I'm still fighting.
I'm always still fighting.
It's just that I'm not fighting a battle I can win.
It's a battle against the crushing pressure on my throat, against the way you've stolen air from my lips, against my crumbled and throbbing knee not supporting me, against my aching pounding bleeding head with my brain still battered from getting fucking Tombstoned, against the blood on my tongue from your soaked face like poison wine, against your hands laced in my soaked hair, against gravity and physics and motherfucking inevitability.
But the funny thing about certainty is that there isn't any. That's why I'm a Discordian.
Your grip eases.
My throat flexes as you stop crushing me into your shin quite so hard. There's a ragged choking bloody breath that feeds me with just enough hot searing oxygen to keep me going. Your hands relax their vicious grip on my head for just a moment.
And those dark eyes soften, and for just a moment I'm with Ro.
Look. I know if someone were to, I dunno, read a subjective account of this match in some kind of narrative format and somehow have an insight into our memories and our thoughts, then they might somehow get the impression that one of us is good and one of us is bad.
We're both bad. I'm not a nice person. I love the people I love and I'm loyal as a fucking wolfhound, but I also inflict dramatic physical harm on a whim. I once tackled Red into a brick wall outside a bar and messed up his shoulder before a match the next day and there wasn't even a reason for it. He didn't see it coming, I was just dramatically reacting to a vastly incorrect thing he was saying about Star Trek or some fucking thing. I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER EXACTLY WHY I TACKLED ONE OF MY DEAREST AND MOST BELOVED FRIENDS INTO A FUCKING BRICK WALL.
I'm not some fucking heroine. I don't wanna brag but I've had more bounties put out on me in the territories than fucking Michael Hayes. I'm VICIOUS. I hurt people, often in brutally creative ways. I met my wife by jumping her with a fucking steel chair as she was coming down the aisle after a match. I WASN'T EVEN IN THAT FEDERATION (this was before our fist match in SPARK), it was just the best way I could think of to get her attention. I'm fucking BROKEN. I'm PUNKY.
... but when I was in love, I was just Meg. And once I was in love with Ro.
The way your voice drops that throaty whiskey thing you did in the ring and just sounds soft and more like the brilliantly clever I used to share stories with all night. The way your eyes looked more like dark chocolate and less like coal. Even the lines of your face soften under the thick crimson mask.
And my right hand curls in your hair. Softly. My bloody black nails just barely scritching your scalp.
I loved you, Ro. I loved you so fucking much I thought it would kill me when it ended. I thought the world fucking revolved around you. All I wanted, all I needed, all I fucking hoped for was just you, in my arms, every night forfuckingever.
And I'd say it.
I'd say it not to get out of the fucking brutality of this hold but because right now at this second it feels RIGHT, because while I hate Rowan fucking Chance, the fucking spider, the fucking attack dog of that bastard hypnotist - I love Ro, the girl who danced with me to a Jimmy Buffett song. The girl who sat with me in the parking lot and laughed until we fell over. The girl who held me and told me it was gonna be all right when I was bleeding or hurt and it made me cry not because it hurt but because I wasn't fucking hurting ALONE for once in my life.
And I loved her. And she looks like she's right here, coated in blood.
And it'd work, Ro.
I'd tell you how much I needed you. Just like you want.
I'd say it ... except.
It won't work.
It'd work - if you hadn't come to fucking Wales before the match.
Fucking Wales
It was still raining.
It was always still raining.
The doorbell rang. It rang again.
I was in bed, upstairs at Rox Manor. It was a quiet night. I'd given the staff the night off, Gemma was halfway around the world doing a deal in Shanghai, and I was home alone eating Guinness ice cream and watching old Misawa matches in bed on my laptop, wearing an ancient Wesley Willis shirt ("Rock Over London. Rock On Chicago.") and cotton shorts. I opened up the home security app suite, because who the fuck would come to Gemma's giant manor in the middle of fucking Wales in the rain at night, and through the unblinking camera eye I saw you standing on the front porch.
I stared at my screen for about a minute, probably, blank as a fucking slate.
