[SCW Staff]

Please post all roleplays here! Have fun and good luck!

[HBCarter]

Las Vegas, Nevada

Dr. Gail Delacore’s office was softly lit to induce calm and relaxation. A small fountain gurgled on the windowsill while on the coffee table was a box of tissues, a pitcher of water, and a smooth stone bowl with a handful of worry stones. Carter sat on the couch closest to the door, as if he was prematurely seeking a means of escape. This was the second time he was attempting this special session with Dr. Delacore to retrieve memories from the night of the attack. The first time ended in disaster, with Carter getting up and simply leaving as Miles ran after him.

This time, Miles sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched, his hand resting on Carter’s forearm in a showcase of loving support. Kevin was sitting out in the waiting room, safe and uninvolved, exactly as Carter and Miles had decided.

Dr. Gail Delacore sat across from Carter, her hands clasped on her closed notepad. She said, “Before we do any imagery today, I want to revisit our first attempt. I believe we moved too fast. Your system did exactly what it was supposed to do when it got overwhelmed. It shut down. So this time, we do things differently with shorter passes, more pauses, and we stop well before you get overwhelmed.”

Carter swallowed hard and shook his head. “I wasn’t ready.”

Dr. Delacore nodded. “It's alright. Today is about control and choices, Carter. We go slower on purpose. Do you want Miles in the room the entire time?”

Carter flinched, as if the thought of his husband not being present was as alien as mustard on French fries. He nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Delacore nodded. “Good. Miles, your job is to anchor him in the present. If I cue you, you’ll help with orientation. If Carter reaches for you, you offer contact. That’s all. Do not interfere.”

Miles nodded. “Understood.”

Dr. Delacore added, “Two more things before we start. One, we will use a stop signal. Carter, pick something you can do even if you feel frozen. A word or a gesture.”

Carter lifted his hand, palm out, fingers spread. Both simple and direct.

“Perfect.” She said. “If you do that, we stop immediately, no questions asked. Two, we will rate distress. Zero is calm. Ten is the worst you can imagine. Where are you right now?”

Carter answered, “Three, maybe four. Mostly nerves again.”

“Very good.” Dr. Delacore said. “If you climb above seven, we pause and ground. If you hit eight, we stop.”

Carter’s eyes finally lifted, and the look was serious. “Okay.”

Dr. Delacore’s voice stayed steady. “Let’s create your anchors. Feet on the floor. Press your heels down. Feel the support.”

Carter did as instructed.

“Name five things you can see in this room.”

Carter’s gaze moved around the office. “Your fountain. The bookshelf. Your lamp. The plant. Miles’ ring.”

Dr. Delacore continued. “Four things you can feel.”

Carter swallowed. “The couch. My jeans. Miles’ hand. The air from your AC.”

“Three things you can hear.”

“The water.” Carter tilted his head. “Your pen. And traffic outside.”

“Two things you can smell.”

Carter inhaled gently. “Miles’ cologne and your candle.”

“One thing you can taste.”

“My gum.”

Dr. Delacore watched Carter’s shoulders drop. “Good. That’s dual attention. Part of you can be with us here, in this room, while another part visits the memory. You stay in charge. We visit the memory, we do not move in.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Now, Carter, we will begin with guided imagery. Just the beginning for now. We will go slowly. You will describe in present tense, but you will keep one hand here in the room.” She nodded toward his left hand.

Carter looked down and placed his left hand on Miles’s upper thigh. Fingers splayed rather than gripping as he was known to do in more flirtatious moments.

Dr. Delacore’s tone softened. “When you are ready, close your eyes or soften your gaze. Bring up the moment you set foot into the parking garage. Stop there. Tell me what you notice.”

Carter closed his eyes, and after a long moment, his voice came out quiet.

“I step in the parking garage.” His shoulders shuddered. “I immediately regret not bringing someone with me.”

Miles’ hand pressed a little more firmly into Carter’s forearm. He remembered that regret as a sore spot because he had wanted to go with Carter but Carter was stubborn and insisted he would be fine. Newsflash, he wasn’t.

“Good.” Dr. Delacore said. “Stay in the garage. You’re walking to the car. What do you see?”

Carter’s lips tightened. “Cars. Shadows. I’m watching everything.”

“What are you telling yourself?”

“That I’m being ridiculous.” His voice hardened. “I was just going down the block. I wanted to get Dr. Pepper for the kids.”

“And underneath that thought?”

Carter swallowed. “That I’m not safe. I’m being watched.”

Miles’ jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet.

Dr. Delacore lifted her gaze from her notes. “That belief is a big piece of the trauma. Not safe, being watched, someone is close. We are going to work with it.”

Carter’s breathing got a little faster.

Dr. Delacore held up her hand gently. “Rate your distress right now.”

Five.” Carter said it like a confession.

“Okay. We keep going, but slower.” She said. “You get to the car. Describe it.”

“My lime green Beetle.” Carter’s voice softened, and for a moment there was something like affection. The car his grandfather gave him before he passed.

“What do you feel in your hands as you reach for the door?”

“My key. I’m holding it too tight. It hurts.”

“Good noticing.” Dr. Delacore said. “Now, we are going to do a technique called the remote control. Imagine the memory on a screen, not around you. You have a remote in your hand. You can pause. You can lower volume. You can zoom out. Tell me when you have the remote.”

