tw; suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harmTrapped In Freedom
Scene One | Off-camera
Maybe life would have been easier if I’d loaded that gun.The girls had gone out for the night. It seemed like for the most part, Luna wasn’t as full of disdain as he was expecting. Maybe she was just holding onto it until Adrienne had left. If she was, then their moments of time alone spent with each other… on each other were a strange way of showing it. Maybe he thought too much.
The issue with thinking too much however, was that when he was truly alone. The thoughts were deafening. Fears about what Sullivan could do, what he could reveal to the police. Would he tell them about Alex holding him at gunpoint? It wouldn’t matter if the gun was loaded or not, Sullivan could play ignorance on it. Pulling a gun on someone was bad enough. Nobody was going to care, or believe, that he didn’t load it.
The rational part of his mind had been silenced for the moment. In almost every part of his life, things were falling apart. He was at this point, a habitual loser. A loser in life, a loser in his career. A fucking loser who did nothing but find fault in the world around him and create excuses. Excuses for why he couldn’t kill Sullivan. Excuses for why he wasn’t going to do it. Excuses for why he couldn’t win a fucking match. Excuses on excuses. Everything he had was just full of them.
He could blame the death of James, but his life was falling apart long before that. He could blame being screwed by referees, by his wife, and by the re-emergence of old friends. He could blame all that, but still, his life was falling apart long before that. From day one, he was a fucking loser. Nobody cared who someone once was, they only cared for what he was now. And what he was now? The same thing he had been when he debuted all those years ago. A loser trapped in the shadow of his betters.
First it was James, then it was Alexander Remington. Add Griffin Hawkins, Corey Bull and the eventual AmI Syco. Then it was Remington again. Years later, in a world of new faces, it was just more shadows to stand in. More shadows and more people he wasn’t ever going to be better than. Finn Whelan, Goth, J2H, hell throw Jack Washington and HB Carter into that as well. The thoughts were so loud. The thoughts just never stopped. Never got quieter, never gave him a moment. The more he thought the more he was reminded why he hated himself.
The only light had been Luna. A woman he was now bringing down his perpetual path of losing. His perpetual journey into being nothing but a talking piece. The butt of all jokes. The man they all claimed he was. A flash in the fucking pan that talked the world up, but couldn’t do it. Couldn’t make it over the mark. Begging for someone to recognise him. Begging for people to acknowledge him. To understand that he wasn’t just some boy struggling to make it. That he was a human being who just wanted to be someone.
To matter.
To live.
Midnight rolled around. If experience taught him anything, it meant that he'd be alone for at least the next four or five hours. Alex sat on the balcony once more. Always on that quaint little balcony that overlooked a city that beckoned him to continue down this path. This path of self-loathing. This path of disdain and hatred. This path continued to put him in the shadows and refused to allow him to escape into the sunlight. To be the man who could, but never did.
But he sat there anyway. Sat there, cigarette hanging from his lip. His throat is sore from having spent the last few hours chain smoking them. Six, maybe seven empty cans sat next to him. Four or five more inside, he wasn’t sure at this point. A bottle of Jack Rye Whiskey in hand, because he wanted to taste something different, just for a minute. That minute turned into ten, turning into thirty, turning into sixty. That hour turned into two. Seven, five and an empty bottle of rye. The city was beautiful when the lights were smeared behind those drunk goggles.
Nights like these, he wished he could just call James. Call him and talk. He’d always listen. James gave all he had, and that was that. He was a man who didn’t take, but was always giving. Nowadays he probably should call Luna. Call his wife, and let her know that he wasn’t okay. But that was the point wasn’t it? He’s never okay anymore. Her brother died, and she was having to fucking baby him. Because he couldn’t pull himself out of this rut of self-loathing.
Blaming the world, the invisible and the real. Blaming everyone except the man who deserved all the blame in the world. Except for blaming the man who was so fucking delusional he was too slow to get his best friend the help he needed. The man who was so stuck in the prank calls that he didn’t hear his staggering friend come back into the bar that night. Sullivan may have pulled that trigger, but it was Alex who killed James. He was to blame for everything.
