Part 1 - To have loved and lost…
Now that I am here standing at the top of the cliff, I’m not exactly sure what to do next. The wind rushes around me, whipping my hair across my face and rippling the surface of the water below. I glance down at the exercise book-turned-journal in my hands. I started writing here, so it makes sense that I destroy it here. A burning would have been preferable if it weren’t for the fire ban in the national park. I could bury the journal, but someone might unearth it. The only way I can think to make it disappear is by tearing it to pieces. It’s a good thing it’s windy. The journal was psychologist-number-three’s idea. Over the last two years, I’ve imprinted my feelings onto its pages. And the simple fact is, I don’t want to be that person anymore. 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒.
At the time when I met Dylan, I managed to cover her in coffee, which was definitely not one of my finest moments. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she screamed at me and walked off, which was pretty much the stock reaction in a big city even for lesser crimes…but she was gracious enough to let me buy her a replacement, and we enjoyed each other’s company enough that we agreed to meet again later for a drink. I had no idea of the weight she carried on her shoulders…
The actual name of this place is Mackenzie Cliff, though I don’t know why. Everyone calls it Peace Rock because of the big peace sign graffitied on the front face of the rock. Considering the graffiti sits about five meters above the water, that’s quite an artistic achievement. I don’t know if the graffiti gave the rock its name or the rock’s name inspired the graffiti. Or it could simply be because this place -was- peaceful. That was before me. I breathe in the familiar eucalyptus smell of the bush that surrounds the pool, and close my eyes, listening to the sound of the waterfall. On some days the waterfall gushes, making it impossible to hear your thoughts. Other times, like today, it trickles into the pool. I can sit here for hours. This is the only place where no one expects anything of me, the only place I can’t disappoint anyone. With a deep breath, I open the journal and grab hold of the first few pages. The binding is tight and I have to wrestle them out. Things would be a lot easier if it was a nice spiral-bound notebook instead of a plain writing book. Dr Hayes said because it was so plain, I’d feel free to write without fear of making a mistake. She didn’t consider the implications of her choice on any future journal-destroying undertakings. I was against the idea of the journal at the beginning like journal-must-die sort of against it. It was the most unoriginal idea I’d heard, not only because Dr Hayes was supposed to be an expert in supporting people with amnesia or memory loss – which at first sounded like a WW2 experiment – but also because the sessions were costing more per hour than dinner at one of those expensive restaurants whose menus are full of words like jus and fondant. So I gave it a go.
It was later that evening, when she told me her story. She’d been found, washed up, no memory of her past life. She’d spent the last three years trying, and failing, to put the missing pages of who she was back together. Most everyone she shared that knowledge with didn’t know how to react, often shying away from the situation entirely, so she’d learned to keep it to herself a lot of the time. With me, it was different. In more ways than one.
The first few journal entries contain the word fuck a lot. I tear them in half, then in half again. The wind carries the squares of paper out of my hands before I even have a chance to outstretch my arm. I watched those weeks of my life get swept away over the water and disappear into the trees.
“You need to make some new memories, then”. The words fell out of my mouth so nonchalantly, as if it seemed the obvious solution. After all, to someone who’d spent as long as I had travelling the world, doing something I loved, exploring, adventuring and tourist-ing along the way? It was. To those she’d spoken to before, those forced to live paycheck to paycheck, it maybe hadn’t seemed quite so straightforward.
July 1st, 1863, midday
Battle of Gettysburg, Day One
It was, without doubt, the calm before the storm. General Lee and his army of Northern Virginia had made good progress on day one of the battle. General Daniel Sickles and his III Corps had been ordered to take up position on Cemetery Ridge. A gathering of Union forces double-checked their equipment, and tested their rifles ready for an onslaught. Had the Confederate forces pushed their advantage into the night, it could have been a different story, but instead the soldiers seemed calm, well-rested, and prepared.
The General approaches one of his officers with a slight change of plan.
Sergeant Cross.
Yes, General Sickles?
I need you to take these men and establish us in the peach orchard up there, we want the high ground.
From a few paces away, the conversation catches the attention of another Union soldier, a young female.
Yes sir.
The Sergeant, with one last check of his pack, prepares to move out with the members of his Corp. A voice from behind stops him in his tracks.
Mark?
Don’t worry, Dylan…I remembered my bulletproof cloak this morning.
As he leans in to kiss her on the cheek, he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.
You’d better come back to me.
I always will.
