Post by Datura on Jul 30, 2016 22:40:26 GMT -6
It was
It wasn't
it wasn't
Always
Like this.
Like what?
Like lost gods
Like lonely ocean
Like echo with no teeth
Smile in paradise
lost in silence
stitched in skin
and soiled with debt.
Who do you
owe?
Everyone and everything
No one and nothing
There is oh so much I have taken
Yesterday, the angel on my shoulder
told me I would make it.
Today he called in sick
Itwasitwasn'titwasitwasn't
Twenty two years ago I was shoved into light without asking.
This year I was carved out of stone to rot in the sun.
I stole every beam
collected them in my throat
buried them underneath my jugular
Tear them out.
I am holy
Ghost I am
unholy coast I am
gray area.
Uncharted
open ending
Funeral with no end.
Iamnotokay
Iamnotokay
Iamnotokay
Okay.
Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
My lungs are starving
ravenous, addicted to
Smog and dust and dust and dust and
I should've buried this by now
But the tombstone means too much.
This was all a happy accident. It was never been my intention to become a qualifying member in the Quest for the Case match at Heatstroke. I went into my match with Tristan Ambrose as I had gone into every match in my whatever-odd years of wrestling, especially since leaving Girl Power Wrestling: aimless and without reason. Despite Tristan’s transgressions on Twitter, it wasn’t personal. Matches usually weren't.
Surely, I wouldn't admit it in public, but that match could have gone either way. I was tired andweak. I was downtrodden and terrified. I had just lost the one anchor attached to my stern to a storm of indifference. I was a Titanic waiting to happen. I went through the motions, nothing more, nothing less.
I felt no joy in that.
This wasn't what I signed up for.
But coming off that match, there was a flint-stroke. It sparked in my breastbone and ignited my windpipe. In the month ahead, I would be stepping into the ring with Gwendolyn Massey and have the opportunity to exact retribution on Joanna Thade in one fell swoop, all the while earning whatever strange gift that the gods of Visionaries decided to impose of the winner.
It was always hard for me to remember why I ended up in this skin, in this place, at this moment, not counting the childhood aspirations. I could never remember when I decided to be a wrestler by trade. I could never remember the thought process to embark on this thankless line of work.
But my god, I felt it this week.
This week wasn't a whirlwind. That would be an understatement of unparalleled proportions. It was a maelstrom breathing in my entire being. I was a sunken ship brought back from the depths, driftwood somehow graced enough to stay afloat through one more wave.
That began with knowing, finally, that I would learn the distance between apathy and hatred. I would, finally, trace the steps to malice and find the source of my inspiration.
Anyone less would make a pun about winter coming, but there would be no cold. Only the heat of a thousand dead summers- revenge in its purest form: the obliteration of love.
----
“Take your medicine.”
Cameron turned his head, which was buried in his knees, so that he could face me. He gave a narrow smile, waving off the suggestion with his trembling right hand
“It's nothing,” he responded. I rolled my eyes and leaned back in the wooden chair, knowing for certain how mothers felt.
“Cameron.”
He sighed and reached across the table to grab the orange bottles. He swept two up in his hand dumped their contents into the black tablecloth. After considering the alternatives, he grabbed four pills and shoved them into his mouth.
“Was that so hard?” I asked.
He didn't respond. Instead, he turned his head away to swallow and stared at the floor.
It had been almost a year since Matthew Robinson effectively ended the career of Cameron Behringer. Every time I saw him like this, doubled over in agony, I could hear his skull bouncing off of steel, I could see his face pressed against the steps, I could feel Robinson’s boot pressing down.
Twelve years, silenced by a coward who refused to stand shoulder to shoulder. Twelve illustrious years stolen by a thief who knew that if he didn't end Cameron, he wouldn't live to boast about it.