The blurred vision only got worse, the tears welling in his eyes. But he did not dare cry them. Not anymore. He didn’t deserve to cry anymore. No, he deserved the pain he was suffering. He deserved the karma he was receiving for the actions that led him here. For jumping the queue. For nearly retiring the man who only wanted to give him a pathway to greatness. A pathway to the World Championship under his tutelage. He’d wanted to be the leader of his betters and forced them into a stable where he stood as the false leader. Playing the field to try and ensure he was protected as the king. Forgetting that the betters under him would simply behead the king for their own glory.
No, he could not cry the tears for every choice he made led to the karmic retribution that punished him. The karma that ensured he sat there on the balcony that night, filled with beer, gin and rye. Putting out another cigarette, but not in the ashtray this time. No, pressing it into the middle of his palm. Burning and singing the flesh, a hiss of pain. Failures deserved what they got. He was no king, he was no kingslayer. He was just a loud-mouthed, angry little boy. A little boy who was no longer getting his way.
In a fair world, he would’ve been the one laying on the floor that night. Not James. In a fair world, Luna would’ve been holding that gun to his head, not Alex holding it to Sullivan’s. In a fair world, she would’ve married a man who loved her the way she deserved to be loved. In a fair world she would be showered with the praise, friends and life that she deserved. Not being dragged down his pitiful path of vitriol and hatred. Free of the threat of him ruining her. In a fair world, James never would’ve died.
But this world wasn’t fair.
He got to his feet, and stepped toward the balcony railing. Standing right next to it. Leaning down, and resting his arms on the railing. Resting his elbows on the soothingly cold metal. His skin felt blisteringly hot, alcohol blanket more than anything else. He rubbed his wet cheeks on his shoulders, and stared out into the night sky, and then he looked down. Down at the ground below. He wasn’t that high off the ground. Fallen off ladders and scaffolding higher than his balcony. But the idea of teetering on the edge didn’t bring the usual dread that heights did. There was a soothing thought in the back of his mind. Permanent injury, injury to free him from obligation. From the hole he found himself.
Freedom in being able to choose.
His phone buzzed. How long had he been standing there? He wasn’t sure. Pulling it out from his pocket, it was somewhere in the vicinity of thirty minutes. Time was slipping away from him again. That wasn’t a good sign. Blanks in his memory were bad, bad things happened during the blanks. Maybe the alcohol and thoughts could be blamed for once. But he wasn’t so certain anymore. He wasn’t so sure that there was freedom in those thoughts anymore.
Luna’s name, his phone continuing to buzz. She was calling him. He answered by placing the phone to his ear. He could hear the chatter of the bar behind her, the thud of music. He couldn’t place the song, but it sounded far more Adrienne’s vibe than Luna’s.
“Hey, Lexi baby. Adrienne’s going to go home with a… friend.” Luna managed to get the words out, slurring somewhat. She sounded almost as drunk as his eyes told him he was. He could hear them giggling. Happiness.
“So, I’ll be home soonish. Maybe an hour? Just you and me for the rest of the night. Okay, lover?” Luna said a little louder than probably was necessary. But that was okay. Maybe the peace he needed tonight was a little bit of a taste of the comforts. Of her comfort.
“I love you, Lu. I’ll leave the door unlocked. I’ll still be up.” He said slowly, trying to keep the hollowness out of his own voice. The taint of alcohol heavy on his voice. Luna laughed a little, obviously picking up on it.
“Sounds like you had a party on your own. You okay, baby-boy?” Luna asked.
“I’m okay, Lu. I’m okay hearing your voice.” Alex said.
“Well, let me say goodbye to the wee Marigold, and I’ll talk to you all the way home. Okay?” Luna said softly. Warmly.
“I’d like that.” Alex said, sniffling a little. Who knew the once ice-hearted, cold shouldering and closed off Alexander Raven would be a blubbering drunk mess when someone finally warmed their way to his heart.
