Post by Datura on May 24, 2016 16:00:01 GMT -6
Barren branched buckled under the weight of condensation, and rain dribbled down like a morphine drip. Each step underneath our boots crunched against the soggy earth, mud lurching from beneath our feet. It was a Friday morning; artificial light polluted twilight and attempted to claw its way out of the dark.
Momentary splashes interrupted the song of crickets and frogs soaking in the early summer. I turned my head to look behind us. The distance between where we stood and the car was blocked by billowing fog, rising from the soaked warmth of the ground. As I turned, I was met with towering sunflowers that stretched out in all directions. Despite the dark, I could see the massive flowers sagging downward, as if staring directly at us.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
Cameron did not turn to me. Instead, he trudged into the stretch of stalks that towered over our heads. He batted leaves and flowers from his face, sending yellow and red petals tumbling into his footprints. I followed as best as I could, but it only took mere moments before he increased the distance between us.
“Cameron…” Again, my request was ignored. I attempted to follow the sound of his footsteps, but we had become engulfed in sound: wind rushing, creatures scurrying, nature’s languages, and the noises my mind made up on its own. I stumbled through the foliage in a mindless attempt to gather a sense of direction.
Time passed as slowly as I did, and I made little progress until the sun crept onto the horizon. I followed its origin, finally finding the comfort of footprints and following them to my destination.
The sloshing of my feet stopped as I finally emerged from the field. Cameron stood motionless in a clearing, his body rigid. I couldn’t tell how long he had been waiting, but a feeling crept inside that said it was an exhausting period.
I approached him from behind, gazing mindlessly into the clearing we had found. The sun rose higher the sky, casting a shadow upon the ruins. A circle of rotting buildings stood in defiance of time.
“What is this?”
“This is a monument…” Cameron trailed off, his eyes peering about the collapse.
“A monument to what?”
“Many things: perseverance, dedication, will. But those are not the reasons we’re here today.” Cameron abandoned his spot and wandered further out toward the largest of the dilapidated buildings.
“Most of all, this is a reminder to the human race that history cannot be erased.” He paused to let the moment sink in.
“This farm was build, for the first time, hundreds of years ago. Then fire came, and they rebuilt it. Then floods came, and they rebuilt it. Each time nature and fate collided with this small stretch of land, there were hands to piece it back together,” he sighed, “until there were no more hands.”
“I don-”
“Despite their incessant attempts, the poor fortune followed these wretches. They valiantly attempted to forget, they valiantly attempted to outrun it, but even the most wonderful efforts of man cannot make the past stop calling. It always comes back…”
I squinted at him, lost to whatever psychobabble he was attempting to impart. Rather than stand there stupefied, I veered away from him toward the side of the clearing where what was left of a child’s bedroom stood. I stepped onto the ruined floorboards and kneeled down. Amongst the dust and debris, mangled dolls peered out into the distance.
“We cannot outrun it, Elizabeth. We will always be victims of…” Cameron’s voice faded from my ears, replaced with an incessant pitch. The ringing grew louder with the passing moments. I looked up at him and tilted my head. His mouth continued moving, but no sound exited his lips.
What a miserable place. I reached out to grab one of the dolls. Its white dress was ragged with holes torn through the red dots littering its surface. I held it in my hand for a moment before standing and clutching it to my chest. And for what? Reduced to some sort of lesson? Reduced to a lecture?
“…it is fruitless.”
My head jolted toward his voice. He stood still, but tilted his head in my direction No. These people had names. They had lives. They had obviously escaped whatever cruel collapse that time tried to bring back. They won. They won. They did exactly as I will do
“I don't believe you.”
Cameron chuckled, “Belief has no place among the dead.”
The breath in my lungs
pushed itself out.
I felt them, then
beneath the ground.
I stepped over the ledge of what was once a wall back toward Cameron. Rather than greet me, he moved within inches of the largest building.
“You cannot be so hopeless as to think we are incapable of making change.”
“Change is subjective. We can manipulate our surroundings, but never our outcomes. We are bred and beaten into what we become. No amount of will can change that. Nature verses nurture is meaningless. We are products of our environment. Nothing more, nothing less.” Cameron stretched out his arms in front of what was left of a barn.
“The sooner you learn that, the sooner your misfortunes will end.”
“Misfortunes?”
“Isn't that what you would call Visionaries of Wrestling thus far?”
“I think-”
“That's the problem, Elizabeth. You think, but do not know. There is only one person on this earth that can get inside your head. It isn’t .paak. It isn’t Ambrose. It isn’t me,” he snarled, “you've climbed inside yourself and built a home from doubt inside your skill. You've gotten sloppy.” The accusation sent a shiver downward from the bottom of my skull. I glared at Cameron as he turned to me, teeth clamped.
