey. Reaching the end just the same as when you started isn’t a journey, it's not a climb up the proverbial mountain of success- it's a road trip from point A to point B where you spent far too much money on gas and snacks while only staring into your rearview.

Let's be real for a second though- you’re like my sister and I’d never do anything to maliciously harm you.

However I also won’t fucking hesitate to cave your skull in simply cause you’re standing across from me. Just cause I consider you blood doesn’t mean I’m above spilling it so I might leave a message for all those who forgot how words worked- granted they don’t deserve your sacrifice, but that won’t stop me from making it.
Most people in this industry only speak one common language- violence. If only for the fact that it cannot be ignored forever, try as they might eventually they all have to admit that they might just be next.
After Sunday, and in the wake of what is surely your greatest contribution to the Bombshells division to date, I want every Bombshell on this damn roster to start believing that they very well could be next…

See, I’m no longer bound by the restraints of professionalism. I’m no longer worried about the way I have to smile for interviews and holding the belt at just the right angle for the cameras to not get blinded. I don’t have to pretend as though I was any good at shaking babies and kissing hands, getting sponsors to believe we do more than just maim each other for the sake of pride and bragging rights.
I no longer have to fulfill a role, I don’t have to ‘be’ someone and I’m allowed to conduct business in a manner that I see fit.
I made a promise as World Bombshells champion that I’d make this place better or raze it to the fucking ground- that promise still stands in the wake of ruin. I still hold those intentions in my heart- the only difference now is that the anvil no longer hangs over my head in knowing I’d be branded a failure if I made a mistake. My missteps are no longer reflected in the number of days I could have remaining.
I’m everything I was when I was the best- cause I still fucking am. Only difference now is that I’ve got a reason to hate everyone and everything- see Roxi tore my heart still beating from my chest and held it in front of my face, she took everything I built and claimed it as her own.

I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like I don’t have phantom pains, it's difficult to ignore the sting that comes with waking up and not having the belt as the first thing I see.
There are people out there who would give their left arm to lose 10 pounds overnight, but in reality they never tell you where it comes from- it's a chunk from your chest, and everything of importance seems to go with it. It's a chunk from your mind, the reason and rational thought. It's all the sinews that hold you together when your body is screaming as it tries to fall to pieces and it's a piece from your soul cause there's something about severing ties that leaves one apathetically adrift in an irreparable way.

What I want you to consider Kat, is what I did as champion… Watch every match, review every tape and then ask yourself a very important question.
If I couldn’t be beaten for that long as champion, what the fuck chance do you stand when I’m back at square one…

Of course- this match isn’t just about us, darling.

We aren’t the only factors to take into consideration.

Hello Ken. Did you miss me?

Does my name send a ripple up your spine, even though you know we can;t lay hands- just the thought that I could cost you this match, that I could win to spite you and everything you stand for gives me butterflies like you wouldn’t believe. That I could beat you, without ever having to sully my hands in the murky depths of your diatribes to find a personality worth salvaging.
I’m not petty, but for you I'm willing to make an exception.

See, you’re a man that NEEDS to win. Your existence is built like a carefully constructed leaning jenga of relevance and contempt- you need to have someone beneath you cause you know otherwise the sands of time will swallow you whole.
Standing on the backs of better men will only satiate time for so long though- and as much as you crave the validation of me admitting that you got anything more than lucky in a feat you were never able to reproduce, I’ll never gift you that bone.

No, I’ll win this match without ever needing to tag Matt in. I’ll win in spite of you. I’ll win to spite you. Most importantly though, I’ll win and I’ll splatter the best part of Kat Jones’s genetic pool across that canvas to remind everyone else that I’m not fucking around.

SCW is a proving ground kiddies, and all you’ve proven is that you need all the help you can fucking get.

Never//morE however, was never meant to be. A mistake of a mans ego and determination to be right that lead to success, that lead to two of the most stubborn and ferociously spiteful competitors in the industry coming together to prove that the other is somehow inferior.
We’ve been champions, we’ve represented outside the SCW bubble and most importantly- we’re not gonna stand on ceremony and pretend like theres any kind of reverence or ‘special bond’ that makes us better.
What makes us better as a team is that we were better to begin with.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Matt Knox is an ass… but he’s an ass that can fucking wrestle when he’s suitably motivated. I don’t have to like the guy to know that we’re a team, that I can trust him to handle his shit as well as knowing he’ll trust me to handle mine.
Granted it's common knowledge I work better alone, however it's unfortunately it's not my boot that is deemed allowable to kick Godly’s teeth down his Kendamned throat. Way I see it, Matt is the proxy for everything I’d like to do- and be assured I’ll live vicariously for what little joy can still be wrung from that miserable corpse you wear.

When you both walked into SCW, my husband bestowed upon you the title of Saviors- but what have either of you done to uphold your end of the bargain?
Mac is the only one of you still consistently winning matches, still bearing the weight of your failures in kind. To be Saviors, in case you’ve forgotten, you need to save people from drowning… not push their heads further below the surface cause it's somehow a lesson on how to breathe.
Mac has trusted you both, instilled his faith in you time and time again and all you’ve done is tarnish his name- and maybe I’m no Savior, but I won’t stand by and watch you both drag him beneath the waves cause you both grew comfortable blowing bubbles instead of fighting for breath.

Maybe he labeled you both as Saviors- but I am Oblivion.

Resplendent.

Unassailable.

Oblivion.

Come Sunday, what the fuck hope do you think you really have?"



******



Oblivion Garage
Las Vegas. ND
25.03.2022
5:13pm




Amber knew she was imagining the acrid stench of smoke.