“I love you.” Luna said, as she hung up. Going to say her goodbyes to Adrienne. He lowered his phone from his ear, and smiled a bit. Deciding it would be a good idea to tidy up just a
couple of the cans. A message came through. A photo of Luna and Adrienne. Smiling, heads resting on each other, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Even if he wasn’t okay right now. Luna deserved to be.
Even in a world where he was a loser. An undeserving accident of a human being. Even in a world where he did nothing but loathe himself and wish he could give ever more to those he loved. Maybe it could be okay, if he could at least do right by her. A fantastical vision. But the only one that was going to get him through the immediate future.
The phone rang. He answered.
“Okay, so. Let me tell you everything.” Luna started straight away. He smiled as he leaned up against the kitchen island. At that moment, the pain slipped away.
“You have my full attention.”Habitual Loser
Scene Two | On-Camera
Alexander Raven is sitting on a steel chair. The middle of a ring, in an empty arena. The lights are mostly off, bar a few emergency fittings and worklights for ring set-up. Metal spike in hand still, he is leaning forward in the chair, facing the mat.
“November Twelfth, Twenty-Twenty Three. That was the last time Alexander Raven beat anymore. Not just here in Sin City. But anywhere. In every foray, in every excursion. Failure. November Twelfth, Twenty-Twenty Three. You know who the last person I beat before the flash in the pan, Dubois? Gabriel fucking Wank. Before that? Bill Barnhart. I went from a career higher, dispatching the likes of Fenris, Ken Davison, Austin James Mercer, O’Malley and even the man who is holding tight onto a championship that I rightfully never should have lost, Miles Kasey.”
“A man who beat me for the Roulette Championship, and squandered it. A man, who like me, is a middling nobody at the best of times. But he stands here as the Internet Champion. Having beaten Calvin Harris, a man I couldn’t. Having gone to war with Austin James Mercer and surviving. Standing here now as the Internet Champion, and me? I can’t even get a fucking win.”
“It’s poetic in a way. I spent so long being the arrogant little bastard, and then my world started to crumble when Alexandra Callaway came into my life. The Blast from the Past tournament, we should’ve been a shoe-in. We should have been the ones to go all the way. To be the man and woman standing tall at the end, and then I could have gone on and at least given it a sniff at being the World Champion when the dishonoured Michael Harris reigned supreme. Instead, I became another historical statistic. The first person to ever lose their championship in the Blast from the Past tournament. To another fucking thorn in my side, Jack Washington. The man I’m coming very close to understanding the mental state of. Knowing that I am better than I am being presented, but never being able to capitalise on it.”He taps the metal spike against the back of his neck, breathing heavily as he slowly sits upright in the chair, staring up into the rafters. His face is strangely serene for the intensity of his words.
“November Twelfth, Twenty-Twenty Three should have meant something. Coming within a hair of beating J2H, twice, should have meant something. I shouldn’t be stumbling against the likes of Gerrit. I shouldn’t be stumbling against the fucking likes of Jack Washington and Ben Jordan. And I definitely should not be stumbling against the likes of Miles Kasey. But if I’m learning fucking anything right now? It doesn’t matter how much I try, it doesn’t matter how much pain I inflict. It doesn’t matter how much I work to try and reveal the horseshit that is going on behind the scenes here, I’m going to be screwed.”
“Over and over again, I’m going to be screwed. The false end to the match at My Bloody Valentine. The slower pin counts every time I tried to pin Gerrit. Not to mention the sudden inability to put the turnbuckle cover back on when it would definitely punish me. I’m beginning to wonder, how long ago did they decide they wanted to ruin my life? Was it before Gabriel Wank? Was it when I embarrassed their confidence when I stumbled against the consistent thorn in my side, Jack Washington? Or was it the day I walked in here, and told the world. I would rattle the foundations and expose the lies for what they are.”
“Some would say there has been an over-abundance of clamour for Alexander Raven. It was a constant back and forth of that bullshit, wasn’t it Miles? That I wasn’t anything more than talk, and then I was the man offered too many opportunities. I was a pompous, pretentious prick. I believe the phrase that you used, gifted to you by the seemingly non-existent Lukas sister, went something like this. I’m the personification of a prickle prick, who likes to pontificate my prolific principles or pomposity.”
