It Makes You Feel Happy Like an Old Time Movie
Mar 24, 2016 16:48:05 GMT -6
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Post by Constance on Mar 24, 2016 16:48:05 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
For the first time in what might well amount to forever but is more likely just ‘a while’ I feel unnatural. Not unwell, as I believe myself to be of sound mind and body and haven’t been sick in well over three years. But unnatural. I’m not quite sure what the proper word to describe how I’m feeling is...and unnatural is far too vague and comes with far too many terrible connotations for my liking. When one hears unnatural their minds flock to fantastical fictional creatures, the bane of modern literature and entertainment in general. And yet I prefer the term to one that might sound more...juvenile. I pride myself on always knowing what to say or at least on having a vocabulary dense enough so that I can THINK of better ways to use and then not use them. But that knowledge is failing me in this instance. It’s all very...unnatural.
I can’t quite place my finger on it, but something’s different about me. I’m on the cusp of what is technically my second but feels more like my first title defence. I know the pressure is on me even though I didn’t set this match up or manipulate my way into contention. I’ve never had time or cause to truly perform as a champion before...so the fact that I’m not the challenger for a change is...startling. Alarming. I have no malice towards my opponent and she’s been nothing but cordial towards me...and this is the kind of match that can elevate a girl like that. I should be worried. I should feel the pressure. I should be dealing with every single insecurity that always crops up when I have a high stakes match like this. I felt it with Ryder and I hated him. I felt it against Blue Horse and I hate what she stands for...and that wasn’t even a title match. I felt it every single time I met Emma Ron Hubbard back when my biggest concern was how much I despised the Malibu lifestyle. And yet...knowing full well that this will be a major match in both competitor's careers...I feel none of what I know I should feel.
I feel unnatural.
I hesitate to say that I feel calm or anything, because I’m anything but. My breathing is heavier, I can’t stop my foot from bouncing when I sit, and I’ve had seventeen glasses of water in two hours. Inside I’m freaking out. My mind is working overtime and my body can’t keep up. But I think on my match...on what I desperately hope will be my first actual defence - because I daresay this might well be the last time I ever feel the weight of a championship around my waist - and I’m calm. My foot stops. My throat isn’t parched. I’m content.
This must be what it’s like for someone about to face their own execution. It scares me that I’ve made this comparison before.
I wonder how many people that sit on the chair start to panic when the shackles are secured and the priest is delivering the sermon. Is that when their life flashes before their eyes in the most cliche manner possible? Or are they struggling, squirming, shouting in a desperate bid to stay living for just that little bit longer? I think that’s why the walk is so long and the actual execution is so...theatrical. It’s like an Eugene O’Neill play...depressing to watch but utterly fascinating and steeped in bitter realities. So as the drunks and failures of Harry Hope’s saloon continue to lie to themselves, so do we all.
Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe I’m lying so well to myself that I honestly believe that my match isn’t stressful when in fact it’s likely to make me tear my hair out. Or maybe I’ve just finally come to terms with my own self. Maybe Constance Chapin has finally found contentment in the fact that she can get a moment in the limelight only just long enough for someone more suited for the position comes along.
I think I’ve been spending far too much time arguing with the Gymkhana Gang because I’m veering dangerously close to nihilistic rhetoric here.
Moments like this, moments where I take a moment to really dig at the heart of my own psychosis, allow me the presence of mind to truly reflect. If I should be deeply concerned with my defence and I’m not...there has to be a reason why. And that pursuit has cost me nights. I try to sleep but succeed only in tossing about and staring at the wall while sweat drips down my neck. The answer couldn’t be so obvious and yet it’s the only thing that I could possibly think of that would allow me to feel so strange.
For the first time in my life...my match is not the most stressful happening.
The reason I enjoy my simple pleasures and meagre lifstyle that young, can’t sit through a three minute clip without Tweeting about something stupid types consider ‘boring’ is because the stress of my professional life has a nasty habit of catching up with me. By ensuring my home life is as low key and, well, dull as possible it allows me to come down off the rush and stressful situations at my own pace. I can channel the unwanted rage towards a Joanna Thade towards feeling angry at Toru Watanabe for being so passive towards his romantic interests for so long instead. (Because I can never let anyone, least of all an equestrian, know how their words cut deep. Never let them see you sweat indeed.) And when Toru finally has an actual, truly intimate conversation with someone and learns what truly matters in life...so do I calm myself just long enough to become the bitter sort I am up until the next trip to an arena where the stress mounts.
Such is my life. Such are my insecurities.
But this time, reading of Watanabe’s burgeoning sexuality and his nostalgic reflection...I no longer criticize but, well, empathize. Why this novel, when so many others are better suited for channeling negative emotions through? Why, when I’ve read it countless times. Why...do I ask these questions when already I know the answer.
I feel unnatural because while I am feeling the pressure that comes with a high stakes match...it isn’t the prime source of my own lingering questions of doubt.
The final question poised to Watanabe is “Where are you now?” And though it’s meant as a simple query into his location...Watanabe ponders it as if it is the greatest existential question of his time. Perhaps it is, given all that he’s gone through up to that point. And so I poise the question to myself.
Where am I now?
I’m about to head to Ontario where I will defend a championship that I have not truly represented to the best of my own standards against someone that I have nothing but positive feelings towards. I am worried, as always, that I will disappoint myself and go home feeling bitter, sad, and miserable in a way that so few can ever truly experience. But though I realize this...I am calm. I am accepting. Cest la vie. Que sera sera.
Yes, this title is monumentally important for me. It serves as proof that I accomplished something, that I wasn’t just some expatriate to a company taking in my kind. And yes it would crush me if it was taken away no matter how memorable the struggle was. But I’m accepting of that possibility. I’m calm. Que sera sera.
Because much like Toru Watanabe after his night with Reiko...I’ve finally come to realize what’s truly important in my life. And while some might consider it hearsay that a bauble...that a championship title...isn’t the most important thing in my life given what my life entails...it’s high time I stop worrying about the repercussions and the fact that I truly, truly, deeply fear change...and just...focus in on what matters most to me.
I feel unnatural. Not because I’m afraid. Not because I’m worried.
But because for the first time in a very, very long time...I’m excited.
I think I might even be smiling.
Now there’s a terrifying image.
~
The sun has long since set though rather than a starry sky, the night is a cloudy sort of darkness; the wind gently blows, enough to cause hair to sway along with the breeze. It’s a quiet night, rare for a city, but those moments of rare silence should be cherished while they last. And yet, a voice cuts through the silence in a wistful tone and punctuated by frequent sighs.
Backlit by an illuminated sign with the name of the establishment on display, sits one Constance Chapin with her hands locked in her lap. The lamps of the parking lot illuminate her far better than the camera pointed at her does and presents a Constance that looks on edge, uncomfortable, and possibly even afraid. Perhaps it had to do with her unusual choice in attire. Not a simple sweater and slacks or even something casual and unassuming, Constance sits on a bench in a navy blue midi dress, something one might wear if they were going to prom. Though her feet remain mercifully out of frame, they’re slipped inside a pair of matching heels. Even Constance’s hair, wind-swept strands aside, has been attended to.
Constance Chapin, even with her grumpy exterior, has done her best to seem...regal.