I'd literally just finalized the agreement for the match in Paris. The Jack Daniels people were on board, the Zenith was booked, the insurance waivers were ready. We needed to formally sign the contract, but the agents would handle that. Everything was ready for me to finally burn you out of my life.
And you were here in fucking Wales.
"Come on Megan! It's raining out here!" Your voice crackled through the intercom, wirelessly fed to my computer.
I sighed and because my better judgement was in Shanghai (and you know you're in dire fucking straits in life when GEMMA ROX is your model for clarity of thought), I clicked the talk button.
"... it's literally ALWAYS rainin' in Wales," the intercom blared, and the camera over the door whirred as I zoomed in on you. "What the hell are you doin' out in the arse-end of Albion, Chance?"
I say arse sometimes now. Happens when you're married to Gemma.
"Guess!" you said bitterly through wet hair that'd fallen down over your wet face, dripping down your wet coat.
Upstairs, I smirked. "... auditionin' for a part in the next Ring movie?" I said innocently, my grin audible even through the intercom.
Your eyes narrowed. "That's not funny." And you held up a leather document pouch. "The contract. I brought it myself."
"It's KINDA funny ... "
There was a long silence, and then a long sigh. Upstairs I sagged on the bed like Atlas looking at the globe he had to pick back up. "Why'd you bring that here, Rowan? We know what we're fuckin' doing already. Do you really want this shit to happen now?"
You remained still as a fucking statue, holding it up. Looking at the camera. A flash of lightning lit up your face, pale in the moonlight. Not your usual tone. Dark eyes even darker against it. Your soaked hair pitch black.
You didn't say anything.
Obviously this wasn't right.
But you didn't say anything.
"God damn it, Rowan," I finally muttered. But it wasn't a fierce snarl. I was saving my snarls for Paris.
I was just ... weary.
I was doing Paris for a fucking one dollar fee because I wanted this to be over.
Because I wanted to live my life without you showing up like a vengeful fucking ghost.
I wished Gemma was home so I could have her go out there with a shotgun to clear you off the property. Maybe I should've just done that. It was my shotgun, anyway. But I knew already I wasn't gonna. There was no good reason to open the door to you -
- but I had to know why you were there.
"Fuck," I muttered to myself, just for the sake of something to say, and got out of my nice warm bed, pulling a heavy velour robe on as I went down the stairs because it was fucking cold in the front hall with the freezing rain, and I opened the door, leaning against it. I stared at you for a few long beats. And remembered the last time we did this, in Portland.
"How's my fuckin' line go? 'You look like a drowned rat', right?"
You were wearing a heavy London Fog coat. No hat. Black gloves which made me somewhat concerned. Your makeup was running, smeared by the rain, making you look like you belonged to a goth band. Or maybe Hole. "And I think mine is something along the lines of 'Can I come in?'"
I rubbed the heel of my hand into my eye for a moment, every line of my body both weary and wary. "Yeah, yeah, you can fuckin' come in. I don't think we're gonna fuck and go get bibimbap in the mornin' like last time, though." I slid my hands into my big robe pockets and looked you over a long moment. My hair was down, loose for bed, and I had no make-up because I was at home. I just looked like Meg. I even had some light brown roots showing since I wasn't gonna bother touching up my dye job until just before the show.
"C'mon," I tilted my head and stalked inside, my bare tattooed feet padding on the palazzo tiles of the front hall. "Shut the door all the way. You'll hear the alarm beep."
You did, for once, listen to me and shut the door all the way. Your high heels click-click-clicked behind me because of course Rowan fucking Chance wears stilettos to go visit an ex she's agreed to fight in a fucking deathmatch. You were looking around the front hall. The architecture of Rox Manor is old and well-preserved. High ceilings. You can smell the good Welsh wood just walking in. "Nice place," you said as we passed into the eastern room. You tossed the wet leather messenger pouch on the long breakfast table that'd look like a dining table to anyone who didn't live in a manor house. There was a soft leathery wet thump. "It's in there. Ready for you to sign."
Then, you undid the belt of the coat and let it fall off your shoulders.
