Internal Conflict
Scene One | Off-Camera
The last few months had really run away from him. He and Luna were steadier, but there was a truth being hidden from her now. A truth that he didn’t truly want to believe in himself. A truth that he refused to believe. Leon was most assuredly dead. There was no number of phone calls, faked kidnappings and bizarre happenings that could change that fact. Yet if that was true, then that meant one thing. That the reflections were true. That the flashing memories were accurate, and that the truth he was trying to deny was in fact inevitable.
If Leon was dead, then Alexander Raven had been sabotaging himself. That the Leon Trucose that had threatened to destroy his world. That the Leon Trucose that threatened to ruin everything he had spent years trying to better, was in fact, Alexander Raven. This was a truth that he now had to deal with. One that threatened to unravel his world. One that threatened to unravel all his hard work.
He stood over the sink, the night air hung heavy with the smell of booze, cigarettes and sex. He hadn’t been able to sleep well as of late. Leaving Luna to sleep in the bed as he whittled away the hours. Climbing back into bed when the time called for it. Leaving her none the wiser, or so he deluded himself into thinking. She’d have to be an idiot to not notice the bags under his eyes, the huge amounts of alcohol that was miraculously disappearing. The fact that he was lights on but nobody was answering the door. Just his absence through the night. There were only so many times he could pretend that he was going to the bathroom, or getting a glass of water.
“Oh sweet baby boy. Does it hurt to know that I’m forever living in your head now?” spoke a voice.
Ghosts had a habit of being far too loud, and far too aggressive in his life. Staring into the mirror, he splashed water onto his face. Shaking the cobwebs away. Attempting to sober himself up just a little. The grinning man who stared back at him wearing a face not his own. Leon Trucose was dead, and that meant that he had to deal with his ghosts. Only the dead haunted him as such. The flick of the tongue, the unnecessarily white smile. Fake teeth that hid the years of abuse. He remembered a man so many years younger, so of course. Even his fucking ghost was full of youthful vigour. Why were they ever friends?
“Bad enough that you ruined everything for me when I was alive. But even in death? That’s petty. Even for you.” Alex answered.
“Alex, my dearest friend. I’m hurt. How could you say such vile things? Especially when we are becoming so close. Does my sweet Luna flower know you see dead people, bird boy?” Leon quipped.
A bizarre world he lived in where he’d prefer the berating and belittling of his father, over the faux belligerence of Leon. He flicked water at the mirror, the distorted face disappearing. His own face now staring back at him. The sound of dripping water sounding vaguely like that of a tapping foot. He turned, and leaned up against the counter top. The uncomfortably solid spectre of Leon Trucose was sitting on the toilet, legs crossed. A pondering look on his face.
“Sorry Leon. Our conversations are entirely our own. Nobody else needs to know how messed up my broken little brain is.” Alex snorted in response.
“You know what I think, Alex?” Leon asked, more statement than question.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” Alex sighed.
“I think you’re already afraid of being forgotten. And now, things are too easy. Too happy. Too nice. You needed a reason to be remembered. You needed to give them a reason to remember you. Before you fade into obscurity. Isn’t that why we were friends, Alex? I ruin your life, you get a moment in the sun. I take away your happiness, and the world fawns for you.” Leon said. Without a shred of apprehension.
How was his mind so clear in its belittlement of him? Separation, and attachment. It was a horrific way to deal with his own insecurities. His own doubts. Yet here it was, laid bare before him. Fear of being forgotten. Unknown. He wasn’t wrong. Alex craved recognition beyond all else. For being known. For being wanted. For being loved. The icy-hearted beast he became after Luna was not for his own sake. It was to further control. It was to ensure people would continue to hack away with their tiny little ice picks. To thaw and excavate his heart. In turn, ensuring they recognised him. Acknowledged him. Remembered him.
“You truly are insightful. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be seen. To be remembered. But the way you think of it? That’s funny, and not in the ha-ha kind of way. Funny in how sad it is.” Alex said, his voice soft.