In the warm night air, after a heavy sigh - one meant to psyche oneself up - Constance speaks as her eyes look directly forward.
”I was once asked a simple question. ‘Do I believe in magic’? No, it wasn’t at some birthday party, even as a young girl I was never invited to those because, little known fact, I was kind of a gangly, awkward girl that didn’t really make any effort to make friends...a trait that seems to have carried over into adulthood. I was asked this not by a magician looking to pump up a crowd nor was I asked by anyone I knew on a personal level. My parents and I were taking a day trip down to London and the radio had the gall to play a trite two minute song wherein an overly cheery singer pegged the question in regards to dancing. But even though little Constance knew that it was just a song and a cliche metaphor...a terrible song to boot but that’s irrelevant...I took the question literally.”
“Did I believe in magic? I suppose I didn’t. I won’t say I was a precocious child but even I had no real sense of wonder or awe when someone correctly guessed a playing card or pulled a fifty pee from behind the ear. That wasn’t magic. Not to me. That was all theatrics, performance, something anyone could do. Magic never wowed me because from a young age I came to the understanding that magic was a fictional concept. The way some people who grow up in religious households have a crisis of faith, so too did I have an understanding that the fairy tales read to me at night were just pretend. Make believe. No one would turn a pumpkin into a carriage. I didn’t have a fairy godmother that could make me popular with the girls at school...or even one who could turn my stuffed lion into a friend I could converse with and confide in. And if those stories were fake...if the stories weren’t real...then magic must not be real either.”
“You might think that I’m talking about magic because I’ve got a match with a magician coming up...I might call her a witch if it didn’t come with those negative associations. A witch because she’s bewitched the hearts and souls of the Visionaries not through spellcraft or, well, magic...but through the old fashioned virtues of putting forth effort and being a damn decent person. But no...I’m not mentioning magic because of Zahara but I’m not going to say that I’m not a fan of the coincidence.”
“If you were to ask me today, right now, if I believed in magic...I’m not so sure I’d be able to answer immediately. And that scares me. I know that magic like what they fling about in Harry Potter or whatever the latest ‘thing’ is isn’t real. I know that Penn and Teller are just really good at putting on a show and not actually secret wizards. And I know that David Blane and Criss Angel are pretentious dickheads who get off on attention and have little viable talent. And yet...I don’t know how to respond to that question. Ask it. Ask me if I believe in magic.”
“It wasn’t that long ago where I would’ve laughed at you for even thinking I’d answer that sort of thing. And yet...I don’t know.”
“What I do know is that...I don’t have anything. I don’t. People have said that I’m talented, that I’m good at what I do...hell even Zahara has admitted that she’s a fan of me...and yet...I still feel as if I don’t have anything. I’ve never really BEEN a champion despite what it appears. My first actual championship was almost like being thrown a bone - granted it was thrown in the middle of four hungry dogs who I’m sure do not appreciate the comparison or the seeming belittling which isn’t my intent - but at the end of the day even though I was the first ever to hold that title...it never really seemed like mine. I never felt like a champion. Because two weeks later it was gone. Won by someone who went on to make that title MEAN something.”
“What did I have to show for it? A sigh. A retreat back to my crappy Malibu apartment, and waking up in the morning ready to do whatever was asked of me. The consummate professional. Consummate Constance.”
“Even as I clawed my way tooth and nail into the scene for the creme-de la-creme of the company, showing the doubters - myself included - and the mocking jerks that I WAS somebody, god dammit...it still never felt like I made the title I worked hard to get MEAN something. I barely had it before I had to seek other options and then I was made short work of by someone who was always deadset on earning her belts. She trounced me and I realized that...even though my name will forever be on it...it will never truly be mine.”
“And here we are...with me having the Xcel Championship...and the same thought creeps into my head. What have I done to show that I’m a champion? What have I done to make this title feel like something I earned? What have I done as VoW’s Xcel Champion? And the answer...is nothing. Stacy Jones has been a two time Xcel Champion and dammit the belt is practically a part of her future legacy. Ryder Blade, say what you will about him, may as well be known as THE Xcel Champion with how much he put into his tenure as its holder. I still don’t think people applauded when he lost because it meant I was the winner...I think people applauded just because it meant that it was finally around the waist of someone else.”
“Yet...what have I done since then? Your Xcel Champion has been about as visible as J.D. Salinger. A loss against someone I mocked. A win against someone I almost mocked but took the high road. And that’s it. No real presence. No real...anything. What have I done to leave my stamp on the list of champions?”
“What have I done to leave my stamp on ANYTHING.”
“Do I believe in magic? I don’t know. I believe that I’ve never truly...been a champion. Even now...knowing that I earned it...that I’ll always be that person that ended an era...I don’t feel like a champion. And that’s my fault. I’m not trying to sell myself or the Xcel Championship short, not at all...this is just me realizing that for all my ability...for all my successes...I’ll never be someone that will be remembered for being a champion. And...I’m fine with that.”
“What I’m less fine with is what I’ve been hinting at for the length of this...I have nothing. Nothing lasting. Nothing that people will remember me by.”
“So before I go any further...before I say what I need to say about Nothing Else Matters...I need to do something that DOES matter. So…give me some time.”
Constance takes a deep breath and stands from the bench. The nervous expression on her face is only exemplified as she continues to take deep breaths. And yet she says nothing more on the matter, but as she turns to head into the establishment proper, the camera caught a glimpse of a small black box rolling around in her hand.
~
Constance Chapin had messed up. This was nothing new, messing up was something she had done several times in her life - her greatest triumphs came as a result of messing up in some capacity or another - but this time seemed much more serious than any other. More serious than ruining another woman’s marriage, which eventually managed to patch itself up in spite of Chapin’s deep seeded fears on the matter. It seemed serious, this monumental mess up, because it cost something more tangible than just time and emotional scars; this time there was money involved, and every time money was at the root of a problem it rarely worked out well in the end.
“Could you check again?” Try as she might, Constance couldn’t get the annoyance from her voice as she was teetering on the very edge of losing her patience. Her hands were clenched onto the sides of a fancy little podium, behind which a man who had a far too good smug look about him, due in large to the moustache above his lips, was casually flipping through a book of names.
Next to Constance, matching the Mancunian’s unusual formal attire with a more reserved but no less formal black dress, was Emily Darcy who was silently hoping that Constance would make a scene or a show of force...perhaps a demand to see the manager. There was just something about Constance yelling at people that worked for Emily. Perhaps it was the accent.
“Sorry, mademoiselle,” the maitre'd spoke in what both women could tell was an exaggerated French accent; Emily suspected the man was from Paris by way of Texas rather than France. “I’m not seeing your name on the list.” He even rolled his ‘t’ to make it sound as if he was saying it with a ‘z’. Emily rolled her eyes while Constance squeezed the podium’s edges a bit harder.
“Check again,” Less a polite request and more a flat demand, though Constance was still managing to hold her composure together.
“Madam, it’s been three times and the name Constance Chapin is not in the books. A fourth won’t make it appear. If you’d like to make a reservation for another time, I’d be happy to-” The front of house stopped his quite condescending speech and jumped slightly as Constance’s hand slapped the podium.
“Honey, maybe we should just go..” Emily, for as much as she would’ve enjoyed a verbal beatdown, had to at least pretend to play the part of the conflict resolution third party. Her right hand was gently placed onto Constance’s left shoulder in case she had to pull Constance back.