With a smirk and an almost ironic salute, young Sergeant Cross slings his pack over his shoulder, setting off in the direction of the slope, and the Sherfy family peach orchard.
I flicked through the next few pages of the journal. A lot of them are tear-stained. I don't believe in wiping tears away, I believe in letting them fall. What's the point of crying otherwise? Looking through these pages, I realised how much I wrote, despite my initial feelings. I wrote almost every day, most of the time here at the cliff. It isn't just words that fill these pages; there are pictures I drew, photos I'd taken, useless things I'd found and kept. Beautiful, painful and tragic. And now, all of it has to go. What would Dr Hayes say if she saw me now? She would ask how I feel. And as much as I love Dr Hayes, I hate this question. All psychologists ask it. The answer is never as simple as they'd like to think. Feelings don't line up in a neat row all nicely categorised, like my shoe collection. They're more chaotic and unorganised. The last time I visited Dr Hayes was at the end of the year before she left for the UK to see her daughter and new grandchild. A colleague is filling in for her while she is away, but I refuse to see anyone else. So until she comes back, I'm on my own. When I first walked into her office I was unrecognisable and I still am. I don’t know myself any more now than I did then. My efforts make me breathless, so I stopped for a moment. The birds chattered noisily in the trees around me. I find the noise peaceful. The birds, like the waterfall, never stop. I turn my attention back to the journal and continue tearing out the pages until I reach a photo. That's how I know that I've come to the beginning. It's in a news clipping from the day I was found. My fingers gripped a handful of pages and pulled them taut. I wish I could slip into the pages of my journal and rewrite everything that happened that night. But there was nothing I could do. My hold on the journal tightens. It's better to erase that part of my life, pretend that it never happened. I tear the pages, into the smallest pieces possible. The wind carries them away like ashes. As I watched them lift higher and higher, I remember the first thing I saw on that night. The water’s edge lapped at my fingertips. Unable to move, unable to breathe. The sound of laughter makes me freeze. I looked towards the bush track that comes down from the car park, but I don't see anyone. I listened carefully, but when I don't hear it again I figure it must have been a bird. It would be around 9 o'clock now. People will start arriving soon with their towels and picnics. I need to finish this. There are only a few pages left clinging to the spine of the exercise book. There are a few recent entries, followed by a couple of crisp white, lined pages. This year can be different. It has to be different, because if it's not, then what sort of future will I have? I shake my head I don't want to think about it right now. All I want to think about is forgetting the past, starting over. In one chunk, I rip out those final pages, rip them up and, like that, they're gone, dancing through the air. I feel I should say something to mark this moment, but everything I think of sounds stupid in my head. The word that comes out of my mouth surprises me. “Jump.” I stand up and move forward until my toes touch the edge. I look at the still water below. “Don't think, just jump,” I say. But I can't make my feet move any more than I can make myself remember.
After three years of little progress, all it took was that one conversation, and a suggestion. An invite to join me at my home in Florida, to tag along on a mini road-trip out to my next planned show in Orlando, see a few sights along the way. It wasn’t romantic at first, I just wanted to help her, and seeing the state I’d fallen in love with through fresh eyes? It wasn’t exactly tough for me…but we fell hard…I found my partner in crime, my travel buddy…someone who could keep up with my crazy, match me every step of the way-
July 1st, 1863, late evening
Battle of Gettysburg, Day One
With the III Corp spread too thin between the Peach Orchard and Little Round Top, gaps formed in the line, making it impossible to hold the higher ground Sickles had so desperately wanted. Sergeant Cross joined in with the artillery battery in the withdrawal, helping to drag the gun backward with every shot, using the recoil of the weapon to aid in the movement.
Back the way they came, however, General William Barkdale and his men had been closing in on the Union position, and on General Sickles’ base of operation near the Trostle barn.
Seeing the position under siege sent the officer on a frenzy, searching for the girl he’d left behind just a day prior. As he found her-
D-Dylan, no…
The war was of little consequence anymore.
Hi Mark.
The battle had raged long, supplies of ammunition had grown scarce, and at times, the fighting had gotten up close and personal. As the Sergeant finally found his lover, it was on the ground, in a slick pool of her own blood, the puncture wound of a Confederate bayonet in her side.
Medic! S-somebody help her! MEDIC!
Desperate, the young man screamed at the top of his lungs. Weak legs finally collapsed as he fell to his knees by Dylan’s side, desperately pressing down against the wound.
They already tried, Mark.
No…no it can’t…
Only one of us is…bulletproof, remember?