You were in a long, black dress. Slender, thin. Slit up to your thigh. Spaghetti straps. And your olive skin was moist from the rain. Wet against the dress, making it stick to all the right places.
I got a shiver up my back that I really didn't fucking want to be there, hands in my pockets, my big soft robe draped around me, neck to ankles. As covered as I'd ever been around you, actually. But that dress. I remembered that dress.
I took a long slow breath, and leaned back against the morning room archway, looking at the pouch sitting there on the breakfast table so I didn't have to look at you in that clinging slit dress. The DINING table is way longer, one of those grand old English lord's tables that can seat an oil painting's worth of people. Gemma's house is ridiculous and amazing. It's full of history that neither of us owns, and we wreck it all the damn time by slamming each other into it. I love it.
But I didn't love the way you were IN it, like a shadow of the past.
"The fuck are you doin' here, Rowan. Any fuckin' courier in the world would've brought that. You could've sent it to the Jack Daniels team or Zenith management or Gem- my fuckin' agents like you're s'posed to."
"Got anything to drink?" you asked. "Place like this must have an excellent wine cellar. Or maybe even whiskey." You weren't looking at me. You were looking around the home I shared with my wife. Taking it all in. Admiring it, even.
Letting the light play off your soft, wet skin.
I let my eyes drift half-shut just so they could stop seeing the dim light gleam on you. It was mostly dark in there, since I had been in bed and the staff was off and Gemma was off doing Gemma Business. Your olive skin. I'd seen it up close, in starlight and harsh arena lights and candlelight and headlights. I knew how every inch of you feels under my fingers. I knew how every curve of you tastes.
"'course there's fuckin' drinks. I live here."
I stalked past you, robe swirling, and stalked towards the bar, two rooms away. I jerked my head for you to follow. The bar is a hunting lodge type - except Gemma and I have taken down the animal heads. All the wooden plaques on the walls are mounted with wrestling gear.
Boots. Masks. Weapons.
Tops and bottoms, tacked into place.
Each one marked with a tasteful brass plate indicating the date of capture and detail of the hunt ("Tara Tornado's sparkly red headband, taken after a Stroke of Midnight, Peoria Civic Center, 09/18/15").
Behind the bar, there's Gemma's G-Force cricket bat, and the Red Queen, mounted on hooks where you'd normally see rifles in a pub, or axes or whatever.
Your eyes fixed on my mallet right away.
"There she is." you whispered.
I glanced up and half-grinned. "Yeah. Haven't carried her around since ... " I flapped my hand, giant robe sleeve making whooshing sounds as I looked like a fuckin' depraved wizard. "... y'know. Tokyo." The head of the roque mallet is still somewhat - blackened. Which makes no sense. It's not like your mask was rigged with pyro. Whatever. I moved behind the bar and took two doubles glasses down, and I built two neat Laphroaig 12 years.
"I had something special like that once," you said, your voice half-elsewhere. Then, your voice came right back, and brought bitterness with it. "Until someone broke it."
"Yeah, well, don't turn into a fucking ghost monster and break everyone's fuckin' arms and maybe your toys won't get smashed." I glowered, sliding the whisky across the bar at you and drinking my own off in one long pull that did NO justice to the Islay single malt peated libation. I slammed the glass down and glared at you, hands wide on the bar, looking like a pub owner dealing with a customer who has an outstanding tab.
"What. Do. You. Want. Rowan."
"Maybe I wouldn't have had to turn into the ghost monster if someone hadn't tried to paralyze me for life with her fucking wife." You picked up the glass and shot the whiskey down.
"As to what I want..."
You rolled the glass in your fingers, delicate as magic.
"I want another drink."
You grabbed the tall green bottle with its simple white label and refilled your glass. Then you started just fucking walking around the lounge. Letting the dim light of the moon shine through your dress.
"... feel free." I offered after you'd snatched the bottle in a voice so heavy with irony it attracted magnets. I drummed my fingers slowly on the bar, watching you. I wished I'd turned more lights on in there. There were a few trophy and accent lights on, but it was dim and moonlit from the bay window.