“Don’t act smug in your phony penguin suit and don’t patronize me. I know there’s a reservation in my name. I called my-” Constance caught herself and Emily could feel the tension rise as a grim realization entered Constance’s head. “...Caitlyn.” she muttered and loosened her grip on the podium.
“What does she have to do with this? Honey?”
In the wake of Constance’s most recent blunder, an admission of an unrequited love that existed in her heart, she realized all too late that admitting such a thing to Emily of all people was a mistake. It had been the truth, yes, that a younger Constance in a state of confusion and uncertainty about her chosen path and muddy future had misinterpreted friendship and camaraderie for something more, but someone young and stupid was allowed to make mistakes. And Constance fit squarely in the stupid angle of that particular pairing back in the day.
She knew as soon as the admission left her lips, louder and perhaps more angry than intended (in her defense, so she’d rationalise in her head, Emily had been unusually pushy), that she had done more harm than good and her mind went back, not to her younger days in Chicago, but to earlier in Malibu of all places, where a harmless joke of Emily poking fun at the idea of seeing someone else was enough to get Constance rather livid.
How the roles were reversed, made worse surely by the fact that prior to this little argument, Constance willingly brought Emily to the ‘other woman’s’ house.
Constance Chapin was adept at making mistakes.
The soon-to-be-empty apartment went even more quiet than usual for days after the fact, and not even much in the way of fanfare after Constance had a successful match against Heath Williams broke the air of quietude. The tension was obvious and the atmosphere was so heavy that for once Constance realized that it fell to her to make amends. She had been so used to running away from or shutting out the problems that were her fault but she knew this wasn’t something that could be bottled up and forgotten about. Constance knew first hand what it felt like to be betrayed, even in a simple joking manner, and every hour that went without Constance apologizing or explaining herself must’ve been a further twisting of the knife in Emily.
So in what she thought was, at the time, a good idea, Constance turned to the third member of what was her strange ‘posse’. Caitlyn had moments of genuine insight due to her ability at reading people. In her own words, she ’held a mirror up to people via a camera lens’ which is exactly the sort of aid Constance needed.
“I can’t help you, Ms. C.,” Caitlyn’s response was not the sort of advice Constance had expected, but then what could she expect from someone who went to prom as the videographer rather than as a student. Caitlyn may have been able to read people, but understanding them was another story. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Emily when she came crying to me. You two need to be more honest. Yeah, it’s fun to speak in riddles and entendre but someone’s gonna get confused eventually. Whatever you decide, let me know. I could use some drama for the final act.”
“Surely you’ve got enough footage by now?”
“More than enough. But you’re like a show in its middle seasons. You want to keep watching.”
While hardly the most helpful advice she had ever received, the talk of honesty did get Constance thinking, more so than usual, and she came to realize exactly what she had to do not simply to patch things up, but to show that the past was where it was. That the present and beyond were worth looking into now.
“Caitlyn, I need you to do me a favour,” Constance didn’t have a lot of time and she needed to act faster than she had been accustomed to. But what was life without a few obstacles and challenges to overcome. “I’m going out for a bit, while I’m gone I need you to make a reservation at that fancy place past the cinemas. The one we all mocked? Seven P.M. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure thing. Table for three, then?”
“Don’t be daft, Caitlyn. I’m not made of money.”
The recollection hit Constance as she stood on the edge of being embarrassed in formalwear, which was a level of embarrassment she was not at all accustomed to. Back in the restaurant lobby, Constance was shifting her annoyance to the third wheel as she hurriedly dialed Caitlyn’s phone. Emily looked on in confusion, the whole night being quite out of left field for her anyway, but when Constance says that fancy French cuisine was their date night, Emily is inclined to go along with it.
“Ah, Ms. C, how’s the escargot?” on the other end of the line, Caitlyn was cackling internally. She might not have been present in person but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have her fun. The one caveat she had before agreeing to make the reservations was that Constance had to take a camera along and film it; Caitlyn had a hunch as to what her former teacher was planning and it was rare to get footage like that.
“Did you forget to make the reservation?” Constance, meanwhile, was having none of the fun and games that her younger cohort thrived upon.
“I really wish you had a television. One of my favorite movies is gonna be on cable tonight. It’s called The Kid, ever heard of it? Maybe I can find it online while you enjoy your little fancy feast.”
Caitlyn hung up before Constance could ask for further clarification or confirmation as to the status of her reservation. Emily’s hand again found its way to Constnce’s shoulder, tension still there and even spreading to her face. She turned and again approached the podium, her anger no longer with the penguin-suit wearing front of house but rather at the little shit who threw a spanner in what was supposed to be a low key, quiet night with Emily.
“Sorry, but could you check to see if the name Chaplin is there? I’m afraid my...accent might’ve caused confusion.”
Though visibly annoyed at the request, the Penguin did as asked and, to what was surely his great surprise, the name Connie Chaplin was on the list of reservations. With egg firmly on her face, Constance followed the host to their reserved table with Emily chuckling all the while; someone was able to see the humor in the situation; had it happened to Emily instead, Constance was sure she’d be laughing as well. At least internally, anyway.
~
“This was nice, honey. I mean it.”
In front of Emily was a finished plate of terrine, mediterranean style, and a half finished glass of wine. The bottle had been left on the table, removed, and replaced with a second bottle over the course of their meal. Constance had had more wine than usual, downing no less than four glasses. That Emily didn’t say anything or perhaps pick up on it was good as Constance had only consumed so much to counteract her lingering nerves. The bussers were scattering about, clearing the table while their server had set the check down.
“Well, I know an account that might disagree with you there,” Constance sighed out as she noticed the triple digit number staring back at her at the bottom of the bill.
“Why don’t we do this more often? Have nights like this?”
“Because we hate people and normalcy.” Constance slid her card into the bill to be picked up by the server.
“True. But maybe normal people aren’t so bad. They have excellent wine, they have to be doing something right.” Emily snickered as she raised her wine glass to her lips, enjoying the elegant taste, unlike what was usually purchased at a liquor store or, heaven forbid, a grocery store. “So...a fancy restaurant...two bottles of wine...no Holden...is there something you want to tell me, honey? Something on your mind that you’re just...dying to get off your chest?”
“Actually, yeah. Bit stuffy in here, isn’t it? We should go.” As soon as the credit card was returned, Constance was standing and ready to leave while Emily, positioned somewhere between shocked and disappointed, needed the aid of an offered hand by Constance to get to her feet. The two said nothing as they walked, hand in hand, through the restaurant and out to the lobby towards the front door.
Emily’s shock at Constance’s avoidance lingered as they pulled away from the dining establishment with Constance behind the wheel. Emily crossed her arms in the passenger seat, aware that her subtle question had been anything but. She was fishing for that elusive word, the four letters Constance seemed unable to say in regards to HER but had little problems admitted them about a certain single parent.
“Do me a favour, Em. Can you get my GPS from the glove box? I like having the robot talk to us like we’re simpletons.”
Emily sighed and bent forward to open the compartment on the passenger side, mumbling how the GPS was an overall stupid purchase since they had phones that did the same thing. While Emily was momentarily distracted, Constance slid a disc into the vehicle’s CD player and turned to the fourth track. The dulcet tones of Kurt Cobain rang out, proclaiming in grand ironic and satirical fashion how ‘she should have been a son’.