Carter’s brows drew together, but after a breath he nodded. “I have it.”

“Lower the volume of the garage echoes by twenty percent.” She instructed. “And add a small frame around the screen, like it’s a video.”

Carter swallowed. “Okay.”

Miles watched Carter’s face for signs of duress, his posture tuned like a guard dog.

Dr. Delacore continued. “Now press play. You open the car door and get in. What happens next?”

Carter’s throat tightened. “I shut it fast. I put the key in the ignition and…” His body quickly racked with an involuntary shudder before he stopped.

Dr. Delacore’s voice was immediate but calm. “Pause the video. What do you see?”

“It’s the Stitch figurine Miles got me that I keep on the dashboard.”

“What do you notice about it?” She asked.

“It’s knocked over.” Carter’s voice went quiet. “It wasn’t like that before.”

“What does your body do right now, in the room, when you see that?”

Carter’s stomach clenched so hard he had to shift his weight. “I feel sick.”

Miles’ hand moved from Carter’s forearm to his back, gently massaging between his shoulder blades. “Breathe, luv.” He said gently. “In for four, out for six.”

Carter tried. His inhale was shallow, but the exhale lengthened and shuddered.

Dr. Delacore nodded. “Stay with that. The Stitch being knocked over is a cue. Your nervous system recognizes a violation. It’s a warning bell. Carter, rate distress.”

“Seven.” Carter’s voice cracked.

“Okay,” Dr. Delacore said. “We are right at the edge. We are going to ground for twenty seconds. Carter, open your eyes fully. Look at Miles. Tell me the date.”

Carter blinked hard, turning to Miles. “March 3rd.”

“Good.” She said. “Where are you?”

“In your office.” Carter’s voice steadied a little. “Miles is here.”

Miles squeezed gently to better ensure the fact.

Dr. Delacore waited until Carter’s breathing slowed. “Now, we do the guided imagery again, but we will not go further than the moment your body realizes something is wrong. That is enough for today if you want it to be. You are in charge.”

Carter stared at the floor, then nodded once. “I want to keep going.”

Miles’ eyes flicked toward Dr. Delacore. He did not like it, but he respected it. It was Carter's decision. It was between him and the doctor, Miles was here for support

Dr. Delacore’s voice turned precise. “Okay. Press play. You are in the driver’s seat. Stitch is knocked over. What happens next?”

Carter’s fingers tightened against the couch cushion. “My hand tightens around the key. It hurts. I’m staring at it too long.”

“Pause.” Dr. Delacore said. “This is where we start imagery rescripting. Not to pretend it did not happen, but to give your brain a new option that it did not have at that moment. Carter, in the memory, you are the version of you sitting in that car. But you can also bring in another version. Present-day Carter, who knows what happened. Can you picture Present-day Carter outside of the car?”

Carter’s eyes clenched, his brow furrowed, as if struggling with the mental image. “I'm trying.”

“That’s enough.” She said. “Present Carter walks up to the driver’s side window. He sees you frozen with the key. What does he do first?”

Carter’s jaw clenched. “He knocks on the window.”

“Good. Does Past Carter notice?”

Carter’s voice turned hoarse. “He flinches. He looks.”

“What does Present-day Carter say?” Dr. Delacore asked.

Carter’s lips parted, and very quietly he answered, “You’re not crazy.”

Dr. Delacore’s gaze stayed on Carter. “Say it again, a little louder.”

Carter swallowed. “You’re not crazy.”

“Good.” She said. “Now say something that competes with helplessness. Something true.”

It took awhile before he said, “You can leave. You can get out of the car.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Delacore said. “In the memory, Present-day Carter reaches for the door handle from outside. Does he open it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she said. “Present-day Carter opens the driver’s side door. You are no longer sealed in. What does Past Carter do?”

Carter’s breathing sped up again. “He wants to get out of the car. Fast.”

Dr. Delacore nodded. “Let him. But in slow motion. You control the pace. Let him swing his legs out. Feet on the concrete. Stand up.”

Carter’s throat worked. “Okay.”

Dr. Delacore said, “Now we include another resource. Miles is here in the office, and we can also bring a protective presence into the memory if you want. This can be anyone. Who comes?”

Carter’s face tightened. Miles gripped his shoulder in response.

Dr. Delacore nodded. “In the rescripted scene, Miles is walking with you into the garage. He is to your left. He sees your car. He sees your body tense. What does he do?”

Carter’s eyes glistened. “He asks me if I’m okay. I say I don’t like this. Something’s wrong.”

Dr. Delacore’s pen moved. “Good. You listen to the cue. That is the new learning. You do not override yourself. Now, we also have to honor the original memory, because your brain still holds it. So we will do a controlled return to the original sequence, but with the resources present. Here is the key. We stop before the worst point today. We stop at the moment you recognize the eyes. Understood?”

Carter nodded.

Miles draped his arm around his husband’s shoulder, steadying him for what was going to be the toughest part of this session.

Dr. Delacore’s voice slowed. “Bring the scene back to the original. You are inside the car. Stitch is knocked over. You are staring. The key is in your hand. This time, you are aware that adult Carter is near you, and Miles is nearby too. They are not changing what happened yet, just helping you stay present. Ready?”

Carter’s eyes half-closed. “Ready.”

