The Darkness of Despair

Darkness. It’s a place I’ve been all too familiar with in my entire life. The circumstances for each of the visits of this hell differ. When I was a young lad it was often subjected to me in the form of religion. They branded their light as the only way but it was a situation where I probably shouldn’t have even survived. The scars across the my arms and body tell part of that story of the kind of physical hell I endured. But the bigger scar comes from the voice of self doubt that creeped in. The voice that exists in all of us.

The horrid negativity of it all…

For most of my career I’ve done everything in my power to silence any kind of doubt in order to shed that darkness. Even if said darkness took a different form...I didn’t want to be subjected to the mental torture of being reminded every single day of inferiority. And it always set me off whenever someone proclaimed me to be inferior using arbitrary statements and blustered off bullshit. Especially when you live in a realm of truth like I always have.

But the absolute truth is that for one year...the fact is Matt Slater is my superior and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

For one year I have to have the image of him spiking me on my cranium with my own tombstone play in my brain...and haunt me both when I’m in a locker room and in my own house. For one year...I have to listen to all the sheeple that have flocked to Matt Slater tell me that I tapped out when I knew holding out would mean the end of my own career. For the next year...I’ll still hear the echos of my own palm hitting the mat when I reached my breaking point.

For one year...I’ll be haunted in the darkness that Matt Slater’s soul should have endured.

For one whole fucking year...I’ll be known as inferior to Matt Slater when it shouldn’t be the case...

When a man has disparaged me for months on end to try to get to that point and he’s eventually rewarded...it really puts in perspective how sick our world has become. The fact that he can control the narrative now after that victory when for three years I should have and never got the opportunity to because of his damn legions of fans makes me absolutely sick. I’ve been verbally abused often times...I’ve even had death threats against both myself and my beautiful daughter but I’ve found myself in a position here where I can’t even play the cards.

I’m along for the ride in that narrative for my legacy...and quite frankly I feel as if I’ve been mentally raped.

But it isn’t just in my case where I feel like the narrative has been altered to fit the reality the people want to believe rather than the truth. You see it all the time in wrestling honestly. The fact that anyone even questioned Ace’s Zero Gravity reign before it began offends me as a wrestler for starters. And yet they continue to shower the loser of that match, the person who put that SHADOW on the champion with compliments in Katie also makes me want to vomit at the injustice that’s going around.

But that bit of deception is nothing compared to what you’ve done your entire VOW career Reya.

The absolute fact that you could not pick up the phone for someone who you considered your sister would offend me but it doesn’t surprise me at all. Not when you consider your religion and helping African children who don’t deserve it in missions far more important than the people you have created bonds for. That makes you a selfish, vindictive woman who wants the attention of the good deed while when someone calls you out on your bullshit...like any religious zealot I’ve ever endured in my life you whine and cry and play victim. The entire world isn’t fair and like Slater you have the gift of conning these people into believing your narrative.

You’re not the victim. Rayne is. 

And so am I...

Let’s not forget how our issue started oh dear Harold. All YOU had to do when you claimed I was a friend was pick up the phone when I blew my knee out and my career was in doubt was...pick up the damn phone. Just five minutes of your time. But no...you’d rather preach this false religion about some washed up God whose word in that bible contradicts itself more than a politician’s speech. You’re no different than my parents and considering you know the absolute history of what my parents did and here you are repeating the same mistakes tells me that you’re a disgrace to your religion and a disgrace to your last name.

Your sisters Cera and Vanessa both look down on you in shame for what you’ve done to your family name.

And you disgrace the former shield and sword that was The Court with how you’ve let all of us drift apart.

That isn’t all. I also remember our last encounter oh so very well. I might have gotten my hand raised but I felt like I lost...similar to how the fans always treated my victories over Slater. But there’s another reason for that. The moment I saw your name as my opponent the image of my orbital bone shattering when you bounced my head off the apron went right back into my brain. You intentionally attempted to try to force me into wearing a mask yet again when that part of my career should be left behind. I don’t want to live in the past with my life and yet for one whole year I’ll be reminded of my last encounter with Slater now.

...and I’m not going to make the same mistake with you.

There is a chance Reya that your ‘God’ won’t let you make it to that weapons match with Rayne. And I might have to apologize to Rayne before hand that she might not get a chance to extract her revenge...when I have my own chips on the table to cash in. Baltimore is going to be hell...when you realize once and for all your ‘God’ won’t be able to do a damn thing to give you faith and that you’ve been praying to the wrong Deity all along.