“You hate this song.” Emily muttered her grand understatement.
”Yes, but you don’t. And I’m willing to suffer through it for you. Because I -”
“Constance..it’s not in...wha?” When Emily sat back up her mouth was hung open in surprise. Constance slowed the car to a stop - she had just been circling the parking lot anyway - and turned to look at Emily.
Cupped in Emily’s hands was a small black box, inside of which was a sparkling silver ring.
“I was going to do this in the restaurant...but that seemed utterly cliche, right? And we hate that. So...Emily Darcy...will you be my Fitzwilliam? Will you...will you ma-?”
Constance didn’t even get to ask the question. She had already gotten her answer.
~
The moon hangs high overhead, a rare night where it isn’t obscured by clouds or the like. The perfect sight to punctuate the almost perfect night. Constance Chapin, standing in the moonlight - and lit by the bright glow of a camera - stands with a mug of coffee on a balcony. She’s smiling, captured for all to see, and before speaking she sighs contentedly. For lack of a better term, Constance Chapin seems, for once, happy.
“I don’t remember where I left off, but it was probably me naval gazing and diminishing my own accomplishments, as you do when heading into a title defence, of course. I meant what I said, about me never really getting a chance to truly feel like a champion in my own right...and that’s not me trying to say that my victories have been hollow or anything of the sort, but a simple admission that despite holding the Xcel Championship for forty-some days at this point...I could’ve dropped it a week after Double Jeopardy and no one would bat an eye. My reign so far is defined by who I beat to win, which was always going to be the case, but that’s going to change following Nothing Else Matters...because just as the name indicates...now the only thing that matters for me is being a champion VoW can be proud to have...and one that’s equally as proud to be a champion.”
“I still don’t know the answer to that question I was so focused on. Do I believe in magic? I can’t answer that right now...but I think I know someone who does.”
“Zahara Matisse no doubt believes in magic, and not just because of her being, well, a practitioner of the sleight of hand and illusionary arts. Here’s a girl who’s had something of a meteoric rise since her arrival, scoring win after win after win and making herself a bona fide hit with the fans and, yes, the locker room to boot. And she’s earned her match with me; I didn’t answer her little challenge on Breakthrough but I didn’t feel cheated or wronged when Sky made this match happen. Because with Zahara it was only a matter of time, surely.”
“It wasn’t that long ago where I would have said that someone like Zahara must be hiding something sinister or foul, because how could it be possible that someone so utterly nice and bright could thrive in a place where the edgy and juvenile idea of gritty and dark thrive. But no...Zahara is in that same tier of person that I put someone like Stacy Jones in...someone that’s just...nice. Someone that’s well liked. Someone that’s far too good for this.”
“In a way I envy people like that. The people that are well liked, the ones that can connect with people they don’t know by something as simple as a slap to the palm. There’s a difference between being liked and being respected. Zahara is liked. If the words of Zahara and others like her are to be believed, and why wouldn’t they be, then I’m respected. So much so that the happy challenger has been on edge and freaking out, like I imagine someone meeting an idol would be while standing in line to get something signed. And that’s an odd feeling for me...because I’m so used to being a cynic that it never enters my head that...that I could be worthy of praise.”
“If Zahara is nervous then I’m all the more so. As I mentioned, despite my colorful career and reputation...I haven’t had very much experience in the realm of title defences. I lost my very first one. And this makes my second. I’m nervous, and I can admit that yes, even the cool, introspective loner like me can get nervous and start to sweat, but at the same time I’m...I’m excited as well.”
“Far be it from me to keep dragging up the past but it’ll all be relevant I assure you. When I won my world title I was in a different state of mind. I had two women who had discarded me as worthless and nothing - they had beaten me before and, in the case of our little cultist, had made it hurt. The third woman had pretty much written me off as a pity case. In short, I was the one who didn’t belong and who everyone thought would be the first one out. When I entered the ring that night, it wasn’t with a smile. It wasn’t with nerves. It was with determination and a point to prove and god dammit did I prove it in full. I made doubters into believers, and that includes myself.”
“When I went in at Double Jeopardy against Ryder Blade it was again because I had something to prove both to Ryder and to myself yet again. I wanted to prove that he wasn’t infallible and I wanted to prove that my greatest weakness was my own damn self.”
“I’ll be the first to say it...but those two wins might well be my greatest achievements in my career because both showed that when I’m up against a wall I do everything I can to push back.”
“And now...here I am and I’m not against a wall. I’m not out to shut up some kid. I’m not out to show three others that I matter just as much as they do. But the stakes are no different. Against Ryder I had to win. I had called him out, talked myself up, and couldn’t make myself look like yet another fake-ass broad who can talk mess but can’t clean up. Now against Zahara...I’m not facing her as an enemy. I’m not seeing her as someone beneath me. When we’re staring at each other before the bell rings and even long after the fact...I’m looking at Zahara as an equal.”
“If this match is going to prove anything, it’s going to prove that the Xcel Championship and all those that covet it are damn brilliant at what they do. A lot of weight is given to the top, to the World Visionary Title and sure, deservedly so...but which title is on the line damn at damn near the top of the night? Ryder’s Reign might well still be at the forefront of the mind when people mention the Xcel Title...but let this match show that it means far more.”
“Zahara wants this title as proof that she’s just as capable, as good as people have told her. And trust me, I can relate to that more than you might think, Zahara. And me? I want to keep my title right where it is so that I can show everyone that Constance Chapin is more than just a respected competitor...but a worthy champion as well.”
“She brings in her youthful exuberance and an undefeated streak - both of which are impressive. And I bring my grizzled experience and history of...ending streaks. Zahara has beaten some impressive people, least of all Tyler Storm, another of your champions, but she hasn’t beaten me. She hasn’t faced me. And I get why she’d be nervous, because if she truly wants to become a champion, and that always seems to be the goal with people, then she must know that I’m going to make her work for it.”
“I’ve got nothing bad to say about my opponent, nothing that wouldn’t just be stupid insults anyway. I’m not that person. I’m not someone that will resort to the petty to boost myself up, because for me it’s not about making someone feel small - unless of course they EARN the mockery. I might never have a Ryder Record. I might never be a long standing champion. But if I can go out and inspire someone to go above and beyond...and to match them blow for blow for blow...then when that bell rings and all is said and done...I can be happy with the outcome come what may.”
“I promised you a handshake after the match, Zahara, but I’m promising you something more. I’m promising that you’ll be getting the same Constance that was told she didn’t matter. The same one that was mocked by a punk kid who took a little lesson in humble after I was done. The same Constance that looks at the odds stacked against her and climbs up them anyway. Because anything else, Zahara, and I’d be doing us both a grave disservice. And the Xcel Championship deserves a clash of titans like us.”
“So I ask myself one last time….Do I believe in magic?”
“For the first time in my life...I’m genuinely happy. I’ve got a match that I’m actually looking forward to, against someone that I like, and no lingering feeling of doubt or worry. That alone is an incredibly rare combination. Add to the fact that whatever happens at Nothing Else Matters the Xcel Championship is going to be in the hands of a worthy competitor...and it starts to all add up.”