“Press play.” She said.

Carter’s shoulders rose. “I’m staring at Stitch. My fingers are squeezing the keys. My chest feels like a vice.”

Dr. Delacore nodded. “Good. Notice your left hand on the couch. Feel the fabric. Stay with me. What happens next?”

Carter’s face blanched slightly. “Something moves behind me.”

Miles’ arm around Carter’s shoulders became firmer, grounding.

Dr. Delacore’s voice was calm and exact. “Pause for one breath. In for four. Out for six.”

Carter’s inhale caught. He forced the exhale longer, and his eyes opened briefly, orienting to the office.

“Good.” Dr. Delacore said. “Now continue. Something moves. Tell me what you notice without describing graphic details. Just the cues.”

Carter’s lips trembled. “A shape. The backseat. It rises up like…” He swallowed. “...Like something from a horror movie.”

“Where do you feel it in your body right now?” She asked.

“My stomach.” Carter pressed a hand there without thinking. “My throat.”

Dr. Delacore nodded. “Keep the remote in your hand. Narrow the scene so you see only what you need. We are going to move to the rearview mirror moment. Your brain is going to want to flood you with the whole thing. We are not going to allow that.”

Carter’s eyes flicked to Dr. Delacore’s face, seeking certainty. She gave it with her tone.

“Bring your attention to the mirror.” She said.

Carter’s breathing became shallow again. “I can’t … I can’t see my glasses. They’re not, my vision is…”

“That’s okay.” Dr. Delacore said. “In the imagery, you can still notice shape and light. The mirror is there. You glance up. What do you see?”

Carter’s throat made a small sound, almost a gag. Eyes wide, his face went pale in a way that had nothing to do with the office lighting.

“Eyes.” He whispered.

Dr. Delacore’s tone sharpened, not harsh, but focused. “Yes. You see eyes. Stay there. Do not go past it. Rate your distress.”

Carter swallowed hard, and his body pitched forward slightly. “Nine!”

“Stop.” Dr. Delacore said immediately. “All the way. Open your eyes. Feet on the floor. Press your heels down.”

Carter tried, but his face crumpled with nausea. Miles could see it coming. He reached down beside the couch and grabbed the small waste basket Dr. Delacore kept near the end table, bringing it up under Carter’s hands in one smooth motion. Carter retched, violent and sudden, his shoulders jerking as his stomach revolted. Miles held the basket steady with both hands, braced. His other arm stayed behind Carter’s back to keep him from tipping forward too far.

Dr. Delacore stood at once, concern clear on her face, but her voice stayed controlled. “You’re in my office. Let it happen. No shame.”

Carter gagged again, then slumped back, shaking and damp with sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps and chokes. Dr. Delacore took the pitcher of water and poured him a cup, passing it to him.

Miles kept the basket close but lowered it slightly once Carter’s hands relaxed. Dr. Delacore crouched slightly so she was at eye level. “Carter, look at me.” She waited until his eyes focused. “You did exactly what we needed today. You stopped at the mirror. You did not push through.”

Carter’s face was pale. There's a thin layer of a cold sweat beading on his forehead. He nodded weakly.

Dr. Delacore’s voice softened. “What happened right before the nausea hit? Tell me in one sentence.”

“I saw the eyes.” Carter rasped.

Dr. Delacore asked carefully, “Do you recognize the eyes?”

Carter swallowed hard and it felt like he was swallowing glass. He nodded.

Miles leaned close. “Who was it?” He asked, muscles tense.

Carter’s hand gripped Miles’ wrist like a lifeline. His voice came out thin but unmistakable.

“Lazarus.”


“We’re going to start by doing something that apparently makes certain men in the back break out in hives. We're going to talk about facts. Not rumors or theories. Not a Youtube video you watched in bed and decided was the gospel. Facts.”

“Since I won the World Heavyweight Championship in May of 2025, I have stood across the ring from the kind of men who don’t just want to beat you, they want to unmake you. Alex Jones. Artie. J2H. Eddie Lyons. Vincent Lyons Junior. Aiden Reynolds. Alexander Raven. Some were defenses, some were not, but every single one of them was a test in pressure. And with one exception to Alex Jones, every single one of them ended with my hand raised and my belt still mine, because I do what champions do. I win.”

“And listen carefully, because I’m not doing this to pat myself on the back or to give you a history lesson. I’m doing it because it tells exactly why I’m so sick of hearing people talk like I’m carrying this championship around on loan until the ‘right guy’ shows up to take it from me. I’ve been hearing that line since the very start.”

“Alex Jones said I was a fluke. J2H said had no business as champion. Aiden Reynolds tried to make it about opportunity, like the world owed him my spot. Raven tries to make it about everything but what matters. He tries to turn my title reign into a conspiracy argument about truth and lies, and it’s funny because the only truth that has held up for almost a year is this; I keep leaving with the World Championship and everyone else keeps leaving with a story about why they didn’t.”

“So let’s talk about Alexander Raven. Let’s talk about the man who keeps showing up like a storm cloud and then acting offended when nobody calls it a hurricane. Raven, you’ve got a talent for acting like you’re above everyone and everything, like SCW is lucky you decided to grace us with your ‘truth.’ And then you get absolutely shocked when I look at you and say, ‘I don’t care what you did somewhere else. I care what you do here.’ Because we are in SCW. This is the promotion that made me a World Champion and this is the promotion where accomplishments matter. You can rattle off your resume from other places until you run out of oxygen and I will still ask the same question that you keep dodging! What have you accomplished in SCW that warrants you standing in front of me as my challenger?”