And you looked too fucking pretty this way, ill-met in the moonlight.
You stopped in front of the big window, looking back at the Red Queen behind the bar. Your face was pained with memories. And your fingers lightly touched a spot where I knew you had a scar. I knew because I put it there. It was tiny, but it never fully went away. Some never do.
"I'll tell you the truth, Megan. I wanted to see you."
Still looking at the Red Queen.
"I wanted to see the house. Wanted to see you in the house. Wanted to see what kind of life you made without me. Wanted to see what kind of life you ran away to." You smiled humorlessly and drink down the rest of the whisky. "To tell you the truth, Megan..." You poured another glass. "I wanted to see the consolation prize."
My eyes went flat. Flat as fucking stones.
Then I shrugged, leaning one hand on the bar, flapping my sleeve airily. My voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm.
"Sure. It's a pretty nice silver medal, I guess, bein' here in a giant house with a successful, brilliant, gorgeous, dangerous, captivating woman who loves me unconditionally, doin' whatever I want all day and becoming a better wrestler and exploring the world and meetin' fascinating people who come here just to share in our lives."
I leaned closer, my eyes going mockingly wide.
"But imagine if I was living the fucking DREAM, right?"
I grabbed the Jack Daniels that I force Gemma to let me keep behind the bar, and poured it off. Not even Gentleman Jack. Not even Jack red label. Straight up plain black label cheap-ass Jack.
"I could live with YOU and THOMAS. OOOOH. We could wear MATCHING CORSETS!" I giggled mockingly, breathily. "WHAT IF HE LET US WEAR MATCHING COLLARS, RO, CAN YOU IMAAAAAAGINE? When he took us for fucking walkies we'd look SOOOOOOO cute."
I faded into a sneer. "You dumb cxnt."
You just stood still, quietly smiling. Holding your glass.
"This is us, Megan. You and me."
You pointed at your aged Laphroaig whisky bottle. The one that cost at least three digits. "Me..." And then you pointed back at the Jack Daniels on the bar with my hand around its neck.
"...and you."
You finished your peated whisky off and put the double down.
"You never knew quality when you saw it. And always settled for second best." You poured another glass, looking so fucking satisfied with yourself.
I shook my head with a roll of my eyes, drinking my Jack and savoring the long dirty burn. And when I spoke, I was grinning. Looking at the cheap familiar faux-vintage Jack Daniels label. The only reason I don't have a shirt based on this design is that EVERY FUCKING INDY WRESTLER DOES.
"Gemma drinks this with me when I wanna drink it. She can stock fucking Laphroaig. We have a bottle of Royal Salute Diamond Jubilee back here. We have Suntory Kakubin Black Special. But she drinks this with me."
I poured another shot.
"Because I like it."
I drank it off, and sighed contentedly.
"She doesn't force it down with a sneer. She doesn't BITCH about it the whole fucking time. She doesn't think that you're only worth what you cost."
I poured another shot, and snapped it down, and grinned, bright and merciless.
"But when ya put it that way, darlin', it makes sense you're with Thomas. He must spend enough on you to make ya feel reallllly special. Like a fucking Pomeranian with a velvet bed."
"THIS ISN'T ABOUT HIM."
My eyebrow rose a little as I tensed my fist on the bottle. There was angry Rowan. Hi there. Been a while. But you stopped yourself, raised your chin, regained your composure. "This is about you. And me."
You put the glassware down, your knuckles so white I was sure it was gonna burst in your hand until it clinked to the table. Then you stepped closer to the bar. That smile you had fully repainted on your lips.
"It's a nice house. Nice bar. Nice whiskey."
You came closer.
"But be honest with me Megan. Really honest..."
You stepped right up against the fucking rail.
"Can she fuck you as good as I did?"
There was a bitter, knowing little smirk on my face.
You were really putting on your full show, your body serpentine and fucking perfect. You looked like liquid sin poured into that dress. I let my eyes rove you. Let you see me looking. Meg and her big hungry hazel eyes, dilating when they see what they want, bright as an alley cat. And I drained off my Jack, so you could smell it on my breath, the smell of punk clubs and shitkicker bars and biker cocktails. The smell of America's back roads and cheap alleys. I leaned across the bar, almost close enough to kiss.