“What did you say?”
“You’ve been so concerned with this quest to better yourself that you’ve let everything else rot around you. You’ve become so unfocused that you’ve allowed your anger to best you for months.”
“Don't you start!”
“Oh?” Cameron turned and rolled his neck. The thought of strangling him where he stood made itself comfortable. “You can't let-”
“Don't lecture me on what I can and cannot do.” My eyes widened, and I found myself upon him before I could process the situation, right hand clasped around his throat. As he stood, trapped between my body and wood, his lips curled up like a crescent moon.
“My point, exactly.” He coughed and grabbed my wrist with his thumb and pointing finger before removing it from his throat. He brushed himself off and began to stroll away.
“Until you let that house inside your head rot, you will never be the Elizabeth I know. You wish to escape her so badly that you’ll destroy yourself to be rid of her. The truth is, dear: she will always be there lurking. Let her out. Don’t bury yourself before you’re ready. Don’t be like these sad souls.”
I watched the back of his head as he disappeared back into the brush. Once he was gone, I turned back to the plot and returned to the little girl’s room where I had retrieved the doll. I inhaled deeply, allowing the scents of moisture and loss to interweave in my nostrils.
My legs crossed, and I lowered myself into the floor.
-----
“I spent the first half of this year in a haze. I’ve spent the second half in a vat of rage…” Elizabeth sucks on her teeth and takes a drink from her highball glass, the cubes of ice inside rattling. She stares at her hand and sighs.
“It’s a balancing act, trying to make sense of who we are. You cannot find yourself too far along the spectrum should you ever wish to return to the middle. We become acclimated to our states of mind, become complacent, achieve a state of stagnation within ourselves.” With enough concentration, she steadies her hand.
“If I can be honest with you, I haven’t thought much about wrestling as of late. I learned quickly that coming back in that frame of mind was a perilous endeavor…” She takes a final sip of whisky and places the glass upon the table before tapping violently on its surface.
“Many people had high aspirations. They heard my name, and it brought forth dread and caution. They waited for my first appearance, then my second, but they were disappointed both times.” She exhales a laugh.
“When I faced .paak, I tried my hardest to return to myself. I brought the same witticisms, the same rhetoric that the old Elizabeth had used, but I did it under duress. I did it to appeal to those who knew my name. I wasn’t myself, and I apologize most vigorously to .paak for that.
“She didn’t face the deliberate Datura she had hoped. She fought a shell, a wandering reminder, an empty breath. In the end, I became frustrated with the inability to close, and I cost myself the match. I fell directly into Mr. Himura’s trap. He knew I would. He saw it, the weakness. I truly believe he could see it in my flesh. The moment he interjected himself, he knew that .paak was going to walk out with a win one way or another.
“I was foolish enough to let that happen. I lost my first match in Visionaries of Wrestling because my temper eroded my senses. It’s something I wish you hadn’t seen. It’s something I wish had been the end of it.” She shakes her head.
“One show later, I found myself at the end of another loss. This time, I became comfortable in silence. Rather than attempt to disjoint Mr. Ambrose, I allowed him to sulk in my lack of space. He used that time to prepare, as I didn’t, and I fell to him. I will make no excuses. He won a match that was never close or even. This Elizabeth you see has not exactly been the harbinger of destruction she used to be.
“I have tried, without much success, to shed myself of past mistakes. I have fought in sweat, in fever, near death in an attempt to reinvent myself. Yet, despite all of my efforts, I find myself permanently hinged to my upbringing, the environment I built myself from nothing. In the end, trying to escape it has been more detrimental than being a part of it.” She clenches her fist and closes her eyes.
“In fiction, we watch as a character progresses throughout the story. The protagonist changes over time, learns something new, and evolves. We grow attached as they overcome their obstacles with this newfound wisdom. Real life does not shape itself so.
“Instead, we make futile attempts to alleviate our dispositions. We claw and scratch and climb toward nothing. Some are lucky enough to proceed past these seemingly insurmountable instances. Others, crash back into the wreckage. So what are those people to do?” She raises a single finger.
“We must make a choice. We can either continue to dig ourselves deeper into despair or we can accept what we forced upon ourselves. Once we reach this point, we can begin to speak about our legacy….
I have finally reached that point.” Elizabeth stands from her seat and grins, placing her hands behind her back.
“I wasted the better part of this year in an attempt to find a new path. In the end, I found the inevitable: the one I have already begun to build.