“You came to SCW! You chose this arena! If you want to be treated like a top threat here, then do what every top threat has had to do in this company. Earn it! Don’t lecture me about your greatness and then get mad when I don’t clap. Bring it into the ring! Make it undeniable! Because right now, the only undeniable thing about you is that you’re obsessed with me and obsession is not a qualification!”

“You want credit for trophies you didn’t win here. You want me to treat you like you’ve already conquered SCW when the only thing you’ve conquered is the art of planting doubts. That’s your game. Not winning matches. Not building a case. Just running your mouth and hoping the noise is so constant people forget to check the scoreboard. And do you know what that scoreboard says? It says when you step into my ring, you don’t leave with the World Championship. It says when you try to turn this into your story, I rewrite the ending. It says you’ve done a whole lot of talking and not nearly enough taking. And that’s why this rematch is unearned. It’s not a reward for achievement, it’s you crying so loud they had to give you what you wanted just to shut you up!”

“And while we’re here, let’s talk about the personal shots you and your buddy Alex Jones love to take because you two have made it your hobby to run commentary on my marriage like you’re sitting at home with a clipboard scoring it. ‘Carter and Miles parade their perfect marriage around, rubbing it in everyone’s faces.’ First of all, the way you say ‘perfect marriage’ like it’s an insult tells me everything I need to know about you. Imagine being so bitter that stability sounds like arrogance.Just because Miles and I don’t parade our differences in public like some others just means that we’re not toxic like certain others! We have our times, we just don’t air them out like a TikTok video!”

“And second, have you been paying attention at all? Because if you have, then you would know that while we’re happy, things are far from perfect! We’ve been dealing with hell behind closed doors! You want to pretend Miles and I are living in some glossy magazine spread where nothing ever goes wrong because it lets you sell your little narrative that the world needs men like you to ‘wake them up’ from the spell of people like me! But reality doesn’t bend to your convenience. Reality is messy and frightening, and we’ve been in it! So don’t you dare stand there and accuse us of rubbing anything in anyone’s face when lately we’re just trying to keep our heads above water!”

“And then there’s the next accusation that Miles and I have ‘turned Climax Control into the Miles and Carter show’ because of our appearances. That’s rich, coming from people who rarely show their faces on camera unless it’s in the ring! That’s really convenient, isn’t it? Show up, wrestle, disappear, and then complain that the champion is visible. Let me explain something to you, Raven, because maybe you’ve forgotten what a champion is supposed to be. Being the World Heavyweight Champion means you represent this company! It means you carry the brand! It means you are present! So yes, you are going to see me every week! You are going to hear me every week! And if that feels like ‘The Carter Show,’ maybe that’s because I’m doing the job people like you keep pretending is beneath you!”

“Men like you, Raven? You take every loss, every setback, every moment where you’re not the center of the universe and you build a story where it’s because of something outside of your control. Politics. The fans. The system. Anything to avoid the simplest explanation that scares you the most! That sometimes you don’t get what you want because you didn’t earn it! Sometimes you don’t win because you weren’t good enough at that moment! And instead of facing that, you point at the world and say, ‘It’s rigged!’ That’s what conspiracies are for, Raven. Not to reveal the truth, but to protect your ego!”

“And that brings me to your little manifesto, the one you’re so proud of you probably rehearse it in the mirror. You ask why people are unable to pull themselves away from men like you. You think I’m upset because I can’t ‘lull you under my control,’ accusing me of ‘abuse of power,’ and claiming that even when people denounce you, they can’t stop listening to your truth. Raven, I want you to hear me clearly. The part that boils me is not that you talk and people listen. The part that boils me is that you confuse attention with legitimacy, and you’re arrogant enough to think that if people can’t look away from a fire, it means the one holding the match was right!”

“You want to be a ‘speaker of truth?’ Then speak the truth! Not grand declarations about bullshit excuses! You’re not exposing anything, Raven! You’re performing. You’re doing what men like you have always done! You throw a handful of accusations into the air and you let the crowd catch whatever fits their fear. That’s the trick. You don’t have to prove a damn thing if you can keep everyone hungry for a villain. And then when someone challenges you, you hide behind the idea that ‘even denouncing me proves I matter.’”

“And for the record, I’m not upset because I can’t control you. I don’t want to control you. I want to beat you. I want to beat you so decisively that even you can’t turn it into a story about corruption or conspiracy or the system being against you! I want to beat you in a way that forces you to sit with the one thing you’ve avoided your entire career - accountability! Your Kryptonite!”

“Now, I’m going to do something else you didn’t expect. I’m going to thank you. Because the one decent idea you’ve had since you wandered into SCW has been the Three Stages of Hell. Thank you for the inspiration. Because taking your idea and running with it until it becomes your humiliation, that is poetic in a way you don’t deserve. You thought Three Stages of Hell would reveal that I’m all presentation and no substance. Raven, you must have mistaken me for someone who arrived at this championship by accident. You must have forgotten how my path to this title started. I won the first ever Elimination Chamber match! I walked into a structure designed to break bodies and I walked out the winner! So don’t talk to me about stages of hell like I haven’t already lived it!