"Ro," I said softly.
"You're so fucking broken you think that the fuck-games you play are love."
You stared hard into my eyes.
"That wasn't a 'YES.'"
Well, that fucking tore it. I can yell pretty fucking loud. There's a reason I'm the Human Trigger Warning.
"BECAUSE IF I SAY 'YES' YOU'LL FUCKING SAY 'OH YEAH' AND THINK IT'S A CHALLENGE OR A GOD DAMN INVITATION, YOU FUCKING LUNATIC!"
I leaned closer, reaching out for you, as if desperate to drag you back from wherever the fuck your head was right now.
"IT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER, ROWAN. IT'S JUST FUCKING SEX. YOU CAN BUY THAT SHIT."
I slammed my Jack down, hard enough to jolt whiskey over my fist.
"I'M TALKING ABOUT GOD DAMN LOVE."
You just stood there and let those words echo around the room for a little bit. Watching my chest heave. My pierced nipples were jabbing at my thin shirt under my open flapping wine-red robe. Then, when the room was quiet, you corked the whisky bottle. And I could see on your face that I felt you'd made some kind of point. And I knew it was too late to get through to you.
"Let's go sign the contract."
I sighed and leaned back, against the expensive racked bottles. I took a drink right from Jack's neck.
"No."
You looked like you'd been slapped. I didn't even have the energy to grin about that.
"Send it to my fucking agent. I'm done playing games with you, Rowan. I'm just ... I'm done. We're done. That's the whole fucking point."
I flapped my hand back the way we'd come.
"You're welcome to the whisky, and you know where the fucking door is."
And then we were d-
"YOU FUCKING COWARD!" you screamed, throwing the Laphroaig to the floor in an expensive shattering puddle.
Oh.
"YOU RAN AWAY THAT NIGHT AND YOU NEVER CAME BACK! YOU LEFT ME THERE!"
Your voice was starting to crack.
"THEN YOU...THEN YOU...Th-then you..."
You looked down at the broken glass.
For once I wasn't the one who was screaming. That's a rarity.
"I asked, Rowan." My voice was softer than it'd been in a long time with you. "I asked, and you said no."
I shook my head, and drank more Jack to swallow down the rage and sadness that was surging up.
"I don't ask twice. And you said NO."
Your head snapped back up from the glass and you screamed with wet glistening dark eyes.
"IWASSAYINGYES!"
You let that hang in the air. Then, you raised your chin in that haughty Chance way again, blinking hard. Your stalked back to the morning room, heels clicking, and grabbed the contract out of the leather satchel. The pen, too. It was one of those fancy ones, I saw as you came back in. How fucking formal. But I was still staring blankly into space as you threw the pages back to the last one, and signed your name.
"You want it to be over?" you asked, not sounding like you at all. "You want to be done with me? Once and for all? Forever and a day?"
You thrust the pen and contract back at me.
"Sign it."
I was just staring blankly after you as you stalked out. And staring blankly as you stalked back. I looked at the pen as if uncertain what it was, and back at you. At the contract, and back at you. My mouth worked slowly.
I shook my head, suddenly, viciously, as if clearing a dream from my head, a wolf with a fucking bee in her ear.
"Yo- there wasn- what the f- WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON ABOUT?"
I was so angry and confused I sounded like an overheated and drunk teakettle starting to bubble through the spout. Then I found clarity in one important line.
"YOU SAID NO, ROWAN. YOU SAID FUCKING NO, I REMEMBER BECAUSE I WAS FUCKING THERE!"
I threw my bottle overarm, smashing the far wall and whiskey-soaking the black floral mask I captured from a girl named La Rosa Negra de Santa Juanita back in Guadalajara after a Dollbreaker in 2016.
I was roaring.
