OFF CAMERA: San Dimas (09-01-2013)
Tendrils of damp blonde hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks. The bench under her back was soaked with sweat, the same sweat that was running down her face, dripping from the end of her nose as she struggled to do just one more leg press. She muttered to herself, wiping the hair back from her face with an absent swipe of her hand. Her eyes were fixed on the window, watching the advanced yoga class as they followed the example of a tiny man with red-streaked hair. She wondered if Larry Gowan would even give her the time of day, now that he was on the outs with Full Throttle Wrestling.
She forced herself to do one more set, eyes closed against the burning in her muscles.
When she opened them, Gowan stood over her with a smile on his face. "Ness," there was genuine warmth in his tone. "I didn't expect to see you here." He looked around, as if he was searching for her boyfriend, Matt Ford, the FTW World Champion.
"He's not here," she said softly, blowing out an exasperated little breath. "But I guess that's not really a surprise," she mumbled as she let the footrests crash back into place, shaking her head. "God, I miss him— hell, I miss who we used to be when we first got together." It was nice to confess it here, to someone who understood what it was like being with someone in the business.
"I thought you guys were back home. That's what he posted on Twitter."
She sighed, swinging her legs free from the weight machine. "Yeah, he's there to sleep. The rest of the time he's—" she broke off as a couple of wannabe fitness models walked by. "You know how it is. He's got that belt and it's so damned important to him. I honestly don't think he realizes how much he's pushing me away, Larry."
On a long enough timeline, they could all be penciled in as victims in some way. Casualties of ego. Part of the Von Erich wrestling legacy. Dead in a hotel room with a mind full of chemicals like Kaitlynn Stryfe, or a brain full of holes like Shawn Stevens. Suicides. Premature deaths. Wrestling was a sick place to be and survival of the sickest always seemed to the natural way.
"Penny for your thoughts," Gowan said softly, his blue-gray eyes brimming with concern.
"You'd get change back," she quipped, pulling the elastic from her hair and shaking her head a few times before reaching up and digging her nails into her scalp, scratching the sweaty skin until a sigh of relief passed her lips. Some things were better left forgotten, at least in her mind. She'd been over the moon to win the SCW Bombshell Roulette Championship even though he hadn't been there to cheer her on. She'd felt a little guilty every time she grabbed at the fame, feeling like it was some sort of competition. He'd had that World Championship for so long and she couldn't even hold a belt past the first defense.
And now, that moment was looming. AGAIN.
She sighed again.
The last few months had been tough, but today was worse. Thoughts of her brother came crashing to the forefront as she wiped the sweat from her brow— nobody even knew he existed. She'd told everyone she was an only child.
It helped that he'd had a different last name. He was a few years older, a mistake from before her mother got married to her father.
Two months ago, he would have turned thirty-seven. Would have, since he'd died five years ago, a victim of tragic circumstances. She hadn't been there for him. Instead she'd been consumed with her career, grabbing at the spotlight by any means necessary. She'd lost everything to that fame monster, including her brother. A lesser person would have been crushed, shattered and reduced to a million pieces. She nearly was.
Whoever wrote that song that said 'suicide is painless' was dead wrong. It was more like eating broken glass every day, and then sitting there with a fake smile while it ripped you up from the inside. Thinking about it now made her burn with anger, equal measures self-directed and directed towards him.
"Ness," Gowan prodded, trying to pull her from the thoughts that made every emotion she was feeling parade across her face. He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes, making her flinch.
Those green eyes were dark, almost a forest shade as they looked at him coolly. "What? Can't I brood? Everyone else gets to do that. Everyone else gets to flip out, and rail at all the injustices in the world. How come I can't?"
Gowan managed a wan smile, "because you're better than that."
She snorted in very unladylike derision. "Whatev," she murmured under her breath, picking up her bottle of water and unscrewing the cap. The bruises from her last match had healed. She held a belt and ACW had closed its doors, absorbed by SCW. Everything was right with the world.
Anger twisted her features, bringing a flush to her cheeks and a gleam to her eyes that bordered on scary. Her brother was dead. So many things lost. But this could be a new beginning, right? She was smart, and beautiful, and most of the people on the roster, both male and female were envious of at least one of those things. She used to take pride in that. But now it just felt hollow and childish. "I'm not better than that, Larry." She finally said the words aloud, voicing her own fears. "I'm not anything special."
"It's late," Gowan said, stopping her words in their tracks. He'd never been able to understand why she couldn't see how great she was. "Starbucks... or will the caffeine keep you up?"