In these moments, I had tried to comfort him in the past. I would tell him that it wasn't his fault. I would tell him that Robinson had to attack him from behind to have a chance. I would tell him there was no dishonor what he had gone through. But he, in his infinite wisdom, would look up with his constricted pupils and say
“That is war, my dear. That is war,”
And I would smile and nod, fully aware he had no intention of shedding the shame.
“I have a match coming up.”
A heavy breath, “That so?”
“Winter Pine.”
“That so?”
“I thought you'd be more enthused.”
“I know what you're thinking.” He wiped his nose.
“That so?”
He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“And what's that?”
“You're seeking retribution against Robinson.” He perked up his head, giving a sly smile.
“You disapprove?”
“Just the opposite. I'm proud of you.”
“Proud of what?”
“You've finally found a cause.”
---
History does not ask us favors.
It haunts our bones
In hope we bring it back to life.
Some fights are worth waging.
Some bouts of rage are worth flaming.
Some bodies are worth saving.
Some are not.
It is not the memory who says forget me.
It is the breath.
It is the tongue that tastes the word goodbye.
I had allowed Ryan's decision to negate what momentum we shared. I had thought Morgan's departure would signal my descent into a maddening lull yet again. Instead, I attended my best friends’ wedding. I watched Ryan become a wife to someone who I once envied, to someone who had choked me out in front of a national audience, to someone who brought out the best in all of us.
How could I blame them for being
what I always wished to be?
---
“Now, I know what's going to be said, and I accept that. I understand what is about to happen as it has been festering unchecked for so long.” Elizabeth leans back, her spine arched against the stained wooden frame of her bed. Her face resides in a space of sincere happiness, a smile etched from cheek to cheek.
“At some point, I will be called, yet again, a judgemental bitch. I take that criticism as it comes because truthfully, that is how my friend this week feels. That's alright.” Elizabeth nods, her eyes fluttering.
“The truth is, as you all know, is that I offer my perspective without fail and without dishonesty. I do not hide behind a veil or a group. I stand alone in the landscape of Visionaries of Wrestling, unlike Joanna Thade, unlike Matthew Robinson, unlike Winter Pine…” She trails off and looks up to the ceiling, her outstretched leg bouncing in excitement.
“But that's their prerogative. That is the calling so many wretches have found themselves in. They gravitate to those who make them feel comfortable and hold on, white knuckles trembling, out of fear and desperation.
“But I am not among the desperate. I do not cling to safety. I do not seek out a weight to bury my inadequacies, but I suppose that's why we're here. Isn't it?” Elizabeth licks her lips and grins, baring her teeth.
“You see, Winter Pine and I had no quarrel. To the contrary, as a competitor, I respected her callous determination. I saw a mirror of sorts. I once respected Winter Pine because of her fearsome disposition. Once…
This seems to be a trope here, wouldn't you say? Talent navigates here, talent that once had merit behind them and once stood for ideals. But those ideologies are long past. The truth once tied to their names was severed, and now they exist as mirror images of their former lives. Depressing really.” Her mouth curls into a half frown.
“This would, on a normal night, be the time where I run down a list of your accomplishments and tell you how special I think you are for them, or I would run down your lips of failures and pick apart your every inadequacy. I would usually pinpoint the exact moment you lost your previous matches and use them to my advantage. None of that really matters, and this is not a normal night. Tonight is special, and you've only made one error to earn my reckoning.” She leans forward.
“Winter is an especially interesting case because she actually believes what she says. She truly believes that her affiliation with Matthew Robinson should garner her no ill will! And why wouldn't she? If there were a thing that is above reproach on this Earth, wouldn't it be love?” Datura’s eyes dilate and shimmer, her final syllables shivering in sarcastic bewilderment.
“To think I would forgive something so serious for such a childish abstraction Did you really think a bond so soft as marriage could protect you from what your loathsome husband did? How adorably idealistic you've become.” Finally, Elizabeth's demeaned returns to its usual grimace.
“I'm afraid I must be the bearer of bad news.” She scoffs.