“Alliteration was a fun little thing, but that was the last time you ever got under my skin Miles. That was the last time you ever got a chance to bring me down. You won that Roulette Championship, and then? Nothing. It is without question that my reign as Internet Champion was without a doubt the hardest run of opponents in years. That in the list of people I took down, you were but a footnote in that list. And the differences between our first encounter, that second one and that fateful third. I was on a whole different fucking level to you, Miles. I was on a whole different stage to you. And now, now that you’re keeping warm, that championship. Keeping warm my Internet Championship. You’re in the crosshairs once more.”He smiles a little as he stands up, pressing the tip of the metal spike up against his temples. Pressing it a little too tightly against the skin. A small stream of blood began to trickle down the side of his head. Despite this, Raven seems unphased.
“But what can I say? I’m on a bit of a downward trajectory, and you. You are only on the up and up. A dominant Internet Champion who claws towards a day that his reign actually means anything. The day when he steps into the ring with Peter Vaughn and is inevitably stripped of that championship. Stripped of the confidence, and stripped of any level of acknowledgment. Stripped of your dignity, stripped of your confidence and stripped of everything you hold dear. And why do I think that, Miles? Because it fucking happened to me.”
“Everything began to fall the fuck apart for me, when I lost that championship. And the sheer fucking irony of it all? Your partner, Alexander Callaway. She was part of my fucking demise. She was part of that which sent me down a pathway of failure, collapse and decay. She was punished for her transgressions, when Luna made her the canonical fifth victim. When Luna busted open Alexandra’s pretty little face and left her blubbering in a pool of her own filth. Concussion was the excuse she used. Concussion was the reason that she couldn’t beat my dear, sweet Luna.”
“I watch and I wait, Miles. I watch and I wait because the collapse of society begins with those who are beneficiaries of the bullshit that keeps those of us who truly want to see peace. To see freedom, and to raise up those who would be oppressed by the dictatorship of the superiors that exist here. The invisible fucking hands become physical and manifest in their direct abuse of our lives. You, Miles. You are a beneficiary of the horseshit that aims to keep me pushed down. That keeps The Conspiracy kept down. You’ll have to forgive me, if I do not mourn for you.”
“Because we’ve upset them now. And in their upset, they will aim to drag us back down. They will aim to ensure that I am punished until the final day, and they can no longer hold me here with threats. So, I don’t expect things to go down fairly in our little match here Miles. I don’t expect things to go my way. I expect their little rat, Jasmine St. John to be the bitch in control of our match. I expect that mousey little cunt will be the one who screws me again. And when I inevitably fucking snap, and choke her out, they’ll find some more ammo to try and punish me further.”He pulls the spike away and drops it heavily to the canvas. Stepping backward a few times until the back of his knees touch the steel chair. Sitting himself down once more, his eyes fixated on something far off into the distance, out of frame.
“Problem here, for you, for Jasmine. For Christian and Mark. For anyone who is now trying to punish us. A problem that extends into the likes of Ben Jordan as well. There’s nothing that they can do, to hurt us anymore. They fire us? We win. They suspend us? We win. They fine us? Oh no, money, the evil of the world and one thing that is going to break us. They extend our contracts? They know the legalities of that won’t play out for them. The problem, Miles. The problem is if I put the boots to your face. And I do it, over and over. And I get disqualified, and they scream at me to get off you. But I continue to put the boots to you, over and over. What are they going to do to stop us?”
“I guess they could have me arrested, except. Even then, I win. I get the freedom that I want. Not in the way I want, but a freedom nevertheless. Any mental examination would find that I was driven to a point of insanity. No matter how clear of mind I may protest otherwise, everyone seems to think I’ve spat the fucking dummy, Miles. And maybe I have. Maybe I have spat the fucking dummy, and I’m just waltzing on the line between reality and total and utter delusion. But if I’m insane, and I’m crazy. Then why do they not just let me be? I’ll tell you Miles.”