I should…I should have given you the cloak…please…please don’t leave me…
Mark, I need you to listen-
Not wanting to believe it, not wanting to watch the life drain from her face, he remained with his head bowed, tears flung from side to side as he shook his head in a futile attempt at denial.
Please don’t-
Mark!
Even in such dire condition, she carried a kind of authority in her voice, the kind that even someone as stubborn as he he might listen to.
S-sorry…
I need you to know, Mark…you gave me my life back. You gave me more hope for my future in two weeks than two years in therapy ever did. You were fucking exhausting, all the time, but I’m so lucky you chose me.
I love you, Dylan-
I love…you…
With her last, dying breath, Mark leaned in, placing a soft kiss on her lips to send her on her way…and with that, she was gone…
They say it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Then someone took my Dylan from me, and trust me, if I ever meet the person who coined that phrase? I’ll be telling them to go fuck themselves.
I can’t tell you why…I don’t know, if maybe she just left, disappeared without a trace, recaptured her old memories and decided I absolutely wasn’t for her. I don’t know if someone from her past life, maybe they recognised her, from my social media, that time she made the highlights for slide tackling me on the SCW tour in Europe…I don’t know…but there was no note, no ransom. Her phone was switched off, never came back on again, not even months later, believe me I’ve tried-
In the end, they stopped returning my calls, the police, that is. In the end I guess they got bored of saying it was in the hands of the FBI, that they’d contact me directly.
They never did. The agent I was given as a contact never called me back, never responded to my emails, my attempt to go down to their field office only resulted in being forcibly removed…it was weird.
It was like…I don’t know…I know Dylan was stabbed, when she was found…and nobody wanted to speak to me?
I don’t know…I keep thinking the FBI either lost one of their own…or re-captured someone they REALLY wanted back…but she didn’t seem the type…not a Field Agent or criminal mastermind, she was just…she was just mine…
After our first trip around Florida? Dylan stopped caring about her past, we both did. We focussed on our lives, our futures, our memories that we’d make together.
Maybe I should have done more…
Part 2 - …or to have never loved at all…
Pennsylvania State Memorial
Gettysburg
Present Day
We are greeted by a bright, sunny day in Pennsylvania, the light streaming through the trees as Mark “The Dragon” Cross walks soberly through the National Military Park, arriving a few moments later at the memorial. The monument stands along Cemetery Ridge, marking the Union battle line, and commemorating the 34,500 soldiers who fought across three vital days in the American Civil War.
Now I’m not one for documenting historical sites like this. You see the tour vlogs, to Auschwitz, to Chernobyl, and while nearly two decades in pro wrestling has taught me there’s nothing better than a little cheap heat…to me it always seemed a little disrespectful, the kind of moment you should experience alone.
This time though…I feel like I want to make an exception, because this one…this one hit me in a way that other site so poignant ever has before…maybe it’s what I’ve been going through the last few months, everything finally coming to a head but…umm…the love of my life, she either…she either left, or she was taken, I don’t know. I’ve struggled with that a lot.
I’m still struggling with it a lot.
In truth, I shouldn’t have signed up for this but yet…it feels more important than ever that I am still here competing. Like I’m honouring her somehow.
The thing was, Dylan loved to watch me wrestle. She said it made me look youthful, energised. It wasn’t like I wasn’t energised on a daily basis of course, driving her crazy with my early alarms to train, my impulse purchases, my next crazy project…but she also got to see me behind closed doors, tweezing out the grey hairs, or helping wipe off the black stains on the top of my ears when I’d been a little too exuberant with my bottle of Just for Men.
When I’m in that ring, and when that bell sounds, I transform into that mythical creature, the moniker I adopted from my first, terrible match in front of maybe 20 people, and carried through multiple World titles and crucially? Two Blast from the Past victories. The Dragon does it again. I may talk about the people I’ve lost…people who supported me on this journey, Dylan, my Dad…but I’m not like that Harris boy. Even when they’re missing, presumed dead I’m still not here for anyone but me.
I don’t keep a journal - This is my therapy.
You can rip whole chunks of my heart away from me outside of that ring, and trust me, life has done that more than a few times over the last forty years - But when I step through those ropes? Trust me, I’m completely whole again, and if anything, just a little bit more pissed off at the world with each passing year.
An anger that only kicking someone hard in the face, over and over again, can quell. At least until the next time.