“It has been ten months and several days since your husband put a god to rest. It has been ten months and several days since I sat in a hospital room, brain fixated on incessant beeping, wondering if I was to become a caregiver or if I would be planning a funeral. You-” She stops, her voice venomous and shaking.
“See, the humorous part of all this is that Cameron understands. He understands that only fear could drive a man to so viciously assault another without looking him in the eye. Even more, because of that understanding, he harbors only resentment that he cannot return to what he loved. I hold a different kind.” She grits her teeth.
“When Matthew Robinson attacked Cameron, he assaulted a man I consider family. He ruined a man that I consider blood. He stabbed someone I love in the back like a coward...which brings me to you, sweet Winter.” She violently shakes her head.
“Somehow, you don't see this as your responsibility. You do not see this as a fault of your own. You've said to me that I don't know the man, Matthew Robinson. You've said that I don't know what he's like at home.” She opens her mouth to continue but stops, utterly dumbfounded.
“Winter, the mere fact that you can stand to look at him tells me everything that I need to know. You've let a man who takes pleasure in hospitalizing my loved ones into your home. You've let a man who, without regret or hesitation, trick you into thinking he can love. You've let a man who would smile as he bashes someone skull in around your children… and the conclusion you draw is that I'm a judgemental bitch?” Elizabeth rubs her forehead.
“At times, I consider putting you, but then I remember that you are so clueless to reality of this simple fact: by marrying someone, by putting on the ring that sociopath gave you, you've condoned everything he's done, whilst simultaneously washing yourself of any and all culpability…
This will not be your average opening contest. This won't even be your average wrestling match. This is going to be someone who has harbored ten months of residual anger, ten months of building anger, ten months of tangible hatred being unleashed upon the one thing that Matthew Robinson loves more than anything else, perhaps even himself.” Datura tilts her head and squints.
“I am not coming into this Breakthrough to win a match. I will be coming to West Virginia for one purpose:
to do unto Matt Robinson as he has done unto me."
It wasn't
it wasn't
Always
Like this.
Like what?
Like lost gods
Like lonely ocean
Like echo with no teeth
Smile in paradise
lost in silence
stitched in skin
and soiled with debt.
Who do you
owe?
Everyone and everything
No one and nothing
There is oh so much I have taken
Yesterday, the angel on my shoulder
told me I would make it.
Today he called in sick
Itwasitwasn'titwasitwasn't
Twenty two years ago I was shoved into light without asking.
This year I was carved out of stone to rot in the sun.
I stole every beam
collected them in my throat
buried them underneath my jugular
Tear them out.
I am holy
Ghost I am
unholy coast I am
gray area.
Uncharted
open ending
Funeral with no end.
Iamnotokay
Iamnotokay
Iamnotokay
Okay.
Breathe.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
My lungs are starving
ravenous, addicted to
Smog and dust and dust and dust and
I should've buried this by now
But the tombstone means too much.
This was all a happy accident. It was never been my intention to become a qualifying member in the Quest for the Case match at Heatstroke. I went into my match with Tristan Ambrose as I had gone into every match in my whatever-odd years of wrestling, especially since leaving Girl Power Wrestling: aimless and without reason. Despite Tristan’s transgressions on Twitter, it wasn’t personal. Matches usually weren't.
Surely, I wouldn't admit it in public, but that match could have gone either way. I was tired andweak. I was downtrodden and terrified. I had just lost the one anchor attached to my stern to a storm of indifference. I was a Titanic waiting to happen. I went through the motions, nothing more, nothing less.
I felt no joy in that.
This wasn't what I signed up for.
But coming off that match, there was a flint-stroke. It sparked in my breastbone and ignited my windpipe. In the month ahead, I would be stepping into the ring with Gwendolyn Massey and have the opportunity to exact retribution on Joanna Thade in one fell swoop, all the while earning whatever strange gift that the gods of Visionaries decided to impose of the winner.