“Do I believe in magic?”
“You know what...I think I just might.”
~
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
She said yes.
For the first time in what might well amount to forever but is more likely just ‘a while’ I feel unnatural. Not unwell, as I believe myself to be of sound mind and body and haven’t been sick in well over three years. But unnatural. I’m not quite sure what the proper word to describe how I’m feeling is...and unnatural is far too vague and comes with far too many terrible connotations for my liking. When one hears unnatural their minds flock to fantastical fictional creatures, the bane of modern literature and entertainment in general. And yet I prefer the term to one that might sound more...juvenile. I pride myself on always knowing what to say or at least on having a vocabulary dense enough so that I can THINK of better ways to use and then not use them. But that knowledge is failing me in this instance. It’s all very...unnatural.
I can’t quite place my finger on it, but something’s different about me. I’m on the cusp of what is technically my second but feels more like my first title defence. I know the pressure is on me even though I didn’t set this match up or manipulate my way into contention. I’ve never had time or cause to truly perform as a champion before...so the fact that I’m not the challenger for a change is...startling. Alarming. I have no malice towards my opponent and she’s been nothing but cordial towards me...and this is the kind of match that can elevate a girl like that. I should be worried. I should feel the pressure. I should be dealing with every single insecurity that always crops up when I have a high stakes match like this. I felt it with Ryder and I hated him. I felt it against Blue Horse and I hate what she stands for...and that wasn’t even a title match. I felt it every single time I met Emma Ron Hubbard back when my biggest concern was how much I despised the Malibu lifestyle. And yet...knowing full well that this will be a major match in both competitor's careers...I feel none of what I know I should feel.
I feel unnatural.
I hesitate to say that I feel calm or anything, because I’m anything but. My breathing is heavier, I can’t stop my foot from bouncing when I sit, and I’ve had seventeen glasses of water in two hours. Inside I’m freaking out. My mind is working overtime and my body can’t keep up. But I think on my match...on what I desperately hope will be my first actual defence - because I daresay this might well be the last time I ever feel the weight of a championship around my waist - and I’m calm. My foot stops. My throat isn’t parched. I’m content.
This must be what it’s like for someone about to face their own execution. It scares me that I’ve made this comparison before.
I wonder how many people that sit on the chair start to panic when the shackles are secured and the priest is delivering the sermon. Is that when their life flashes before their eyes in the most cliche manner possible? Or are they struggling, squirming, shouting in a desperate bid to stay living for just that little bit longer? I think that’s why the walk is so long and the actual execution is so...theatrical. It’s like an Eugene O’Neill play...depressing to watch but utterly fascinating and steeped in bitter realities. So as the drunks and failures of Harry Hope’s saloon continue to lie to themselves, so do we all.
Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe I’m lying so well to myself that I honestly believe that my match isn’t stressful when in fact it’s likely to make me tear my hair out. Or maybe I’ve just finally come to terms with my own self. Maybe Constance Chapin has finally found contentment in the fact that she can get a moment in the limelight only just long enough for someone more suited for the position comes along.
I think I’ve been spending far too much time arguing with the Gymkhana Gang because I’m veering dangerously close to nihilistic rhetoric here.
Moments like this, moments where I take a moment to really dig at the heart of my own psychosis, allow me the presence of mind to truly reflect. If I should be deeply concerned with my defence and I’m not...there has to be a reason why. And that pursuit has cost me nights. I try to sleep but succeed only in tossing about and staring at the wall while sweat drips down my neck. The answer couldn’t be so obvious and yet it’s the only thing that I could possibly think of that would allow me to feel so strange.
For the first time in my life...my match is not the most stressful happening.
The reason I enjoy my simple pleasures and meagre lifstyle that young, can’t sit through a three minute clip without Tweeting about something stupid types consider ‘boring’ is because the stress of my professional life has a nasty habit of catching up with me. By ensuring my home life is as low key and, well, dull as possible it allows me to come down off the rush and stressful situations at my own pace. I can channel the unwanted rage towards a Joanna Thade towards feeling angry at Toru Watanabe for being so passive towards his romantic interests for so long instead. (Because I can never let anyone, least of all an equestrian, know how their words cut deep. Never let them see you sweat indeed.) And when Toru finally has an actual, truly intimate conversation with someone and learns what truly matters in life...so do I calm myself just long enough to become the bitter sort I am up until the next trip to an arena where the stress mounts.
Such is my life. Such are my insecurities.
But this time, reading of Watanabe’s burgeoning sexuality and his nostalgic reflection...I no longer criticize but, well, empathize. Why this novel, when so many others are better suited for channeling negative emotions through? Why, when I’ve read it countless times. Why...do I ask these questions when already I know the answer.
I feel unnatural because while I am feeling the pressure that comes with a high stakes match...it isn’t the prime source of my own lingering questions of doubt.
The final question poised to Watanabe is “Where are you now?” And though it’s meant as a simple query into his location...Watanabe ponders it as if it is the greatest existential question of his time. Perhaps it is, given all that he’s gone through up to that point. And so I poise the question to myself.
Where am I now?
I’m about to head to Ontario where I will defend a championship that I have not truly represented to the best of my own standards against someone that I have nothing but positive feelings towards. I am worried, as always, that I will disappoint myself and go home feeling bitter, sad, and miserable in a way that so few can ever truly experience. But though I realize this...I am calm. I am accepting. Cest la vie. Que sera sera.
Yes, this title is monumentally important for me. It serves as proof that I accomplished something, that I wasn’t just some expatriate to a company taking in my kind. And yes it would crush me if it was taken away no matter how memorable the struggle was. But I’m accepting of that possibility. I’m calm. Que sera sera.
Because much like Toru Watanabe after his night with Reiko...I’ve finally come to realize what’s truly important in my life. And while some might consider it hearsay that a bauble...that a championship title...isn’t the most important thing in my life given what my life entails...it’s high time I stop worrying about the repercussions and the fact that I truly, truly, deeply fear change...and just...focus in on what matters most to me.
I feel unnatural. Not because I’m afraid. Not because I’m worried.
But because for the first time in a very, very long time...I’m excited.
I think I might even be smiling.
Now there’s a terrifying image.
~
The sun has long since set though rather than a starry sky, the night is a cloudy sort of darkness; the wind gently blows, enough to cause hair to sway along with the breeze. It’s a quiet night, rare for a city, but those moments of rare silence should be cherished while they last. And yet, a voice cuts through the silence in a wistful tone and punctuated by frequent sighs.
Backlit by an illuminated sign with the name of the establishment on display, sits one Constance Chapin with her hands locked in her lap. The lamps of the parking lot illuminate her far better than the camera pointed at her does and presents a Constance that looks on edge, uncomfortable, and possibly even afraid. Perhaps it had to do with her unusual choice in attire. Not a simple sweater and slacks or even something casual and unassuming, Constance sits on a bench in a navy blue midi dress, something one might wear if they were going to prom. Though her feet remain mercifully out of frame, they’re slipped inside a pair of matching heels. Even Constance’s hair, wind-swept strands aside, has been attended to.
Constance Chapin, even with her grumpy exterior, has done her best to seem...regal.
In the warm night air, after a heavy sigh - one meant to psyche oneself up - Constance speaks as her eyes look directly forward.