I’m going to make you kneel at the altar...of The Deity of Destruction.

The August heat is relentless on this miserable afternoon. The windshield on my old silverado is fogging up. The traffic in downtown Morgantown is heavy...filled with all the college kids moving back into their dorms and the general insanity that football season is coming. Unfortunately neither those dormitories nor the stadium is my destination...but the medical facility right next to Milan Puskar Stadium...the WVU medical group. And I doubt I’m getting one of the new students either considering my personality.

“Summer can die anytime…” I mutter in disgust.

Unlike most of the idiots on this crowded road, I actually use my turn signal to indicate I’m making a right turn even though many of these kids are just shifting lanes AND making turns without using their blinkers. If they were black the cops would pull them over in a heartbeat...but that’s besides the point. The wonderful nature is showing its own signs from the heat with the yellow grass dying off. Though if we were further south in the state the flooding would create a different problem…

I make that right turn in the vehicle, blowing the horn at the people that were behind me in disgust when they decide to ride my ass on the road and make the familiar trek up this hill and on the way to the hospital. The road isn’t near as crowded as the main though there’s the usual traffic going on and the renovated Milan Puskar Hospital approaches. I expertly pull in behind a white taurus near the building, shut the vehicle off and am immediately sucker punched by the heat once the air conditioning stops. With one last sigh...I open the door and look in the mirror and am reminded of both the scar near my eye from the previous Reya match...and the image of the blood pouring through both my nose and the stitches on my forehead rush back into my brain.

“They’re all going to pay…” I seethe as I exit the vehicle and shut the door, “Every last one of them…”

It doesn’t take long for the sweat to pour down my face and start to go over my entire body from the horrible heat in the afternoon. There’s a level of discomfort as I grunt with every step that I take where I have to put weight on my left knee. Part of it is the years of wear and tear along with the injuries but the previous match certainly hasn’t help. I don’t think wearing a black and blue suit to the premise is helping me deal with the heat either but at least I’m not making as bad of a choice as this country will be whenever they have to vote for a president…

My old body hobbles toward the rotating doors and the blast of air conditioning greets me with such relief that I feel my left knee grow a little weaker. It starts buckling a little more as I try to straighten it out and walk without bending it across the hallway. The woman over the counter looks at me curiously as I’m lumbering slowly...and though I try to hide the extent to how bad walking feels like a laboring movement...I’m not entirely successful in masking how much pain I obviously am for this ‘check up’ after the MRI.

“Sir, can I assist you with anything?” she finally speaks up.

“Shaffi. Doctor Muhammad Shaffi. I have an appointment here.” I calmly reply.

“May I ask who this is?” she instinctively questions.

“Iser...Seth Iser,” I grunt.

She studies my face with her own blue eyes as she brushes her blonde locks away from her petite face before she starts searching through the computer. I swear they have the women wear the most ridiculous colored and patterned shirts in any hospital branch these days. This one is a weird pink pattern with various green and yellow dots going through her shirt. Coming from the world of wrestling where I’ve seen people compete in questionable attire over the years she makes them seem like fashion gurus.

“One o’clock appointment right?” she says out loud while continuing to look at the computer giving her the information.

“Yes…” I just glance at my brown watch that reads 12:50 on my left wrist.

“Have a seat in the waiting room.” she answers the bogstandard usual response you’re trained to have at the desk.

With a shake of the head I hobble down the extended white hallway before glancing at the white doors on the left that read that this is indeed Shaffi’s spot. There are a number of seats, though all of them empty with a bunch of out of date magazines that have their own hodgepodge of categories. There’s also a television that’s playing Fox News because lord knows people love to hear their lies so they know what else to regurgitate from in this ill informed country.

I take a seat next to the magazine stand and start darting my eyes through them all. There’s a Sports Illustrated issue that talks about the various previous of football from over two years ago at this point. And I notice on a sidebar that there is a small article about a certain promotion imploding and the birth of VOW following with a picture of my face with long hair, Slater when he had his own mask when he had to deal with the shame I’m currently facing...and Reya Sera. Three completely different stars...formerly in one shield and we’re all divided in our own ways.

All because those two competitors are selfish cretins with the innate gift of manipulating people like Sean Hannity is doing with his screechy voice on that damn Fox show in this room.