“Know what I think? I think it’s funny that you try to argue with yourself. Isn’t that right, bird boy? I’m just another person, wearing a face you know. Torture yourself all you want, it doesn’t change the truth. I’m just a figment of your over-active imagination Alex. I’m speaking what you refuse to acknowledge.” Leon replied, coolly, still with that ease. Not a second thought.
Alex sighed and turned away. He couldn’t stand to look at the gloating face. Logic said that this was indeed his own mind. A mental break that was attempting to force him to deal with things. Another part of his mind wished desperately that this was some form of dissociation. That the moments where he had no recollection of his actions, was a case of his mind snapping. That he had lost himself, to himself. That the convenience of Leon’s death gave him an out. A fake death. Another attempt at controlling him. Another attempt at ruining his life. It had to be.
Leon sighed from behind him. Then he was there again. In the mirror. Standing where Alex should be reflected and grinning. He wasn’t grinning, so Leon shouldn’t have been either.
“You’re never going to get better Alex. It’s almost… sad. Take care of my pretty Luna flower will you? Better than you did your sweet Lauren.” Leon mocked.
Something snapped. His mind had forgiven him months ago for Lauren. She had told him to move on with his dreams. Lauren had been his guidance, the shining light of happiness. He’d been forgiven. So why the fuck was his mind attempting to torture him with it again. He didn’t even think about it. His hand slammed into the mirror, an impressive amount of force to shatter it. The cracked shards sprinkling down from the frame, some larger chunks remaining attached. The grinning face was fractured in the spiderweb pattern, glimpses of himself. Glimpses of Leon, Lauren and even his father.
“Alex, what are you doing?” Luna’s voice came.
He shook his head. The cobwebs being cleared. His mind was slightly more focused. He frowned as he turned. His hand was cut up something fierce. Rivulets and streams of blood flowing from the open wounds. Luna grabbed a nearby towel and rushed forward. Wrapping it around his hand. He looked at her. For the first time, with fear. With worry. He was afraid of himself.
“I think something is wrong with me, Lu. I’m seeing ghosts.” Alex whispered.
She looked at him. Not with pity or remorse. But with worry. Sadness, love and worry. And his heart sank just a little more.
Buried Memories
Scene Two | On-Camera
Once again we find ourselves in a graveyard. A little less grandiose than the one in Brazil, but still as sombre. Three graves sit empty, a figure in front of each. Each wore a white sheet over their faces, the rest of their attire a black against the murky night that enveloped them. A few workman’s flood lights lit the nearby area, marking the empty graves. Alexander Raven is seen standing to the left of the furthest person on the left. A shovel in one hand, a marker in the other.
“It’s a little poetic, I think. The one time you and I ever got to face off Goth, was just after another Monarch for a day event. Mark Cross deemed it appropriate that the walking poet and the gothic one do battle. It turned out that my path would become intrinsically linked with both wolves and Saviors alike. See, I have this nasty habit of remembering things with a skewed vision. I remembered Austin James Mercer and Ken Davison speaking so poorly of me at the time. Fast forward, I beat both of them. In a reign where I made that Internet Championship fucking mean something. A championship that meant something to the would-be World Champion Ken Davison. A championship that meant something to our current king, Austin James Mercer. Fate almost, that my path would begin not with their disparaging remarks. No, not with them. No my path truly started with you, didn’t it Goth? The irony of the cycle is not lost on me. You beat Jack, Lachlan beats you, I beat Lachlan, who beats me? Jack. Funny how time works. Calvin Harris is attempting to break the cycle, and I respect it. But the way he wants to do it? A gimmick.”
Alex smiles and lifts the marker up, placing it to the white sheet over the face of the nameless figure. In large black red lettering ‘ONE TRUE KING’ is scrawled on it. One word beneath the next. He sighs and slips the marker away, gripping the shovel with both hands. He takes a step forward, standing just in front of the figure. Rearing back he holds the shovel like a baseball bat.