”I was once asked a simple question. ‘Do I believe in magic’? No, it wasn’t at some birthday party, even as a young girl I was never invited to those because, little known fact, I was kind of a gangly, awkward girl that didn’t really make any effort to make friends...a trait that seems to have carried over into adulthood. I was asked this not by a magician looking to pump up a crowd nor was I asked by anyone I knew on a personal level. My parents and I were taking a day trip down to London and the radio had the gall to play a trite two minute song wherein an overly cheery singer pegged the question in regards to dancing. But even though little Constance knew that it was just a song and a cliche metaphor...a terrible song to boot but that’s irrelevant...I took the question literally.”
“Did I believe in magic? I suppose I didn’t. I won’t say I was a precocious child but even I had no real sense of wonder or awe when someone correctly guessed a playing card or pulled a fifty pee from behind the ear. That wasn’t magic. Not to me. That was all theatrics, performance, something anyone could do. Magic never wowed me because from a young age I came to the understanding that magic was a fictional concept. The way some people who grow up in religious households have a crisis of faith, so too did I have an understanding that the fairy tales read to me at night were just pretend. Make believe. No one would turn a pumpkin into a carriage. I didn’t have a fairy godmother that could make me popular with the girls at school...or even one who could turn my stuffed lion into a friend I could converse with and confide in. And if those stories were fake...if the stories weren’t real...then magic must not be real either.”
“You might think that I’m talking about magic because I’ve got a match with a magician coming up...I might call her a witch if it didn’t come with those negative associations. A witch because she’s bewitched the hearts and souls of the Visionaries not through spellcraft or, well, magic...but through the old fashioned virtues of putting forth effort and being a damn decent person. But no...I’m not mentioning magic because of Zahara but I’m not going to say that I’m not a fan of the coincidence.”
“If you were to ask me today, right now, if I believed in magic...I’m not so sure I’d be able to answer immediately. And that scares me. I know that magic like what they fling about in Harry Potter or whatever the latest ‘thing’ is isn’t real. I know that Penn and Teller are just really good at putting on a show and not actually secret wizards. And I know that David Blane and Criss Angel are pretentious dickheads who get off on attention and have little viable talent. And yet...I don’t know how to respond to that question. Ask it. Ask me if I believe in magic.”
“It wasn’t that long ago where I would’ve laughed at you for even thinking I’d answer that sort of thing. And yet...I don’t know.”
“What I do know is that...I don’t have anything. I don’t. People have said that I’m talented, that I’m good at what I do...hell even Zahara has admitted that she’s a fan of me...and yet...I still feel as if I don’t have anything. I’ve never really BEEN a champion despite what it appears. My first actual championship was almost like being thrown a bone - granted it was thrown in the middle of four hungry dogs who I’m sure do not appreciate the comparison or the seeming belittling which isn’t my intent - but at the end of the day even though I was the first ever to hold that title...it never really seemed like mine. I never felt like a champion. Because two weeks later it was gone. Won by someone who went on to make that title MEAN something.”
“What did I have to show for it? A sigh. A retreat back to my crappy Malibu apartment, and waking up in the morning ready to do whatever was asked of me. The consummate professional. Consummate Constance.”
“Even as I clawed my way tooth and nail into the scene for the creme-de la-creme of the company, showing the doubters - myself included - and the mocking jerks that I WAS somebody, god dammit...it still never felt like I made the title I worked hard to get MEAN something. I barely had it before I had to seek other options and then I was made short work of by someone who was always deadset on earning her belts. She trounced me and I realized that...even though my name will forever be on it...it will never truly be mine.”
“And here we are...with me having the Xcel Championship...and the same thought creeps into my head. What have I done to show that I’m a champion? What have I done to make this title feel like something I earned? What have I done as VoW’s Xcel Champion? And the answer...is nothing. Stacy Jones has been a two time Xcel Champion and dammit the belt is practically a part of her future legacy. Ryder Blade, say what you will about him, may as well be known as THE Xcel Champion with how much he put into his tenure as its holder. I still don’t think people applauded when he lost because it meant I was the winner...I think people applauded just because it meant that it was finally around the waist of someone else.”
“Yet...what have I done since then? Your Xcel Champion has been about as visible as J.D. Salinger. A loss against someone I mocked. A win against someone I almost mocked but took the high road. And that’s it. No real presence. No real...anything. What have I done to leave my stamp on the list of champions?”
“What have I done to leave my stamp on ANYTHING.”
“Do I believe in magic? I don’t know. I believe that I’ve never truly...been a champion. Even now...knowing that I earned it...that I’ll always be that person that ended an era...I don’t feel like a champion. And that’s my fault. I’m not trying to sell myself or the Xcel Championship short, not at all...this is just me realizing that for all my ability...for all my successes...I’ll never be someone that will be remembered for being a champion. And...I’m fine with that.”
“What I’m less fine with is what I’ve been hinting at for the length of this...I have nothing. Nothing lasting. Nothing that people will remember me by.”
“So before I go any further...before I say what I need to say about Nothing Else Matters...I need to do something that DOES matter. So…give me some time.”
Constance takes a deep breath and stands from the bench. The nervous expression on her face is only exemplified as she continues to take deep breaths. And yet she says nothing more on the matter, but as she turns to head into the establishment proper, the camera caught a glimpse of a small black box rolling around in her hand.
~
Constance Chapin had messed up. This was nothing new, messing up was something she had done several times in her life - her greatest triumphs came as a result of messing up in some capacity or another - but this time seemed much more serious than any other. More serious than ruining another woman’s marriage, which eventually managed to patch itself up in spite of Chapin’s deep seeded fears on the matter. It seemed serious, this monumental mess up, because it cost something more tangible than just time and emotional scars; this time there was money involved, and every time money was at the root of a problem it rarely worked out well in the end.
“Could you check again?” Try as she might, Constance couldn’t get the annoyance from her voice as she was teetering on the very edge of losing her patience. Her hands were clenched onto the sides of a fancy little podium, behind which a man who had a far too good smug look about him, due in large to the moustache above his lips, was casually flipping through a book of names.
Next to Constance, matching the Mancunian’s unusual formal attire with a more reserved but no less formal black dress, was Emily Darcy who was silently hoping that Constance would make a scene or a show of force...perhaps a demand to see the manager. There was just something about Constance yelling at people that worked for Emily. Perhaps it was the accent.
“Sorry, mademoiselle,” the maitre'd spoke in what both women could tell was an exaggerated French accent; Emily suspected the man was from Paris by way of Texas rather than France. “I’m not seeing your name on the list.” He even rolled his ‘t’ to make it sound as if he was saying it with a ‘z’. Emily rolled her eyes while Constance squeezed the podium’s edges a bit harder.
“Check again,” Less a polite request and more a flat demand, though Constance was still managing to hold her composure together.
“Madam, it’s been three times and the name Constance Chapin is not in the books. A fourth won’t make it appear. If you’d like to make a reservation for another time, I’d be happy to-” The front of house stopped his quite condescending speech and jumped slightly as Constance’s hand slapped the podium.
“Honey, maybe we should just go..” Emily, for as much as she would’ve enjoyed a verbal beatdown, had to at least pretend to play the part of the conflict resolution third party. Her right hand was gently placed onto Constance’s left shoulder in case she had to pull Constance back.