“And because it’s Three Stages, we’re going to talk about each one, because each stipulation is another way for you to be exposed. First Blood is simple. Somebody bleeds and the match ends. It turns everything into a gamble. And Raven, I know you think it gives you a shortcut. You think if you can open me up early, you can steal the stage before I settle in. But here’s where you’re mistaken. If you think the sight of my own blood is going to make me fold, you don’t know me. If anything, it turns my world into one task - make you leak first!”

“Second stage, Falls Count Anywhere. That’s where your excuses go to die, because the ring is the safest place for a man like you. In the ring, you can use the ropes. You can use rules. You can use the referee like a shield when you need a breath. Falls Count Anywhere takes the whole building and turns it into a weapon. It’s hallways and concrete, barricades and steel! It’s the kind of environment where you discover your beliefs. I believe in turning your own creativity against you, because I don’t just win in the ring, Raven. I win when you realize there’s no clean exit, because that’s when the truth hits you! You can talk all you want, but you still have to survive me!”

“And the third stage, the steel cage. That’s where you can’t run and you can’t slither out through technicalities and you can’t look for someone else to blame! You asked for hell, Raven, so here it is in its purest form! The cage is the final answer to all your noise, because inside that structure, the audience can see everything! There are no shadows for you to hide in! It’s you and me! It’s the moment where your mouth finally has to cash the checks your ego has been writing!”

“And after Blaze of Glory XV, after you realize there’s no audience to sway with your sermons, there’s nothing left to cling to, we’re done. You and I are finished. You don’t get a third chapter. You don’t get to haunt my reign like a tumor. You don’t get to keep circling my marriage, my family, my presence on Climax Control, like a vulture pretending it’s a prophet! You get one more shot, and I’m going to make sure it teaches you the lesson you’ve refused to learn! in SCW, accomplishments are not claimed, they’re earned!”

“And then, when your rematch is over and your conspiracies have nothing left to feed on, I’m going to give the world what it’s been asking for. I’m going to give them Miles Kasey, my husband, not as a sideshow, not as a headline, but as the next challenger who steps into my orbit by merit and by fire. And if that match scares you, if it makes you nervous, if it makes you wonder what happens when love and ambition collide under the weight of a World Championship, good. It should. Because that’s what real stakes feel like, not the pretend stakes you manufacture with bullshit!”

“So show up, Alexander Raven. Bring your  manufactured truth and your speeches and whatever excuses you can make up to excuse your inevitable loss. Because I’m bringing my title reign and the kind of certainty you can’t talk your way out of. Three Stages of Hell was your idea, and I’m going to make it your end! Once this is over, we’re done. And the only thing you’ll be able to say when people ask what happened is the only thing that matters in SCW.”

“You lost.”

[Alexander Raven]

“I remember now.”

Alex sat there at the end of that hallway once more, looking at the figure that wore his face. Not just his face, but the ghosts of his mind. The torturers of his soul. His warden, his jailor. His keeper. Staring at the door that held back that memory. The memory he knew in fragments. In sounds and reminders. Flashes of a smile, of unrepentant and unforgiving betrayal.

Resentment.

He’d spoken the words to her; they’d had their conversations. Yet it didn’t help. It didn’t slow things down. It didn’t end the nightmares and the moments of collapse. It continued as it always had, as it always would. He’d have to come to terms with it one day. Maybe the easier outcome was to just give in. To stop fighting, to lose himself to The Lost. He always hid from the difficult thoughts. The painful memories.

Forgiveness did not lend itself easily to him. It never had; it probably never would. He’d done his best in the past. Forgiven his father for the abuse and stood at his side. Forgiven Luna for the betrayal that existed at the end of that hallway. Forgiven his mother for leaving him. Forgiven Lauren for leaving him. It was a bitter, narcissistic thing to do. Anger at something he had no control over, anger at them for leaving him behind.

Grief took many forms; he just didn’t deal well with his. A by-product emotion that he had always found solace in. A by-product emotion that they kept saying he’d overcome if he looked inward. That if he simply accepted the things that he couldn’t control and focused on those he could. That things would get better. That he would be better. He wasn’t sure of that anymore. He wasn’t so sure of anything.

Torture of the mind was one worse than any other. It was more defeating than simply negative self-thought. No amount of mindfulness could cure the grief he refused to accept. No, refused was not the right word. He had accepted his grief; he had accepted the things he could not change. That did not mean he had to simply move past them. No, there was a constant bubble beneath the anger.

Resentment.

“Resentment is a bitter emotion, Alexander. One you know too well. One you are all too familiar with. Let me take you out of it all. Let me give you a life that you crave. A world in which none of it happened. A world in which you can be free of it all.” The Lost spoke in that whisper of a voice. One that crawled down the back of his eyes rather than in his ears.

Alex simply stared down the hallway, sitting there, knees up arms wrapped around them. He’d always found comfort in self-soothing. Of curling up into himself. To going back to being that small boy who’d be curled up into a ball under the covers with his mother. Cradled and supported, loved and cared for in the moment. A moment of safety.