"WHAT KIND OF STUPID FUCKING MINDGAME IS THIS? ARE YOU FUCKING SLIPPING IN YOUR PSYCH TRICKS?" I was back at the bar, fists clenched, tendons in my neck standing out. So fucking angry. "JUST PRETENDING YOU SAID SOMETHING ELSE STOPPED WORKING IN THIRD FUCKING GRADE."
And you slapped me. Right across the bar. My head snapped to the side, my cheek burning in a red handprint that glowed like embers, my purple hair swirling with the impact. Your voice was coldly furious. Betrayed.
"I begged you to stay. Begged you. BEGGED YOU. I've never begged for anything in my life. Not even for him."
You were close enough to kiss, and I could smell your perfume even through the rain. It was the one I liked from before, not the one you've been wearing lately.
"I couldn't say yes, Megan. Not with words. But if you were paying attention, the rest of me was screaming 'yes.'" You shook your head. "You just couldn't hear it."
I took a long, slow breath. It wasn't a prana breath. There was no Zen to it. It was a breath that shivered because sobs that were fucking four years old were trying to bubble back up, rotting and ancient. I deliberately turned my face back towards you, not looking at you. I looked down at the bar. My hands slid over it, smoothing my palms on the walnut. I spread them wide apart, as if getting ready to play the piano.
I tapped my left forefinger down.
"I asked you to stay with me. To be with me. To be with me."
On the other side, I tapped my right forefinger down.
"You said no."
I took another careful breath. I was pretty fucking well along the road to being drunk, but the rage and adrenaline and confusion and booze were all swirling enough to leave me sounding relatively sober.
"The next time I saw you, you put my head into a fucking steel stage and rubbed your cxnt on my face."
"Forgive me," my eyes cut up at you at last, red and BURNING. "I'm not seeing the fucking Princess Bride true love in that story."
(So it's my favorite movie, so what. No, YOU'RE a pussy.)
You looked away and I just stared at you. You took your own long breath and your voice came out sounding thick. "Would you have done otherwise?"
I snorted. And looked away.
"You could have put my head through the metal. And you wanted to." You managed a smirk as a tear rolled down your cheek, as unexpected as desert snow. "I just did it before you did."
I gestured with both hands, helplessly. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me this before that? Why the fuck didn't you tell me the next god-damn night?". My volume was rising, sharply. "IF THIS IS TRUE, WHY THE FUCK DID YOU .... "
I clutched the sides of my head in both hands like I was putting myself in a temple crush and dropped my elbows to the bar with a thud.
"No. I'm not ... this doesn't fucking ... just no. NO."
None of it made any fucking sense.
"Megan..."
I shook my head, held in both hands, and didn't look up.
You took the contract in your hands, one at each corner, as if to tear it. "I could just..."
I reached out and took it. Not looking up. My left hand cradling my forehead. I blindly grabbed the ornate silver pen and scribbled a loopy twisted version of my name near enough the line to please the lawyers. And I set it down. My right hand came up and covered my eyes, and tears pattered on the bar, not stopping.
"It's too fucking late, Ro."
You nodded. Taking the contract in your hands, neatly closing it up and folding it. "You're right."
And you laughed.
"You're goddamn right."
I couldn't even be bothered to fucking sigh. Because of course. Of course you fucking laughed. Of course it was another pointless fucking mindgame. Ro, the girl I loved, is fucking dead. There's only you now, Chance. You slapped my hands away from your face so I'd look at you as you fucking monologued.
"I'm going to fucking BREAK YOU Megan Dow. You hear me? I'm going to make you PAY for what you took from me."
You levelled a finger at me, drawn up with your dark glee, delighted at springing whatever sort of trap this was supposed to be.
"My spine."
"My mask."
"And my heart."
"You broke all of them. And now... I'm going to break YOU. And your fucking second-prize wife is going to WATCH."
I just looked at you, letting my tears run. I didn't wanna stop them. Even if they were four years old and sour and dusty with the sand of Vegas. I wanted you to see them. Because this wasn't a trap, Rowan. You didn't reveal any dark secrets. You just proved to me why nothing good could ever come out of us being near each other, ever again.