She shrugged, "doubt it's going to keep me awake." She smiled as she moved to her feet, walking towards the door that led towards the locker rooms. She hesitated there, leaning against the jamb as she looked back over her shoulder at him. "I feel drained."
"Don't doubt that," he shrugged, "you've been beating yourself up for more than two hours. You're usually so amped up that being empty is almost like its own therapy."
"Therapy?" She repeated, rolling her eyes. "You think I'm crazy now?"
He cocked his head, looking at her strangely.
She wearily shook her head, "yeah, there are probably a lot of people in that locker room who think I'm off-kilter... I have to be unhinged in some way. I did date Brad Jackson, after all… and now I'm dating Matt Ford. My taste in men is questionable at best." She forced a little laugh, and then sobered up quickly, "honestly, though, I don't how others can listen to these stupid insults all the time and not feel anything. I can't stand it."
"I know," Gowan reached out and brushed her hair behind her ear, "you're sensitive. You just don't have a thick enough skin for this game."
"Sensitive? God, you make me sound like some swooning Southern belle with a case of the vapors. I belong here, Larry. I've never wanted to do anything else with my life. Ever." Her lips tightened down into a thin line. "And I'm good at it, okay? Won my first match with SCW, didn't I? I'll just have to deal with the second being a goddamned defense just like it was in ACW— history doesn't always repeat. Besides, Vixen can't get lucky twice in a row."
"Can't she?"
"Piss off. You know what I mean. The world doesn't hate me that much and I'm not falling apart like I was then. If I lose, so be it. I'll get over it."
Gowan sighed. "Just hope you can be objective enough to get out if the going gets too tough for you."
"As objective as you were?" She threw the comment right back at him, reminding him of his failure to pull the plug on his wrestling career until it had been done for him at the hands of Nathanial Duke. "Please. I think I have a little more common sense than that." Did she though? Really?
"Don't sweat it, sister." He said with that goofy grin of his. "You'll be ok. Don't give Vixen another thought."
"She's gonna get quite a few thoughts... just as soon as I get them in order." It wasn't meant to be a joke. She made a sound of annoyance. "I'm going to beat her."
"No doubt. Don't fret about it..."
She grinned. "'Fret'? I think you've been living over here too long."
"I guess so," he winked before she moved towards the locker room again, only to stop in her tracks and turn to throw her arms around his neck. She hugged him tight, feeling a warm surge of love towards the man. "Go get cleaned up," his lips brushed her cheek as he whispered in her ear, "I'll keep myself busy."
She smiled back at him, but her eyes were sad. "Yeah, alright."
"Everything'll be fine. All we have to do is work at it a little harder."
"I've got to work at it." She corrected, "you've done more than enough for me."
She turned her back on him again, and the smile vanished from her face, swallowed again by that haunted sadness. This could be her moment, her time in the sun and she planned to go out there and give it her all against Mercedes Vargas and Vixen. She owed herself that much… hell; she was the girlfriend of Matt Ford, one of the most dangerous men to ever set foot in a wrestling ring. She was a fighter and a survivor. Everything else was in the past, and it would stay there, where it belonged.
A moment later she stepped under the piping hot spray. God, she felt like a million bucks, even though there were a thousand thoughts whirling around in her head. Her mind was clear otherwise, and she felt brimming with energy, even after that long workout. All she'd been aware of while going through the motions was that anger, and later a sense of helplessness. It was infuriating that she still felt like she was teetering on the edge of a giant fall. She'd hoped that returning to the ring would lessen that feeling of impending doom. Instead it was more intense than ever.
Stop it, she thought to herself. Everything was coming up roses. Even if she lost another damned belt, she would still have Matt by her side, right?
==================================
(Against The Wall blog posting || 09-06-2013)
There's a girl alternately pacing and then sitting here in the dark tonight, feeling a sense of accomplishment when she looks at that belt in her lap. She's hyped up because this could be the money moment of REVENGE she's wanted so bad since that FIRST LOSS EVER. Picture her in your mind's eye: she's wearing a CSI: Las Vegas ball cap, backwards, looking more tomboy than diva. She's wearing a Tom Waits baby doll tee with a pair of skinny leg acid washed jeans. She looks ordinary and not at all like a champion.