It was always hard for me to remember why I ended up in this skin, in this place, at this moment, not counting the childhood aspirations. I could never remember when I decided to be a wrestler by trade. I could never remember the thought process to embark on this thankless line of work.
But my god, I felt it this week.
This week wasn't a whirlwind. That would be an understatement of unparalleled proportions. It was a maelstrom breathing in my entire being. I was a sunken ship brought back from the depths, driftwood somehow graced enough to stay afloat through one more wave.
That began with knowing, finally, that I would learn the distance between apathy and hatred. I would, finally, trace the steps to malice and find the source of my inspiration.
Anyone less would make a pun about winter coming, but there would be no cold. Only the heat of a thousand dead summers- revenge in its purest form: the obliteration of love.
----
“Take your medicine.”
Cameron turned his head, which was buried in his knees, so that he could face me. He gave a narrow smile, waving off the suggestion with his trembling right hand
“It's nothing,” he responded. I rolled my eyes and leaned back in the wooden chair, knowing for certain how mothers felt.
“Cameron.”
He sighed and reached across the table to grab the orange bottles. He swept two up in his hand dumped their contents into the black tablecloth. After considering the alternatives, he grabbed four pills and shoved them into his mouth.
“Was that so hard?” I asked.
He didn't respond. Instead, he turned his head away to swallow and stared at the floor.
It had been almost a year since Matthew Robinson effectively ended the career of Cameron Behringer. Every time I saw him like this, doubled over in agony, I could hear his skull bouncing off of steel, I could see his face pressed against the steps, I could feel Robinson’s boot pressing down.
Twelve years, silenced by a coward who refused to stand shoulder to shoulder. Twelve illustrious years stolen by a thief who knew that if he didn't end Cameron, he wouldn't live to boast about it.
In these moments, I had tried to comfort him in the past. I would tell him that it wasn't his fault. I would tell him that Robinson had to attack him from behind to have a chance. I would tell him there was no dishonor what he had gone through. But he, in his infinite wisdom, would look up with his constricted pupils and say
“That is war, my dear. That is war,”
And I would smile and nod, fully aware he had no intention of shedding the shame.
“I have a match coming up.”
A heavy breath, “That so?”
“Winter Pine.”
“That so?”
“I thought you'd be more enthused.”
“I know what you're thinking.” He wiped his nose.
“That so?”
He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“And what's that?”
“You're seeking retribution against Robinson.” He perked up his head, giving a sly smile.
“You disapprove?”
“Just the opposite. I'm proud of you.”
“Proud of what?”
“You've finally found a cause.”
---
History does not ask us favors.
It haunts our bones
In hope we bring it back to life.
Some fights are worth waging.
Some bouts of rage are worth flaming.
Some bodies are worth saving.
Some are not.
It is not the memory who says forget me.
It is the breath.
It is the tongue that tastes the word goodbye.
I had allowed Ryan's decision to negate what momentum we shared. I had thought Morgan's departure would signal my descent into a maddening lull yet again. Instead, I attended my best friends’ wedding. I watched Ryan become a wife to someone who I once envied, to someone who had choked me out in front of a national audience, to someone who brought out the best in all of us.
How could I blame them for being
what I always wished to be?
---
“Now, I know what's going to be said, and I accept that. I understand what is about to happen as it has been festering unchecked for so long.” Elizabeth leans back, her spine arched against the stained wooden frame of her bed. Her face resides in a space of sincere happiness, a smile etched from cheek to cheek.
“At some point, I will be called, yet again, a judgemental bitch. I take that criticism as it comes because truthfully, that is how my friend this week feels. That's alright.” Elizabeth nods, her eyes fluttering.
“The truth is, as you all know, is that I offer my perspective without fail and without dishonesty. I do not hide behind a veil or a group. I stand alone in the landscape of Visionaries of Wrestling, unlike Joanna Thade, unlike Matthew Robinson, unlike Winter Pine…” She trails off and looks up to the ceiling, her outstretched leg bouncing in excitement.