I crooked a gentle little half-smile, my elbows resting on the bar.
"The mask wasn't yours. It was Thomas'. Just like everything else about you."
I tilted my head, looking at you and remembering what you were. And how it was gone.
"I wasn't the one who broke your spine. That was Jenny. But maybe I'll finish the job."
I took a soft sighing breath, and smiled at you sweetly as I did that night in Chicago when your back was so hurt.
"And you never really had a heart, Rowan." I shook my head, tears still sliding down my cheeks. Old tears. "Sorry, Tin Girl. It was just a ticking clock after all."
The kind that counts down.
But I smiled, soft and gentle.
"... but I loved you anyway."
I pointed back towards the front hall.
"Get the fuck out of my house."
You nodded. I didn't know or care if any of that really hurt you. It didn't matter.
"Maybe I don't have a heart." And you grinned all wicked and evil again as I just looked through you. "But you do. And so does Gemma."
You turned your back on me, going to retrieve your coat.
"It'll be fun wrecking you with her watching."
Your body slinking under the black dress. You turned to grin, over your shoulder.
"And I'll make extra sure, win or lose, she won't be able to fuck you for a year." You shrugged the jacket on my shoulders. "Or maybe forever."
I chuckled, soft and dark.
"Sex is the only fuckin' thing you can see, isn't it?"
You just looked blankly at me. I don't think you'll ever understand what I meant. I tried, anyway. "Is it like being the Predator? The world is all saturated colors and pulsing cocks for you to jump on and hot cxnts for you to grab?"
I met your eyes, and my red teary ones were steady, and I didn't see the girl I'd loved anymore. Even a little of her. She was gone.
"I'm gonna beat you, Rowan. I'm gonna beat you so that everyone sees you beaten." I snorted, raw disdain. "'Unbreakable', my fuckin' sweet ass. Now get your collared whipped little butt back home before Thomas sends out the dogcatcher."
You grabbed the cut hem of the dress and pulled it up so the edge of the tattoo is just showing. So fucking lewd. Not even any artistry left in it, just flashing me like a 19th century hooker.
"Nobody's done it yet, baby. I'll see you in Paris."
You tied up the contract in the document pouch and let yourself out. And I just sat at the bar for a while, and then I went back upstairs. I wanted to finish that Misawa match.
See, I always finish what I start.
And that moment, that slacking moment where you ease up.
You don't want me to say I need you because you love me. It's just another fucking game. All everything is, in the whole fucking world is games to you.
So let's fucking play.
I can breathe, just a gasp. Just enough. The hold is loosened, just enough. You're staring at me, waiting, waiting for me to gasp out my soul.
Instead I force my right boot down, and ignore the crunch and twang and clank of my wrecked knee as I FORCE that fucking leg up, my left boot finally finding the mat and digging in, my hand tight in your hair, left hand cradling the back of your neck, yanking your head against mine. My knee is agony, screaming agony, but I ignore it and plant my red Docs. I can hear people screaming, people I love, who want us to go to fucking Brazil.
Our foreheads crushed together, blood sisters sharing an oath.
"I NNNNNNNEVER FUCKING NEEDED YOU!"
I roar at you, wasting the air I got as I DRAG you up. Every fucking muscle tensing, my abs fucking shredded, my shoulders rounding and biceps defining, my legs quivering as I DRAG you up wrapped around me, into the fucking sky, hoisting you up for everyone to see.
... and really, roaring in your face was a mistake, because I needed that air. My eyes roll back and I go rubber - and fall forward.
Driving your back into the mat with both our full weight behind it, in a what can be charitably called a deadweight powerbomb, blood and saliva running from my slack slips.
Slack.
But smiling, even in the black.
(If you've made it this far, congratulations! You just read an incredibly elaborate flashback taking place in a wrestling match and there's probably an animated ad of some girl sucking another girl's toes just above it. Fun fact; this post was as long as 1.5 Rime of the Ancient Mariners, and it had way more tits. Full credit goes to Rowan for roleplaying out the flashback with me even though we both ended up crying over it because we're huge dorks. <3 )