“I’d be happy with you gone.” Alex said softly, burying his head in his legs, moving an arm around the back of his neck. Holding himself. It was less of a comfort now, and a reminder. A reminder of harder times. Sitting in the shower racking with sobs. Washing the pain of the day away. The soft and whimpering man that existed beneath it all. The one that tried to claw his own skin off when Lauren died.

Of shuddering and riding out bad nights on the gear. Too many drugs, too many memories and pains. Of nights where he held that rope and considered the same way out as his mother. Dark nights, dark memories. Dark moments he wasn’t keen to confront again. To go back to. He was healthier, even if his body hurt more than ever. He was stronger, even if his body seemed weaker than he could ever remember it being.

His mind, however, was a fractured shell of a creature. A shambling mess of nothingness. A collapse of psyche that trapped him.

“Alexander, open the door. Open the door and be free. Stop fighting me and come together. I promise it will all be better.” The Lost’s voice tore at the back of his consciousness. His skull shuddered under the icy fingers that clawed their way into his mind. Icy tendrils that lured him toward the door.

“I remember now.” Alex said and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, after what felt like an eternity, it all felt different. The world had changed; he wasn’t sitting there anymore. His hand was on that door handle. His fingers curled around the cold metal. He could hear the breathing on the other side. He could hear the sound of flesh on flesh. He knew the torture that existed beyond it. But today something was different. Today it was… today he would face it.

He had to face it.

Resentment.

He twisted the handle, turned it and pushed forward. Pushed the door inwards. The blinding light screamed into his mind. The room beyond wasn’t the one he expected. It was different to what he thought. It was different because it wasn’t the torture he expected. It wasn’t the image of Luna impaled upon Leon. It wasn’t the memory that he had so desperately wanted to be nothing but a bad dream.

It was everything.

True torture in that room.


“A wounded dog is a dangerous one. Afraid, defensive, backed into a corner. It’ll snap and bite and lash out anything that comes close. Anything that comes close to being a friend, a foe. It doesn’t matter. Approach the wounded dog wrong and it all goes poorly for you. Some might say, right now, Alexander Raven is little more than a dog on death’s door. Ready to be taken down once and for all. I know the pain of being backed into the corner.”

“But I’m no dog, I’m no failure of existence beckoned at the hands of the few. I am not a beast to be led to water in hopes of it cooling its wounds. I am not a man to be fucked with, Carter. You of all people should know this. That it always comes back to the simplicity of an idea. A seed planted. A mind left to wonder. Ideas, Carter. Ideas make the world go around.”

“Funny how it all comes back to this. An ideas man, that is what some would call me. An ideas man. I tend agree. Full of ideas, on how to hurt, on how to exact pain. I’m used to it, I’m sure to being the one with the ideas. Three stages of hell, not quite the way I envisioned it, but better than nothing, right?”

“First blood, Falls Count Anywhere and then a Steel Cage. I’m quite acquainted with these stipulations, a tactical choice if anything by Carter. Commendations where commendations belong, I like it. It isn’t quite as… violent as I wanted. But that’s no problem for me. No, I can make do with the cards I’m dealt. I can make do with anything I need to make do with.”

“Choices, Carter. That was what we had, choices. Choices in action, choices in reaction. Choices in what we decide is allowable and what isn’t. This ring, it is sacred. I may not be the most technical man alive, but I sure as hell know what it means to be in here. I may not be the most athletic man to grace the squared circle, but I’ve spilled enough blood to satisfy the Wrestling God time and time again. I am, what I am, and what I am? I am wrestler.”

“That’s the truth of it all. At the end of the day, I am a wrestler. I’ve tried my hand at many things. I was a good publican; I was a good bartender. Bar management had people loving me. I’m a decent husband, I’d like to think. I am decent man, to those who deserve my decency. I wasn’t a very good son, but I did my best. Did my best to respect my mother, to avoid angering my irrationally angry father. I am not a unique story; I am simply a man of my scars. My traumas, my shortcomings.”

“So I need you to understand something. I am not a bad man, Carter. I saw someone cross the boundary that separates the sacred from the worshippers. I didn’t stop him for your sake, although it was not the person you seem so afeared of. No, I stopped him for one simple reason, because it was proof of everything I’ve been saying.”

“You are not the good guy, Carter. You are not the one that should be lauded. You are not the champion of the championless, the holder of integrity. You are a bitter, self-loving bastard who gets enjoyment out of the chastising of others. You hide it behind this idea of being sassy, and endearing. The truth however is beginning to dawn on people. In your own private world someone has taken umbrage towards you. In your professional world, fans themselves are so aggravated by who you are they are crossing the boundaries to hurt you.”

“Think about that for just a minute here, Carter. For all the things I’m accused of, for all the things that I say. The truths, the brutalities, the insults. The mocking and belittling of people, for I do that in spades too. I won’t pretend I don’t. For it all, I am the truth. People have opened their ears and their eyes. They’ve listened, and they’ve looked. They’re finally turning on you, because now. Now it is obvious that you are not a good person.”

“You are a truly evil person, and they are making themselves heard. They are making themselves known. You were attacked, Carter. Not me. The proof of everything I’ve said, right there. The proof of it all, slapping you in the face and it cannot be denied. It cannot be avoided. And at the end of the night, when I lift the Sin City Worlds Heavyweight Championship in the sky and hold it above my head before I throw it into the sea itself. They will cheer for me, Carter. They will cheer, because they know.”