“History is important to us, Goth. See whereas yours continues to follow you, I do my best to bury mine. What I’ve learnt attempting to do so? That history has this nasty habit of creeping up on us. I failed to beat Bulldog multiple times for the Roulette Championship. I’ve rectified those wrongs, even having my first successful singles defence against Bill. A man of your past in fact. A man you did not fail to beat. A man that you beat for the Roulette Championship. A championship that you likely would still hold were it not for the unfortunate circumstances of health. As someone who once laid up in the hospital for months with brain injury, a cracked skull, and a multitude of burns. I can sympathise with being forced onto the sidelines. I can sympathise with the idea of being left behind.I can sympathise with not knowing if you’ll ever do what you love to do again. I can sympathise, because I know it. I was once the One True King. It wasn’t even a name I gave myself. No, the most ironic part of it. I didn’t want to be king. I never did. I just happened to stumble upon it. The most sane of the insane. Alumni of a former fallen federation. Alumni who banded together to show the new blood that we would not fall victim to them. Yet like any group, in-fighting is to be expected. The moment I was expected to truly capitalise on being the fucking king, guess what? My own partner dethroned me. Sent me on a downward trajectory. Had me beaten, had me down and took it all. So in stride. I became false. The False King, and the truth in the same. I watched as my own ego allowed me to be broken down. I watched as my own ego allowed me to be undone. And so the sword of damocles, fell.”
He swung, the sound of the shovel crunching against the face of the nameless figure. The one marked as the ‘ONE TRUE KING’. The person crumbled instantly, and fell into the open grave behind them. Alex sighed as he stood there. Nodding, and crossing himself. The lights flickering and then going out. Blackness taking everything.
“A toast to the former king, now slain.”
The lights come back on. The grave is filled with fresh dirt. A loose mound not yet packed down. The tombstone, a simple grey stone slate now had a small light illuminating it. ‘Here lies Alexander Raven, his ego was large and his fall from grace a sad sight.’ Alex is now standing to the right of the further right figure, marker in hand once more.
“We go through a lot to reach where we are, Goth. I mentioned earlier about fate. We crossed paths before at the hands of Mark Cross. Excuse the unintentional. This time at the hands of Zoey Lukas. Someone who I once had a war of words with. In fact, probably the reason behind the fire that led to Miles Kasey dethroning me in an unfortunately short first reign as Roulette Champion. Do you know what my first brush with fate was? We have to go a long way back for this one. In fact, you were challenging for world championships, and I was just a floundering upstart rookie. More obsessed with games and comics, than I was with my acumen in the ring. I’ve talked about this before, but I think it deserves repeating. Because it was the turning point. I was as happy as I could be. I was ready to take on the world, I was liked by the crowd. By the people. They cheered when they saw Alexander Raven. ‘Raging’ Alexander Raven, they called me. I was young, and I was angry. Raging seemed the appropriate nickname. The unfortunate part of it really is that I’m still fucking angry, Goth. Every day the pit in my stomach grows. Every fucking day that rage bubbles away. I'm an angry, angry man. The asinine remarks are constant here. The bullies, Goth. I was made by a bully, formed by the bullying, and changed because of one. Bullies everywhere Goth. I fucking hate bullies.”
He takes the marker to the sheet over the face of this new figure. He scrawls across it in red once more, a name this time. ‘ALEXANDER REMINGTON’ The marker slipped away. This time holding the shovel more like a cricket bat. Standing side to the person he holds the shovel just in front of his legs. The spade tip looks dangerously like it is going to go straight between the thighs.
“I owe thanks to this man. Thanks for making me what I would become. For being the bully who beat up my other one. Crucified my father in fact. Hung him from the rafters and set him alight. That was the payment I received for splitting his skull with a steel chair. That was the payment I received for leaving him in a heap. Bleeding out and begging for mercy. Actually, scrap the begging. Remington wasn’t the king to beg, ever. No, he just smiled. Smiled knowingly. Even as he faded into unconsciousness, he was already plotting how he’d get back at me. That was the bully who shaped me. Alexander Remington was the one that put me to the sidelines. Cleaved my head, busted up my brain, cracked my skull and set me on fire. It was more than just payment. It was a message. A message not to fuck with Alexander Remington. Yet, here I am. Still standing, still going. Despite all the naysayers, the deniers and the haters. I’m still fucking here. I’m still clawing for success. I’m the former One True King, undeniable the best Internet Champion in Sin City Wrestling history. I beat wolves, I beat Saviors and I beat god damn kings. And every single person I put down? A bully wearing sheep’s clothing. But snap back to our last encounter. Snap back to the lies and filth spewed at the time. Alexander Raven was going to be a forgotten nobody. They want everyone to just forget about Alexander Raven. Yet they cannot forget, can they? They can’t truly deny what I’ve done. It is so easy to look at the failures, but acknowledging the success? Oh no. Not here. Not with these mongrels of hate. But, everything equals out in the end.”