“But that's their prerogative. That is the calling so many wretches have found themselves in. They gravitate to those who make them feel comfortable and hold on, white knuckles trembling, out of fear and desperation.
“But I am not among the desperate. I do not cling to safety. I do not seek out a weight to bury my inadequacies, but I suppose that's why we're here. Isn't it?” Elizabeth licks her lips and grins, baring her teeth.
“You see, Winter Pine and I had no quarrel. To the contrary, as a competitor, I respected her callous determination. I saw a mirror of sorts. I once respected Winter Pine because of her fearsome disposition. Once…
This seems to be a trope here, wouldn't you say? Talent navigates here, talent that once had merit behind them and once stood for ideals. But those ideologies are long past. The truth once tied to their names was severed, and now they exist as mirror images of their former lives. Depressing really.” Her mouth curls into a half frown.
“This would, on a normal night, be the time where I run down a list of your accomplishments and tell you how special I think you are for them, or I would run down your lips of failures and pick apart your every inadequacy. I would usually pinpoint the exact moment you lost your previous matches and use them to my advantage. None of that really matters, and this is not a normal night. Tonight is special, and you've only made one error to earn my reckoning.” She leans forward.
“Winter is an especially interesting case because she actually believes what she says. She truly believes that her affiliation with Matthew Robinson should garner her no ill will! And why wouldn't she? If there were a thing that is above reproach on this Earth, wouldn't it be love?” Datura’s eyes dilate and shimmer, her final syllables shivering in sarcastic bewilderment.
“To think I would forgive something so serious for such a childish abstraction Did you really think a bond so soft as marriage could protect you from what your loathsome husband did? How adorably idealistic you've become.” Finally, Elizabeth's demeaned returns to its usual grimace.
“I'm afraid I must be the bearer of bad news.” She scoffs.
“It has been ten months and several days since your husband put a god to rest. It has been ten months and several days since I sat in a hospital room, brain fixated on incessant beeping, wondering if I was to become a caregiver or if I would be planning a funeral. You-” She stops, her voice venomous and shaking.
“See, the humorous part of all this is that Cameron understands. He understands that only fear could drive a man to so viciously assault another without looking him in the eye. Even more, because of that understanding, he harbors only resentment that he cannot return to what he loved. I hold a different kind.” She grits her teeth.
“When Matthew Robinson attacked Cameron, he assaulted a man I consider family. He ruined a man that I consider blood. He stabbed someone I love in the back like a coward...which brings me to you, sweet Winter.” She violently shakes her head.
“Somehow, you don't see this as your responsibility. You do not see this as a fault of your own. You've said to me that I don't know the man, Matthew Robinson. You've said that I don't know what he's like at home.” She opens her mouth to continue but stops, utterly dumbfounded.
“Winter, the mere fact that you can stand to look at him tells me everything that I need to know. You've let a man who takes pleasure in hospitalizing my loved ones into your home. You've let a man who, without regret or hesitation, trick you into thinking he can love. You've let a man who would smile as he bashes someone skull in around your children… and the conclusion you draw is that I'm a judgemental bitch?” Elizabeth rubs her forehead.
“At times, I consider putting you, but then I remember that you are so clueless to reality of this simple fact: by marrying someone, by putting on the ring that sociopath gave you, you've condoned everything he's done, whilst simultaneously washing yourself of any and all culpability…
This will not be your average opening contest. This won't even be your average wrestling match. This is going to be someone who has harbored ten months of residual anger, ten months of building anger, ten months of tangible hatred being unleashed upon the one thing that Matthew Robinson loves more than anything else, perhaps even himself.” Datura tilts her head and squints.
“I am not coming into this Breakthrough to win a match. I will be coming to West Virginia for one purpose:
to do unto Matt Robinson as he has done unto me."