One of the few times she’d been back since the rebuild had been underway, she’d forced herself to confront her proverbial demons and sought to find solace in drawing something new from the ashes. Of course, the going was slow… Both of them were generally absent although for varying reasons and little could happen without their say, and so for the longest time their dreams were edged further into the distance.
Reopening pushed back a month, then several months… now it was simply till further notice cause the idea of putting a number on it struck a nerve she hadn’t been prepared to brace for.
With a  small shake of the head, she forced the memories of fumes and blinding heat from her minds eye as her sneakers echoed on the concrete floor. Scorched earth replaced with a foundation more solid than the one she had left in her marriage, it seemed.

Mac had been overseeing much of it, supportive and reassuring as ever. He’d been the one to squeeze her hand the first time she’d tread these floors, whispered affirmations when her heart was ready to leap from her mouth. Everything about him reminded her of home- and how much she didn’t deserve everything he was willing to give.
Part of it was from no longer being champion, the other was from knowing how closely being champion had driven them both towards the cliff's edge. A no win situation- and yet Mac had taken it all in his stride… as he always did. He loved her without limit or condition- something she could never understand or repay with the little she had within her to muster.

“I hope not to be interrupting…”

Reverend Alistair McCrae never looked more out of place than he did now, a simple yet immaculate suit topped off with a priests collar and flanked by three ‘parishioners’  who couldn’t have looked more disinterested about their spiritual leader's pilgrimage into the sinful outskirts of Las Vegas.

“However I cannot help but continue to admire your determination. From such tragedy and despair, you have been gifted with the resolve to rebuild- and for that I cannot help but commend.”

Despite radiating a sickening charm, McCrae paced admiring the works already completed and clicking his tongue observantly while marveling at works in progress. Amber inwardly cringed, swallowing the bile rising in her throat.

“I hope you aren’t here to pray for us. I think we’re a little beyond that kind of help.”

Dryly, Amber folded her arms across her chest. Undeterred, McCrae rounded back towards her as the familiar cadence of heavy footsteps echoed behind the redhead.

“Not all of life's problems can be fixed by the Lord’s graces, unfortunately. Although I’m sure my faith would rather tell you otherwise… Money on the other hand---”

“--- isn’t necessary in this case.”

Mac chimed in cooly, his hand resting gently on Amber’s shoulder as he towered over both of them. Amber made no effort to respond, content to allow things to play out and perhaps quietly hoping McCrae would simply leave upon refusal of becoming a charity case.

“Ah, so you must be Mr Bane then- Reverend Alistair McCrae, I’m sure you have no interest in my credentials, rather why I’m here offering what could be construed as presumptuous and unrequested assistance. Ms Ryan and I, we were at one time business partners. I had stopped by mere weeks before to rekindle such partnership and later found myself horrified to hear of the malicious damages.”

Matter-of-factly, McCrae extended a hand towards Mac. Returned in kind by a firm gentleman's handshake, whilst Amber took solace in Mac’s cologne somehow keeping her grounded as everything she’d sought to keep apart was slowly entwining around her best intentions.

“As such, I thought it perhaps in the interests of continued professional relations that I might be able to offer assistance. If not monetary then perhaps in resource… I promise, I’m not here to try and tell you to convert, or find faith. If it's to be apart of your life, then the Lord himself shall will it to be- as I’m sure those responsible for such destruction will see their due punishment in kind.”

A knowing smile crossed the carefully structured cheekbones of the older man as he readjusted himself delicately. Despite his wording, there was an underlying sense of something else- cold and manufactured, whether it was a product of religion or business though, Amber had yet to decide.

“When you say resources…”

Amber started, trailing off as her words seemed to fail before they touched her lips. There was the smell of smoke again, of rubber and burning gasoline…

“Whether it be manpower, materials… Anything you so require, legally of course.”

Alistair clapped his hands together softly, akin to a salesman being prompted into a spiel.

“We’ll consider it, obviously it's something we need to discuss privately…”

“Of course. You have my contact, I’m sure. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to walk me out, Ms Ryan?”

With a thinly veiled yet expressive glance, Amber reluctantly broke from Mac’s embrace and found herself immediately missing the comfort and confidence even a single touch somehow instilled. Urging the ‘parishioners’ onwards ahead, McCrae paused in the garage doorway as Amber tried to disguise the deep undercurrent of suspicion and doubt.

“If this is about the Del Gado’s…”

“Ms Ryan, can a man not simply be willing to provide charity to his neighbor out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Don’t you dare come here and try bullshit me. What… do… you… want?”

A dry chuckle emanated as Alistair shot a kindly glance back towards where Mac watched unwaveringly.

“You know, he’s a good man, Ms Ryan. You should be proud. Especially given where you’ve come from. You’ve done well for yourself- built a life, a career, found relative peace under the Lord’s loving hand.
Perhaps you should consider an act of good faith exactly as that- although should something ever arise, should there be a time when unwavering faith is no more tactical than teardrops on an inferno… I’d like to believe that you’ll remember this act of faith, and be willing to return the favor in kind.”


With a curt nod, Alistair stepped beyond the threshold with an air of regency that made Amber’s skin crawl. Mac’s footsteps closed the distance as his hands laced around her waist, fingers entwining as he whispered through the curtain of scarlet falling around her face.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Mac’s whisper rippled through her body, dissipating indecision as though it never took hold, the acrid taste on the back of her tongue replaced with something more akin to a well aged bourbon on a rainy night. Something like home.

“... I’m not sure they are worth that much.”


Record
SCW: 15 - 4 - 1
Uprising: 8 - 2 - 0
Life: 0 - 1 - 0</span>