“They know the man with the truth, and the ideas will be their champion. That you have been exposed. You will have to seek redemption, and I do not think you have the strength for it. You are absorbed by self, and that. That is a torturous road to break from. One that I do not think you are ready for. Poisoned by your own actions.”

“I’ve never pretended to be more than that, despite the claims of self-aggrandisement about me. I am what I am. An ideas man, who will give the world the ideas that they want. That they need. That they strive for. I claimed that you were a narcissist. A man with the blinders on, who is a bitter sycophant. That in a world where you are seen as the saviour and I am the one that need be torn down.”

“I gave you an idea, Carter, and you ran with it. You ran and you chose First Blood, Falls Count Anywhere and a Steel fucking Cage. I like the way you think.”

“But let’s look at it on an individual level, shall we? First Blood, I have my gripes with. A tactical choice, truly. I’m a mid-30’s man with the skin of a ninety-year-old. A stiff breeze is enough to cut me open on the best of days. Scarred flesh left too weak and thin from years and years of torture. But steeled enough to know how to stay fresh. Just long enough to outlast a fresh body. I have a bit of bitter past with this particular stipulation. Maybe the blinders were off for you just long enough for you to know that, hey Carter?”

“When I came back last year, and I was denied my opportunity at the meddling hands of James Huntington-Hawkes and Kevin Carter, men I once considered… friends. When I stood across the ring from them, and Kevin Carter put his Internet Championship on the line. First Blood was the stipulation. A weak and flagrant little match type, if there ever was one. An excuse to get out when the going gets good. When the taste of blood flares up the adrenaline. When the blood starts pumping and your face becomes a crimson fucking mask of life essence itself.”

“Kevin got lucky. Unfortunately for you really, Carter. Kevin got fucking lucky. A quick relook at the footage and oh, what’s that? He bled first. Screwed out of my win, but that’s okay. I can take my licks where they come. But it has made me bitter. See I don’t like First Blood normally, but in this case? I can make do. I can make do, Carter, because I’m not afraid to bleed, and I am definitely not afraid of cutting you open. So where does that leave us?”

“Falls Count Anywhere, right? Now this, this I like. Nothing to hold us in, nothing to stop us from taking it all the way to the street. Nothing to bring us to heel except for our imagination. See this is the kind of thing I truly enjoy. Freedom of imagination, freedom to do as I wish. Freedom to explore and enjoy. That’s my kind of game, Carter. See I have no problem dragging you from pillar to literal post. Maybe I’ll even prepare something special for us Carter. See I’m an ideas man. I told you that I was an ideas man.”

“But maybe just the idea of a plan is enough, who knows? I like to leave a little bit of uncertainty in most things. Uncertainty is a quality in life that leads to joy. To understanding of one’s own desires and ambitions. Uncertainty is what leads a weak man to think of destiny and fate. So Falls Count Anywhere, it is a world full of uncertainty. A taste, but possibly one that favours you as well. For in control that is the true danger. Maybe you’ll set a trap for me. Set yourself a little hole to supplant me in. To take away the strengths of what I possess.”

“But lucky last, that’s my favourite. That is the one that if we reach it, and… as unseeming as it would be to bet against myself. I think we will, for that is the way of the world with these things. The Steel Cage is my favourite little domain. Now, you didn’t take the full idea there, and that disappoints me. It disappoints me because it gives you a squirrelling chance of victory. To run away from it all, to escape the cage. Disappointing, but… not surprising.”

“See I like the Steel Cage, and I want you to think back. Think back to the moment that people thought my inevitable demise would come. When I bit and barked and pulled at the attention of Austin James Mercer. King James, I called him. King James for that is what he is seen as here. The King. The figure of devastation. Of fear, of chaos. A man ready to break and tear down any who he sees a need to do so with. To finish off our little soiree, King James and I were locked inside a Steel Cage.”

“The savage beast and the wounded dog. The Internet Champion’s final defence is what everyone thought. Then I won. I walked out looking far more dominant than they expected. I earned King James’ respect; I earned the right to be the one who called the shots. I earned that fucking right, and I did it in a Steel Cage. No running, no escaping. I dropped him on the back of his head on a steel chain and I won. I walked out the champion. If there is anything I can be certain of, if there is anything in this world that I know. The Steel Cage? That’s my domain, Carter.”

“The Steel Cage is my home, the kingdom of Alexander Raven. The home of Alexander Raven. My temple of carnage. My temple of exacting agony, of tearing flesh from the fucking bone. That is my kingdom, Carter. No escape from me, no escape from any of it. No distractions, no outside influence. You and me, in a place of pain. Of blood. Of unforgiving steel and unrelenting metal. The Steel Cage, that is where it will all be decided, Carter. The Steel Cage of your end.”

“Come Blaze of Glory, I am confident in myself. I am confident that I am no wounded dog. I am not simply an ideas man. I am going to be the next Sin City Worlds Champion. I’m tired of waiting, I’m tired of being just short. I am tired of being overlooked, second guessed and thought to be nothing but a challenger. A runner up. A man designed to have his own designs ignored in place of a greater man over me. There is no greater men, for there is no lesser one than you. You, Carter. Evil, sycophantic and manipulative.”