“Tristan, who is no longer in our match, spoke quite furiously about legacy several weeks ago, didn’t he? Since then, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been rattling my mind attempting to find what Elizabeth Mauduit will leave this world. I was looking in the wrong place. The question should have been: what have I left upon this sordid place?” She begins to pace about the room.
“Friends, my legacy is not the wins column.
My legacy is not the Majestic Wrestling or UWF titles.
My legacy is not the fanfare.
My legacy is certainly not my two losses in Visionaries of Wrestling.
“I wasn’t supposed to be in this match. Originally, Ambrose, Jones, and Soloke were set to have a three way. One of them was smart enough to leave the moment I was put on the billing. The other two will learn the hard way. Isn’t that right, Patrick?” Elizabeth tilts her head, as if expecting an immediate reply.
“I have watched Patrick Jones for a long while now. I’d be remiss if I did not mention his progress. What had once been a man with little hope has blossomed – has grown upon himself to create a lovely opponent. There are others who scoff at his name, chalking a match with him up to an easy win. I do not have such intentions.
“Patrick may have lost to Kincaid at Breakthrough 43, but many on this roster would have suffered the same fate. The statistics and breakdowns of our business do not account for nuance- they do not address the could have been or what would have been beyond the present. I find this regrettable because in my mind, Patrick Jones has evolved far beyond others in Visionaries of Wrestling. I must commend him for that.
“Patrick may have lost his tag team match with Owen to The Horsewomen at Breakdown 42, but many on this roster would have suffered the same fate. It was a tenacious showing from the losing team that made Talon and Katalina Star earn their victory. Perseverance did not triumph, but it cannot be understated.
“Watching these two matches in detail, there is one thing that cannot be forgotten. First, Patrick Jones is a sleeper. He can be beaten, and maimed, and injured, yet he can somehow keep fighting far beyond the breadth of ordinary men. You may think you have him beaten, but he will somehow find a way to get his shoulders off the mat, regardless of your certainties.
“This perseverance does not take into account the progress he’s made as a wrestler. The sloppy, stiff Patrick Jones no longer clutters our ring. Patrick now moves with a sense of confidence. If you’re not careful, underestimating him will help you fall directly onto the mat and lead you to a ‘shocking’ loss.” Elizabeth looks around the room.
“I recognize what others do not. Patrick Jones puts his entire life into every match, something more of you should consider doing. It’s something that I should consider doing. But on this day, everything will not be enough. Just like Talon, just like Star, and just like Kincaid, I will weather the hurricane that is Patrick Jones. Eventually, all storms die…” She scratches her head and raises her hands in defense.
“But I am not alone with Patrick Jones this week, am I? I must also deal with the returning threat of Maxwell Soloke… now, Maxwell is an interesting case because he has a title history as difficult to follow as his name.” She raises her brows and takes a sharp inhale.
“Now I could say that this isn’t CLAW, this isn’t NEW, this isn’t one of the four hundred places you’ve wrestled, Max, but I am not going to take that route. You’ve carved yourself a lovely little niche inside the wrestling community, and I can see your appeal. People get excited when they see you in the ring because of your pace. You’re quick, your agile, you strike more than most, and you’re smart. You can hit someone at any moment with the Perfect Disaster, and that’s it. Good night. Maxwell Soloke wins another match.” Elizabeth grimaces and tilts her head.
“The only problem with that is I’ve faced someone like you already, Max. I went toe to toe with .paak, and she’s much more effective than you are. She has more stamina than you, she has better ring technique, and she has a lot more patience. I could’ve pulled out a victory against a far more formidable opponent had I not been distracted, but we all have our weaknesses don’t we?” She shrugs.
“Fortunately for you, I’m in a generous mood. I’m going to give the both of you another weakness to exploit, and we’re going to see if you can take advantage of it. See, before we even step into Chicago, I’m going to tell you exactly how I plan on winning this match.” Datura returns back to her seat and leans forward.
“I am going to wear both of you down within an inch of your sanity. I am going to keep this match going for as long as I will allow. I am going to toy with the two of you until you cannot move another muscle. Every time that you think the match is finish, I will make sure it continues. Only when both of you are drenched in sweat, when both of you cannot catch your breath, only when the pain is insurmountable will I put you out of your collective miseries.” She sneers and licks her lips.
“I am no longer clouded by questions.
I do not beckon to a future self.
I am comfortable in my own bones.
Only now do I see
I am the only one
who can get under my own skin.
I will not be known by mercy.
I will be known by the agony my name entails.
I will be known by the desolation.
I will be known by the blood.
I am called many things,
but you may call me by my name.
Unfortunately, for you,
I finally understand what it means
to be the plague.