Oh, Vixen. Sweet, simple little Vixen with her camouflage and her witty little barbs, like we're going to circle each other in that ring, and then break into song as if we're doing a modern version of West Side Story this time around. For sure. STELLLLLLAAA! No really, I don't get the point of most of the things she does and everything she has ever said to me or about me has been like some surrealist Twilight Zone nonsense. This week's little interview? Was that supposed to be intimidating? Ugh. Lip service is so underwhelming. Would it be super scary if I showed you that I can also shoot a gun with 99.99% accuracy? Would it prove that I'm a bitch you don't want to mess with if I showed you how skillfully I could make instant rice?
Yeah. I thought so.
The answer I was looking for is 'no' by the way. Those were rhetorical questions. We're wrestlers, sweetie. Not characters in Street Fighter IV. You're not Cammie. And I'm not Chun Li, ok? Glad we got that out of the way. Moving on.
And now I'm responding in kind, mashing keys as if I'm Jay, typing on an internet fan forum— no, you are the one who is the most stupidest!
Witty repartee aside. I appreciate the gesture, really. I'm not an attention whore. Not anymore. There are a lot of things I'm not. I'm not scared. You think I'm nothing more than empty hype? Oh wow, then you're in for a HUGE awakening, ladies. I already proved that I had what it took to beat you once, Mercedes. Fact is, I'm not even running.
I'm standing here with open arms. Smile on my face. I want this. Bring it on. Bring it all to the table. Paranoia used to be that sleeping devil. Creeping on you, crawling up your spine like that touch that gives you a shiver, and then bites you. That fear venom drifting through your veins. Now it's just a weary reality that violence never sleeps. Madness is all around us. Just watch the evening news.
I feel hunted these days. They know me, they think they do. I don't know them, and I'm honest about that. I don't know you, Mercedes. Sorry if I offended you. I don't know you, and I really don't want to. I don't need to eat dinner with your family to know how to break you down in that ring. I don't need to go watch a million of your videos to know what it's like to emerge victorious. I can read your signs in that ring like a book. I've seen it before a million times. You have the gall to call me generic and then spout off that lame copy/paste Mad-Libs monologue you called a promo?
Nothing left as an impression ten seconds after watching but the echoes of a rousing 'who gives a shit' chant.
So now what? What are you two going to draw sinister Salvador Dali moustaches on my face in the promotional posters? Paint the words 'you suck' on my locker room door? Send me a nasty letter? Post on your Internet blog that I'm a wannabe stripper bitch with no talent? Allow me to make a suggestion. How about instead, you get in that ring and give me a reason to stop underestimating the sell-out whores you've both become. Sound like a plan? Good deal?
Nothing new. Nothing special. You think you have the advantage. Fine. Take it. I love being the underdog. That's what my career's been all about. The unknown pulling the upset.
So I go out there, with the hopes you'll fuck me up. I want that. Saves me the trouble. I put myself in these places because only the strong survive. Are you strong? Have you been tested? I put myself there, under the microscope, up on the pedestal for your scrutiny. Do you like what you see? Am I judged? I get spat on, I get shat on, denied and hollowed out when I give you everything. I don't feel like a victim. I don't sit here sobbing, poor little me even though Vixen out-foxed me last time! (See what I did there?)
It's true. I got cocky. I got careless.
I'll admit it and we'll move on because it happens to ALL of us. People lose sometimes. The winners get back up, dust themselves off, and LEARN. I have, ladies. I've learned so much it will make your head explode.
Whatever.
I'm not afraid. With (or even without) my man by my side, I know that I can do anything I set my mind to. I am smart. I am talented. I am motivated beyond belief. I know I can wipe that smirk right off your face. I can bludgeon you to death with your misconceptions— and I will.
So you ask yourself, now what? What's this little wannabe reporter chick going to pull this week? Tasers from her sleeves? A return of the chicken cannon to fire foreign objects? Nope. I didn't need it on the cruise ship. Don't need it now. I come to you as I am. Nothing shady. No tricks. Just me and all the guts I have. See, I want to stay on top here in SCW. I like it here and I'm glad ACW went tits up because it means I can FOCUS on one place.
Before I log out of here, let me tell you the truth: I hate Vixen and I owe her a heaping helping of retribution for cutting my ACW title run short. I'm sure she's going to gloat that she's in my head and Mercedes is going to laugh her ass off because I have once again failed to even mention her beyond that single generic sentence. It is what it is. And this is NOT my best blog. I know that because I can't be bothered to spend hours on this. I'm busy training. I'm busy looking at Vixen's photo and SEETHING.
Don't start patting yourself on the back just yet. That's not a good thing, sweetie. To steal a well-used phrase: you won't like me when I'm angry.
#kissykissy
—Nessa