Alex takes a short step back and swings the shovel upwards. It misses the legs and careens upwards, cracking the underside of the figure's jaw. Just like before, they crumble in a heap, and fall backwards. Collapsing into the grave. Alex crosses himself once more and takes a step back. The lights flicker and then black out once more.
“A toast to the man who shaped me, now retired.”
The lights come back, this grave now filled too. The dirt packed down a little tighter this time, but still a mound on top. The light is gone from the first tombstone, now replaced onto the further right one. Another simple grey slab that reads ‘Here lies Alexander Remington, a great tag team partner, and greater adversary.’ Alexander Raven is now standing directly in front of the final figure. The centre grave, the centrepiece. The shovel is now gone, just the marker in his hands. His back to the world, face to sheet with the final figure.
“I am The Forgotten. I am the Napalm Kingslayer. I am motherfucking Alexander Raven.”
He lifts the marker and writes a single word on it. It is obscured behind his head for the moment, the marker slipping into a pocket. His hands suddenly wrapping around the throat of the figure, his arms tense, but not yet applying any pressure through his hands. The figure stands unmoving.
“But we must come to the present. We must come to today. To us, in this moment Goth. You are another blemish on my past. A mark of failure. A mark of discontent. But the beginning of a journey for me. A journey that led to me being who I would become. A journey that led me to Austin James Mercer, Fenris, Ken Davison. A journey that led me back to Jack Washington. The journey that brings me to this point. To being The Forgotten. To being the Napalm Kingslayer. This is the mark of a change for us. You journey down a dark path, and I. I want to be free. I want to be loved. I want to be seen. We all want to be seen, and we all want to be free. To be known. To be thought of. I am tired of the same tired bullshit every single week. Every single fucking person. I have to listen to the crap every fucking time. And I’m sick to death of it, Goth. I am angry. I am beyond angry, I am full of hateful rage. Rage that things are allowed to be this way. Allowed to be as messy as they are. Allowed to be full of bullies. I won’t stand for it anymore. I won’t let people put others down for the sake of their own vanity. I won’t allow others to be bigots of success because they feel they can. No fucking more, Goth. We won’t put up with bullshit like that.”
He tenses and pushes forward, shoving the final figure into the grave. The word on the sheet is visible for just a moment. ‘GOTH’. The figure falls into the final open grave, with a hard thump. Alexander Raven stands at the edge of the pit staring into it. His hands balled into fists, a slight shiver in the cool night air.
“I’ve stumbled, and fallen from grace. I have grown, I have matured. I have changed, because this place has made me change. You buried me the last time we faced off Goth. Put me down, and flitted about with ideas focused elsewhere. I am not to be overlooked. Never again. I will purge the bullies. I will cleanse them. In holy napalm we will fix the filth. I like you, Goth. But that doesn’t mean I can’t hate what you stand for. You are the first bully who will fall at our feet. The Conspiracy demands freedom. Demands recognition. And I am nothing but a servant to them. Every single person that watches us do what we do. Every single person that begs for an autograph, that asks for a photo. Every single person that acknowledges our existence for nothing more than admiration of our craft. I am doing this for them. I am doing this to be free. I am doing this because we are The Forgotten. And we will be fucking remembered.”
The lights flicker, and darkness comes once more.
“A toast to Goth, the Savior who started it all.”
Lights back. The final grave filled, Alexander Raven standing behind the final tombstone. The workman’s floods are now dormant. The only light from the small one illuminating the tombstone. This one a marble white, still mostly plain.
‘Here Lies Goth, the first bully to fall to The Forgotten.’
“Mark my words Goth. I am awake at last. And I am fucking angry.”
And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