“They won’t ever let us be free, because they fucking need us. They need beneficiaries like you and Alexandra. And they need whipping dogs like Luna and I. People to be punished for simply demanding that they let us be us. That they stop sticking their hands in the affairs of others. That they let fate be determined by fate itself. So if I have to force the hands of fate, when I wipe your blood from the heels of my boot, then so be it. I’ll wipe my boots and smile as I paint my face with your life essence.”He raises a hand to the side of his head that is leaking blood. Smearing the blood across his face. Smearing it over his eyes and down towards his neck on the opposite side. Rubbing his hands together, he stares at them. Stares at his bloodied hands.
“But don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, sweet Alexandra. Oh no, I’ve got plenty for you. See, I kept very quiet about the unfortunate outcome of our match. I kept very quiet about my upset, about my frustrations. I kept quiet because I blamed myself. It had to be my fault, for I was pinned. Bobbie Dahl, a woman who seems to be your unending fucking thorn. She was meant to be an easy step-over for you. Instead, I lost. And so I kept quiet, as Luna decided to go to bat for me. In which you deemed it appropriate to include me. Why would you do something so stupid?”
“I left well enough alone, and fought my own battles. I left well enough alone, because I didn’t want to be involved. But there seems to be an idea. This idea that people who love and live with each other. That they are intrinsically linked. That the actions of one must dictate the thoughts of another. And you put my name in your mouth. Like a good little birdie, I never forget. They may call it elephantine memory, but reality is far less straightforward. Crows, Ravens, and all arrays of Corvids. Memories and stories to be given eternally. Never forget the eye of the Raven that stares into the soul of the broken and damned. I remember, Alexandra.”
“I remember your failings. Just like mine. I remember you being so confident in your veteran status. I remember you being so sure that you would walk over Luna. I remember you being so sure that we would be successful in the Blast from the Past, and you decided to walk back your words. You decided to blame me. Funny how things change so quickly, when you need the convenience of it. Funny, and sad.”
“Unfortunately for yourself, Alexandra. This match historically now goes in our favour. Luna holds a victory over you. I hold a straight victory over Miles. Technicalities and all that, I can hear the blustering now. But the truth? Miles is dead to rights. It doesn’t matter if it's me, or Peter. He’s going to experience the same embarrassment that I did, as a result of our mutual failings, Alexandra. Miles will suffer for your petulance. Miles will suffer, because I fucking said so.”His hands smeared with his own blood, he leans forward and falls out of the chair. Landing on his hands and knees. Leaving light bloody handprints on the canvas. Slowly crawling on hands and knees towards the metal spike again.
“Things have to change eventually. Things will change eventually. Bad luck can only be bad for so long. And I feel… confident that you, Miles. That you, Alexandra. You’ll be the turning point. That when I dust my hands of you both, and look to the horizon. To the next steps, I’ll be thankful for this match. Thankful that we, The Conspiracy, changed our trajectories. Changed our fate and our destinies. With the blood and suffering of Miles Kasey and Alexandra Callaway. The failed queen, and the arrogant cocky bastard, Miles Kasey. And once I’m done with one English prick, I’ll take aim at the one Cockney King who needs to be brought back down to reality.”
“Oh, Ben. I know you’re listening. And I know you’ll be hurting after Aiden Reynolds works you over, stretches you out, and beats you down. But I know you’ll be watching now. And I know you’re listening right now. So listen closely Ben. You’re their golden child, you’re the man given what should be mine. And I promise you. I’m going to take great joy in tearing it all down. Tearing it all away from you. Ruining your life, Ben. That’s my job right now. Ruining your life, for having the audacity to think you could ever step into my world and just leave when you fucking feel like it.”Coming to a stop over the spike, he slowly picks it up. Rolling it in his right hand, before raising it high above his head and slamming it straight down. Slamming it straight into the canvas, right through the lightest smear of a bloody handprint. A smile spreading across his lips.
“Miles, Alexandra, Ben. Are you listening now?”And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