So, like always, I put my head down, and I focus on the next opponent, and to that end, I’m sorry bird man, you didn’t quite get your wish. Artie falls into the clutches of Sean Parker, and you don’t get to make it to the Final. That’s unfortunate. It’s unfortunate, because I recognise that the potential of this match-up SCREAMS for the fanfare of a Supercard. It’s unfortunate, because I like this new conspiracy-theorist side to you…the veil of deception bullshit is way more spicy than the woe-is-me-how-can-I-buy-a-win version of you I faced in that very ring before. After all - You’re a completely different competitor now, completely transformed.
Your only problem? I’m exactly the same as I was back then.
I’ve done the things you’ve failed to accomplish. World title win. Blast from the Past, twice.
I see your big words, your bravado, how you’re going to tear the fucking world apart, how you’re going to rip a person’s whole life to shreds and with that I say welcome to the club. Welcome to the world where you’re finally willing to do everything in your power to get that victory. I think that may be one of the biggest reasons why you’ve started to turn your career around since we last met in a ring. You’re finally realising that it’s not just about working hard, training hard, and wrestling well. Good at the ol’ graps, you said of Ben Jordan, wasn’t it?
You’re finally starting to realise what needs to be done to reach the very top of the pyramid, no matter what the cost. You’re seeing what sets the likes of me ahead of a lot of those other past champions you’ve name-dropped, and to that end…how are things between you and Luna, lately?
Seriously, Lexi-baby-daddy, how have things been going between you two lately, as I can’t help but notice something of a pattern. This new-found determination of yours, this plan you have to pin the whole world’s shoulders to the mat and count 1-2-3, while you chase some form of higher power and enlightenment or whatever…I mean from the outside looking in…I’d say there’s some cracks appearing in the foundations of your relatiobship, right? Little stress fractures that were nowhere to be found when you were Mr. Unlucky, when you were the butt of everyone’s jokes. There are barriers to success, Raven, something has to be number one and after a while…if you push someone to second place…they won’t wait forever for you to realise your mistake, before they walk away from you,
I’ve loved and I’ve lost in my forty years on this earth. Some of you have seen those moments here on Sin City Wrestling…The gun that was held to my head, unless I revealed where I was hiding Micaela, on the run from her ex-husband…Hadley Wyatt…who I’d probably be living the American Dream with right now if only I’d hung up my wrestling boots and accepted that commentary position, taken my retirement plan early…Chase, the fiery redhead that you’ve never met…scared of running off with me to the middle of nowhere, away from prying eyes, knowing the draw of the ring would eat away at me until I couldn’t take it any longer or most recently, to Dylan…my travel buddy, who cemented herself in SCW history for her two-footed slide tackle when I was clowning around with the soccer ball…who I was too busy making happy memories for that I forgot to protect her.
The truth is, though…they knew. They all knew.
They understood my work came above all else, even them…and sometimes, if you truly love someone, you have to let them go to be at their happiest. Even if that happiness isn’t with you.
I’ve sacrificed a lot, Alex, I’ll tell you that. I’ve sacrificed a lot, because I know, deep down in my heart, that I can’t give myself to someone like they give themselves to me. It’s often the case in a relationship that someone loves the other a little bit more…wants them more…needs them more, but I’ve taken that to extremes. I’ve tried to walk away, it keeps pulling me back. I’ve tried to take a lesser role, my results catapult me right back to the top.
I learned a long time ago, anyone who walks into my life will play second fiddle to my career…and until that stops being the case? All I’m going to bring is suffering at the end. Are you prepared to do the same?
I guess for you, Alex, we’re going to see where the future really lies for you on Sunday. I see you standing at something of a crossroads. You veer to the left, you stop being so angry at everyone and everything for contributing to ‘your downfall’...like the universe is all in some WhatsApp group chat and we’re posting our best Raven memes…you go back to being the man Luna fell in love with, maybe you go on another Internet title run, you can still march around and tell us that you transformed the division or whatever…keep a nice work/life balance, all things considered…or you veer to the right. You set about throwing every cheap shot you can, you pull apart relationships, parenting skills, every shitty thing we ever did while we were young and dumb in college, dig into the vices that some work so hard to keep off-camera, and off the radar of the random drug tests. You can prove that you really are ready to do whatever it takes to keep going.
Then you really can prove you’re on my level.