“Don’t act smug in your phony penguin suit and don’t patronize me. I know there’s a reservation in my name. I called my-” Constance caught herself and Emily could feel the tension rise as a grim realization entered Constance’s head. “...Caitlyn.” she muttered and loosened her grip on the podium.
“What does she have to do with this? Honey?”
In the wake of Constance’s most recent blunder, an admission of an unrequited love that existed in her heart, she realized all too late that admitting such a thing to Emily of all people was a mistake. It had been the truth, yes, that a younger Constance in a state of confusion and uncertainty about her chosen path and muddy future had misinterpreted friendship and camaraderie for something more, but someone young and stupid was allowed to make mistakes. And Constance fit squarely in the stupid angle of that particular pairing back in the day.
She knew as soon as the admission left her lips, louder and perhaps more angry than intended (in her defense, so she’d rationalise in her head, Emily had been unusually pushy), that she had done more harm than good and her mind went back, not to her younger days in Chicago, but to earlier in Malibu of all places, where a harmless joke of Emily poking fun at the idea of seeing someone else was enough to get Constance rather livid.
How the roles were reversed, made worse surely by the fact that prior to this little argument, Constance willingly brought Emily to the ‘other woman’s’ house.
Constance Chapin was adept at making mistakes.
The soon-to-be-empty apartment went even more quiet than usual for days after the fact, and not even much in the way of fanfare after Constance had a successful match against Heath Williams broke the air of quietude. The tension was obvious and the atmosphere was so heavy that for once Constance realized that it fell to her to make amends. She had been so used to running away from or shutting out the problems that were her fault but she knew this wasn’t something that could be bottled up and forgotten about. Constance knew first hand what it felt like to be betrayed, even in a simple joking manner, and every hour that went without Constance apologizing or explaining herself must’ve been a further twisting of the knife in Emily.
So in what she thought was, at the time, a good idea, Constance turned to the third member of what was her strange ‘posse’. Caitlyn had moments of genuine insight due to her ability at reading people. In her own words, she ’held a mirror up to people via a camera lens’ which is exactly the sort of aid Constance needed.
“I can’t help you, Ms. C.,” Caitlyn’s response was not the sort of advice Constance had expected, but then what could she expect from someone who went to prom as the videographer rather than as a student. Caitlyn may have been able to read people, but understanding them was another story. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Emily when she came crying to me. You two need to be more honest. Yeah, it’s fun to speak in riddles and entendre but someone’s gonna get confused eventually. Whatever you decide, let me know. I could use some drama for the final act.”
“Surely you’ve got enough footage by now?”
“More than enough. But you’re like a show in its middle seasons. You want to keep watching.”
While hardly the most helpful advice she had ever received, the talk of honesty did get Constance thinking, more so than usual, and she came to realize exactly what she had to do not simply to patch things up, but to show that the past was where it was. That the present and beyond were worth looking into now.
“Caitlyn, I need you to do me a favour,” Constance didn’t have a lot of time and she needed to act faster than she had been accustomed to. But what was life without a few obstacles and challenges to overcome. “I’m going out for a bit, while I’m gone I need you to make a reservation at that fancy place past the cinemas. The one we all mocked? Seven P.M. Can you do that for me?”
“Sure thing. Table for three, then?”
“Don’t be daft, Caitlyn. I’m not made of money.”
The recollection hit Constance as she stood on the edge of being embarrassed in formalwear, which was a level of embarrassment she was not at all accustomed to. Back in the restaurant lobby, Constance was shifting her annoyance to the third wheel as she hurriedly dialed Caitlyn’s phone. Emily looked on in confusion, the whole night being quite out of left field for her anyway, but when Constance says that fancy French cuisine was their date night, Emily is inclined to go along with it.
“Ah, Ms. C, how’s the escargot?” on the other end of the line, Caitlyn was cackling internally. She might not have been present in person but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have her fun. The one caveat she had before agreeing to make the reservations was that Constance had to take a camera along and film it; Caitlyn had a hunch as to what her former teacher was planning and it was rare to get footage like that.
“Did you forget to make the reservation?” Constance, meanwhile, was having none of the fun and games that her younger cohort thrived upon.
“I really wish you had a television. One of my favorite movies is gonna be on cable tonight. It’s called The Kid, ever heard of it? Maybe I can find it online while you enjoy your little fancy feast.”
Caitlyn hung up before Constance could ask for further clarification or confirmation as to the status of her reservation. Emily’s hand again found its way to Constnce’s shoulder, tension still there and even spreading to her face. She turned and again approached the podium, her anger no longer with the penguin-suit wearing front of house but rather at the little shit who threw a spanner in what was supposed to be a low key, quiet night with Emily.
“Sorry, but could you check to see if the name Chaplin is there? I’m afraid my...accent might’ve caused confusion.”
Though visibly annoyed at the request, the Penguin did as asked and, to what was surely his great surprise, the name Connie Chaplin was on the list of reservations. With egg firmly on her face, Constance followed the host to their reserved table with Emily chuckling all the while; someone was able to see the humor in the situation; had it happened to Emily instead, Constance was sure she’d be laughing as well. At least internally, anyway.
~
“This was nice, honey. I mean it.”
In front of Emily was a finished plate of terrine, mediterranean style, and a half finished glass of wine. The bottle had been left on the table, removed, and replaced with a second bottle over the course of their meal. Constance had had more wine than usual, downing no less than four glasses. That Emily didn’t say anything or perhaps pick up on it was good as Constance had only consumed so much to counteract her lingering nerves. The bussers were scattering about, clearing the table while their server had set the check down.
“Well, I know an account that might disagree with you there,” Constance sighed out as she noticed the triple digit number staring back at her at the bottom of the bill.
“Why don’t we do this more often? Have nights like this?”
“Because we hate people and normalcy.” Constance slid her card into the bill to be picked up by the server.
“True. But maybe normal people aren’t so bad. They have excellent wine, they have to be doing something right.” Emily snickered as she raised her wine glass to her lips, enjoying the elegant taste, unlike what was usually purchased at a liquor store or, heaven forbid, a grocery store. “So...a fancy restaurant...two bottles of wine...no Holden...is there something you want to tell me, honey? Something on your mind that you’re just...dying to get off your chest?”
“Actually, yeah. Bit stuffy in here, isn’t it? We should go.” As soon as the credit card was returned, Constance was standing and ready to leave while Emily, positioned somewhere between shocked and disappointed, needed the aid of an offered hand by Constance to get to her feet. The two said nothing as they walked, hand in hand, through the restaurant and out to the lobby towards the front door.
Emily’s shock at Constance’s avoidance lingered as they pulled away from the dining establishment with Constance behind the wheel. Emily crossed her arms in the passenger seat, aware that her subtle question had been anything but. She was fishing for that elusive word, the four letters Constance seemed unable to say in regards to HER but had little problems admitted them about a certain single parent.
“Do me a favour, Em. Can you get my GPS from the glove box? I like having the robot talk to us like we’re simpletons.”
Emily sighed and bent forward to open the compartment on the passenger side, mumbling how the GPS was an overall stupid purchase since they had phones that did the same thing. While Emily was momentarily distracted, Constance slid a disc into the vehicle’s CD player and turned to the fourth track. The dulcet tones of Kurt Cobain rang out, proclaiming in grand ironic and satirical fashion how ‘she should have been a son’.