“This is the end for you. I hope you can understand that. I hope you can understand that this all is because you refuse to be truthful. That you keep your kindness locked away behind this mask that you wear. This façade of lies and betrayal. The mask that is slipping but not for the goodness of it. The mask is slipping because the truth is illuminating. You are Lost, just like I have always been.”

“The Lost will guide us home, Carter.”

“Have you listened? Words fall on deaf ears, I fear. That’s okay. This is the end, Carter. Our last dance. With it all on the line, one more time.”

“And then?”

“Nothing.”


His head screamed as he barrelled through it all. Every memory he’d suppressed, every little bit of grief he’d fought to fight off. Memories he didn’t want to acknowledge. Pain he’d fought every day to try and hide. The anger burned through his soul, his soul screaming in pain. The laughter, the blows of pain, the mocking.

Every memory was there in his mind.

His mind had snapped when he looked into The Void, the endless nothingness. When Vita Mors had shown him every possible reality in a mere moment. Had taken everything and then shown absolute absence of it all. His mind had never truly quietened after that day. His mind had never stopped. It was just locked away.

This was different. This was him, his own insanity. His own collapse, the ghosts, the pain and the agony. Every single moment of it screamed through his head. All at once, he could do little to fight it off. Grief overwhelmed him, grief threatened to strangle him. Threatened to tear at every part of his consciousness. Explosions of light, explosions of colour. Flashes of flashes of flashes of memories. Moments of curled up agony.

And then, suddenly.

Peace.

As if everything had come to life all at once. As if all had been calmed down and that for a moment. For a simple, easy and quiet moment. Peace. Total and utter calm. Something he’d not felt since…

Ever.

There was a bench in a park. A quiet bench in a park, full of flowers and bees. A flowing wind, a gentle calmness. It wasn’t a place he recognised, but it wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t agonising. It wasn’t painful. All was calm in the world.

He reached up and touched his face and felt the wetness. Felt the tears that flowed and barrelled down his cheeks. Tears of understanding. Tears of recognition. Tears of… happiness? For the moment, that bubbling and boiling in his soul. It was gone. There was nothing left in the depths of him. None of that anger, none of the vitriol. Just a calmness, that his body didn’t know quite how to accept.

He sat there looking into the world around him and took a deep breath, leaning back as he heard the crunch of grass beside him. He turned and looked, and he smiled. His mother.

The one ghost that had never been.

“My sweet boy.” Her voice sang out, like a light breeze.

“Mum…” Alex said softly in response, his voice choked up in his throat.

She sat beside him, and placed a hand on his, giving it a gentle squeeze. Her warmth in that moment was soothing kiss to his fragile mind. A reminder of the positivity in the world, a positivity he had long since forgotten. The thin, wiry woman, an absolute battle axe of a lady.

“You’ve been through a lot, my sweet. A hard life, but you’re here still. A strong, powerful and loving man. Full of grief, but also full of love. Love for the people that mean the most. I loved that girl, Alex. And I know she loved you then, as much as she does now.” His mother said in his sharp, somewhat broken English. He’d nearly forgotten what her voice sounded like at one point in his life.

That powerful German mother, who stood as the barrier to abuse. That stood against the pain of the world and sheltered all those who suffered the same. The roof that protected from the storm. A true fighter, and a true woman of love. He reached turned his palm over and took her hand in his. Holding it for one more fleeting moment longer than he ever had before.

“The world grew bleaker without you here.” Alex said to her, turning to look at her eyes.

She just smiled, a smile that reached them. A smile that he could never forget.

“Only because you put on your sunglasses, Alexander. Only because you put your sunglasses on and never took them off. Look how beautiful it is here. How beautiful the world can be. Even beyond all the grief.” She said softly.

He turned to her and smiled. The Lost, had brought him home. His mind hadn’t been keeping him prisoner. Not in the true sense of it all. No, it had been trying to do what he refused to do. To make him face the truth. To face the resentment. To face his anger.

To realise that the grief wasn’t all he had.

“I miss you, Mum. I miss you every day. I love you.” Alex said, feeling the warmth of the tears still falling from his eyes. An endless waterfall of pent-up emotion. He’d cried a lot lately, but not like this. Tears of acceptance.

“I’m so proud of you, Alexander. I loved you every moment of my waking life, and beyond it. Do not forsake the world. Carry that love for me. Always.” She said one more time as she looked away, looking into the park.

He could feel it in the wind, in the warmth of the sun on his skin. She would leave soon, and maybe, forever. That was okay.

“I’m a little bit fucked up, I think.” Alex said.

“We’re all a little fucked up, Alexander. Curse of the family, I’m afraid. You’ll be right. You’ll pull through. I know you will. I know, because you won’t let the world forget you. Be my shining beacon, like I always thought you would.” His mother said.

And then, as quick as it all had begun. The world vanished. Her warm hand was gone, and the park was different. The park was still a park with flowers and wind. The sun still warm on his skin, but the bench was painful under his ass. He looked down at where his mother’s hand had been and for a moment he could almost feel it still.

“You alright there, grandpa? Taking a bit of a nap are we, sugar?” Luna’s voice cut through the air, as her warms flung around his neck, and she pressed her head against his. He reached up and took her hands in his and nodded.

“Yeah. I think I’m alright, Lu. I love you.” Alex said and leaned into her. Truly leaned into her, and just let the peace he felt linger a little bit longer.

And then…

He smiled with joy.