You see you really are just a year removed from that failure to win the World championship…just a year removed from failing to capture that Internet title belt where you looked so dominant for a while, and really, if we’re totally honest with ourselves, that’s your level, right? That’s the space Aiden Reynolds wanted to be in one day, because he recognised right off the bat that it wasn’t in his wheelhouse, not yet. You could push through that, sure, but growth in wrestling, it’s not like a global pandemic, the graph isn’t exponential. There’s periods of plateau-ing, where you start to hit that ceiling.
Are you at your ceiling, Alex? Are you just riding a wave of momentum, knowing it just takes the right calibre of opponent to stop you in your tracks?
You reel off names of your past victories, your past scalps, the men they used to be, and yet-
You don’t mention my name.
Is that because you’ve yet to cut off my head? Is that because you can’t believe you can?
Your new approach, Raven? I mean you’re more than welcome to try…but when things away from the ring are already seven shades of fucked…when I’m training harder than ever before just to distract myself? You can’t do any damage there, and oh, and for my first love, for wrestling, for the gladiatorial spirit? Trust me, that is one area where you definitely can’t get to me. Wrestling’s been my sole focus, my life blood, for longer than you can even fathom. Before this last year, Raven? This was just a job for you. This was money in your pocket so you wouldn’t cry yourself to sleep every week because you lost again. This is a head of steam, a hot streak, a purple patch…and just as quickly as you turned things in your favour?
It could all flip-reverse back the other way.
After all, a giant snowball starts off as something small enough that it can fit in your hands.
Maybe I just need to start the ball rolling, and another year later? You could be the butt of all our jokes again.
Just like that partner of yours, apparently, although for very different reasons.
I’ve heard Alexandra Calaway has a reputation of sorts…where you only have to breathe the wrong way to find a place on her social media block lists…and I guess while there’s two sides to every story, the truth always ends up falling somewhere in between, right? There’s a pattern emerging, it seems, of people who step into this business, hand out a few sharp words, because that’s what they think has to be done, only to throw their toys out of the pram when someone returns the favour and if that’s the case with you, Alex Callaway? You can add me to that list as well, because I’ve already wasted time on Reynolds and Harris, I don’t have the time to mingle with pretenders.
You have to have a thicker skin if you want to step into the wrestling business. Ability can take you places, sure, can’t deny that, but there are a whole host of people who have built careers around not needing to rely on that asset. You can have all the ability in the world, but the industry is full of opponents who know how to obscure the view just enough that the referee doesn’t see the low blow, the eye gouge. You may be able to out-wrestle someone but what if they keep surging forward, trying to maul you with a seemingly endless tank of gas, and that killer instinct burning in their eyes, never letting you get into a rhythm. Your partner’s started talking about doing the very same thing, you know it exists. You can block an opponent who chirps at you on Twitter, purge them from your timeline…but with it? You tell them that they got to you. You have to walk into the same arena, where they connect a not-so-accidental shoulder bump as they brush past. You’ll have their voice in their ear, talking you down the whole time you’re out there, trying to get under that skin of yours, right out there in the middle of the ring, where you need to be at your best.
To me? All part of the game. I expect to receive it, and I can guarantee I’m ready to give it back with interest. To you? Maybe it affects you a little more than most. Maybe it’s a sign you’re not really cut out for this long-term.
While we may not actually lay hands on each other, Alex…you and your partner are in my way, and I’ll repeat what I’ve said before…as my opponent, I’m not going to be fucking nice to you. You’re not going to be exempt, and if I can get a little edge on you…a few days before…at the arena…just before we’re due to walk out there…while I’m working out of your corner, you can guarantee I’ll be taking it.
Can you handle that? Or will you crumble, because you can’t hide behind your block walls out there.
I may sound like a broken record, recycling old phrases to use again, but look at where we are, look at what we’re doing. There’s an irony to this whole tour. The fact there’s so many battlegrounds we can visit, in different parts of the world, from different points in time…we’re only scratching the surface of how deep this runs, and it’s just one huge example of history repeating.
You’ve talked about changing your fortunes with Raven since your last attempt at this didn’t go so well…but let me tell you what HISTORY says is the more likely, what statistics say is the more likely outcome.
You continue to fall before the last hurdle.
Mark “The Dragon” Cross goes on to win yet another Blast from the Past. Thirty plus wins, three Blast from the Past victories, two World title reigns.
I’m not looking to change history here.
I don’t need to.
I just need to play the role I always play, and you and the bird man will just stay true to form.
My place in the final is inevitable.
As The Dragon moves out of shot, we are left with the image of the monument, the choir of bird song, and a feeling of eerie peace, given the history here. The scene fades to black.