“You hate this song.” Emily muttered her grand understatement.
”Yes, but you don’t. And I’m willing to suffer through it for you. Because I -”
“Constance..it’s not in...wha?” When Emily sat back up her mouth was hung open in surprise. Constance slowed the car to a stop - she had just been circling the parking lot anyway - and turned to look at Emily.
Cupped in Emily’s hands was a small black box, inside of which was a sparkling silver ring.
“I was going to do this in the restaurant...but that seemed utterly cliche, right? And we hate that. So...Emily Darcy...will you be my Fitzwilliam? Will you...will you ma-?”
Constance didn’t even get to ask the question. She had already gotten her answer.
~
The moon hangs high overhead, a rare night where it isn’t obscured by clouds or the like. The perfect sight to punctuate the almost perfect night. Constance Chapin, standing in the moonlight - and lit by the bright glow of a camera - stands with a mug of coffee on a balcony. She’s smiling, captured for all to see, and before speaking she sighs contentedly. For lack of a better term, Constance Chapin seems, for once, happy.
“I don’t remember where I left off, but it was probably me naval gazing and diminishing my own accomplishments, as you do when heading into a title defence, of course. I meant what I said, about me never really getting a chance to truly feel like a champion in my own right...and that’s not me trying to say that my victories have been hollow or anything of the sort, but a simple admission that despite holding the Xcel Championship for forty-some days at this point...I could’ve dropped it a week after Double Jeopardy and no one would bat an eye. My reign so far is defined by who I beat to win, which was always going to be the case, but that’s going to change following Nothing Else Matters...because just as the name indicates...now the only thing that matters for me is being a champion VoW can be proud to have...and one that’s equally as proud to be a champion.”
“I still don’t know the answer to that question I was so focused on. Do I believe in magic? I can’t answer that right now...but I think I know someone who does.”
“Zahara Matisse no doubt believes in magic, and not just because of her being, well, a practitioner of the sleight of hand and illusionary arts. Here’s a girl who’s had something of a meteoric rise since her arrival, scoring win after win after win and making herself a bona fide hit with the fans and, yes, the locker room to boot. And she’s earned her match with me; I didn’t answer her little challenge on Breakthrough but I didn’t feel cheated or wronged when Sky made this match happen. Because with Zahara it was only a matter of time, surely.”
“It wasn’t that long ago where I would have said that someone like Zahara must be hiding something sinister or foul, because how could it be possible that someone so utterly nice and bright could thrive in a place where the edgy and juvenile idea of gritty and dark thrive. But no...Zahara is in that same tier of person that I put someone like Stacy Jones in...someone that’s just...nice. Someone that’s well liked. Someone that’s far too good for this.”
“In a way I envy people like that. The people that are well liked, the ones that can connect with people they don’t know by something as simple as a slap to the palm. There’s a difference between being liked and being respected. Zahara is liked. If the words of Zahara and others like her are to be believed, and why wouldn’t they be, then I’m respected. So much so that the happy challenger has been on edge and freaking out, like I imagine someone meeting an idol would be while standing in line to get something signed. And that’s an odd feeling for me...because I’m so used to being a cynic that it never enters my head that...that I could be worthy of praise.”
“If Zahara is nervous then I’m all the more so. As I mentioned, despite my colorful career and reputation...I haven’t had very much experience in the realm of title defences. I lost my very first one. And this makes my second. I’m nervous, and I can admit that yes, even the cool, introspective loner like me can get nervous and start to sweat, but at the same time I’m...I’m excited as well.”
“Far be it from me to keep dragging up the past but it’ll all be relevant I assure you. When I won my world title I was in a different state of mind. I had two women who had discarded me as worthless and nothing - they had beaten me before and, in the case of our little cultist, had made it hurt. The third woman had pretty much written me off as a pity case. In short, I was the one who didn’t belong and who everyone thought would be the first one out. When I entered the ring that night, it wasn’t with a smile. It wasn’t with nerves. It was with determination and a point to prove and god dammit did I prove it in full. I made doubters into believers, and that includes myself.”
“When I went in at Double Jeopardy against Ryder Blade it was again because I had something to prove both to Ryder and to myself yet again. I wanted to prove that he wasn’t infallible and I wanted to prove that my greatest weakness was my own damn self.”
“I’ll be the first to say it...but those two wins might well be my greatest achievements in my career because both showed that when I’m up against a wall I do everything I can to push back.”
“And now...here I am and I’m not against a wall. I’m not out to shut up some kid. I’m not out to show three others that I matter just as much as they do. But the stakes are no different. Against Ryder I had to win. I had called him out, talked myself up, and couldn’t make myself look like yet another fake-ass broad who can talk mess but can’t clean up. Now against Zahara...I’m not facing her as an enemy. I’m not seeing her as someone beneath me. When we’re staring at each other before the bell rings and even long after the fact...I’m looking at Zahara as an equal.”
“If this match is going to prove anything, it’s going to prove that the Xcel Championship and all those that covet it are damn brilliant at what they do. A lot of weight is given to the top, to the World Visionary Title and sure, deservedly so...but which title is on the line damn at damn near the top of the night? Ryder’s Reign might well still be at the forefront of the mind when people mention the Xcel Title...but let this match show that it means far more.”
“Zahara wants this title as proof that she’s just as capable, as good as people have told her. And trust me, I can relate to that more than you might think, Zahara. And me? I want to keep my title right where it is so that I can show everyone that Constance Chapin is more than just a respected competitor...but a worthy champion as well.”
“She brings in her youthful exuberance and an undefeated streak - both of which are impressive. And I bring my grizzled experience and history of...ending streaks. Zahara has beaten some impressive people, least of all Tyler Storm, another of your champions, but she hasn’t beaten me. She hasn’t faced me. And I get why she’d be nervous, because if she truly wants to become a champion, and that always seems to be the goal with people, then she must know that I’m going to make her work for it.”
“I’ve got nothing bad to say about my opponent, nothing that wouldn’t just be stupid insults anyway. I’m not that person. I’m not someone that will resort to the petty to boost myself up, because for me it’s not about making someone feel small - unless of course they EARN the mockery. I might never have a Ryder Record. I might never be a long standing champion. But if I can go out and inspire someone to go above and beyond...and to match them blow for blow for blow...then when that bell rings and all is said and done...I can be happy with the outcome come what may.”
“I promised you a handshake after the match, Zahara, but I’m promising you something more. I’m promising that you’ll be getting the same Constance that was told she didn’t matter. The same one that was mocked by a punk kid who took a little lesson in humble after I was done. The same Constance that looks at the odds stacked against her and climbs up them anyway. Because anything else, Zahara, and I’d be doing us both a grave disservice. And the Xcel Championship deserves a clash of titans like us.”
“So I ask myself one last time….Do I believe in magic?”
“For the first time in my life...I’m genuinely happy. I’ve got a match that I’m actually looking forward to, against someone that I like, and no lingering feeling of doubt or worry. That alone is an incredibly rare combination. Add to the fact that whatever happens at Nothing Else Matters the Xcel Championship is going to be in the hands of a worthy competitor...and it starts to all add up.”
“Do I believe in magic?”
“You know what...I think I just might.”
~
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
She said yes.