As my mind wanders and I run my temple through the eleven stitches over my forehead in dark contemplation over the past few years this VOW ride has been through...there is the obvious reality that these doctor trips have many of the same results. And like any other wrestler...you can make the logical decision about anything except your own health. But I know far too well that there are more matches behind me...than ahead of me. The clock is almost accelerated in my head after that defeat.

I rub my eyes tiredly and let out a disgusted sigh before I hear the door swing open. At attention I just raise my head up and peer down toward that hallway. An elderly woman exits with half of a smile on her face though her own hobbles can’t be hid with that cane. She hobbles through and she gives one glance at my direction and for the faintest of seconds...she can’t hide her pity. I doubt she even knows who I am and what I’ve done in my life nor what industry I work in but that faintest of seconds where she can’t hide her pity...and I feel yet another gut punch. The same kind of pitiable looks I often got in my youth because they knew who my parents were. 

The same kind of look...where someone pretends to care and it makes you sick to your stomach.

She breaks eye contact as soon as she sees my eye twitch and I just give her the ominous death glare. The labored movements of her’s just become a little bit slower as she hobbles away. I can even see the sweat start to go down both her face and the back of her neck as she soon exits the building. With a sigh, I lean back on the green desk and dart my eyes at the white walls...before a second person, a complete contrast from the pale grandmother, walks out. Though similarly aged, the black mustache and almost Einstein like white hair denotes a mad scientist appearance than the masquerade of a caring elder citizen that woman that wanted to hobble off wanted to present herself as.

“Iser.” the man speaks in an extremely strong Middle Eastern styled accent.

With a raised eyebrow I look at the aging man in the white overcoat and just study him. Even if he puts on the friendliest smile he can muster up he just commands a presence of respect for his general frankness. I raise up to my feet and he takes a look at the stitches on my forehead and he could probably deduce what field I come from just from that alone. He turns his back and gestures with his left arm to follow him. With my own arms crossed I lumber over toward him, attempting to hide the limp in my left knee a little bit. I’d rather not let him in entirely with how bad the knee has been up and down.

“How are you doing?” he asks, again the accent very strong in his voice.

“I’ve been better,” I grit through my teeth, not lying completely.

“You’re limping,” he bluntly replies.

“Life of a professional wrestler.” I shrug, “There isn’t a day when you’ve been doing this for years and are north of thirty when you DON’T hurt.”

The accent is thick but thankfully one of the abilities you get when you travel the world in the industry of wrestling is to get the worldly ability to understand what someone is saying through a thick accent. Unlike the poor college kids that have just gone back to school and have had no experience...I’ve had the past experience of working in Japan and trying to conjure up context in words in other languages to be able to survive.

The conversation goes silent as we continue walking down the hallway. The doctor is deliberately picking up the pace just to see how bad my knee actually is and I’m just conjuring up as much will as I can to go forward. It’s almost as if the adrenaline of working a match is coming in just to meet up to a trivial challenge. I glance at the various WVU memorabilia over the walls above the doors and it isn’t too different than some of my own at home. The various jersey, stadium photos, and big moments of past games. He then stops at the last room on the left and looks at me...still sizing me up even if he’s about five inches shorter than I am and a little stockier than my lanky, long frame.

“In here.” he points inside the room while looking stern, “The MRI results are fully in.”

“Great…” I sigh.

I walk into the room and there’s the obvious sheet over the bed that they change for every patient through protocol. There’s also a couple of chairs scattered around if there was a need for any visitors but this is the kind of thing I wanted to do alone this time. There is one WVU helmet painting on the wall and I glance over and see there’s a laptop on a desk next to the board. This raises my eyebrow as the doctor starts to punch away at the keys on that fragile piece of technology.

I say fragile because the last experience I had with it was Matt fucking Slater crashing it across my cranium and it being beyond repair from one blow.

“How is the kid?” he asks without making eye contact...still punching away at the computer.

“Read up on me.” I raise my eyebrows moderately impressed, “Well school has started in the state thankfully. That might divert her energy a little.”

“Hm. Hyper?” he turns his head.

“Aren’t all kids to some extent, doc?” I tilt my head.

“The one’s back home are.” he offers up a chuckle.

“Where’s home?” I ask.

“Iran.” he answers calmly.

“Oh…” I nod knowingly.

At least my deduction in what area he’s from was on point. Though judging by his age I’d hope his kids were grown and decided to return ‘home’ so to speak on their own otherwise his ethics might only be a level above my own parents in that regard. As he types away a few more keys and scans his eyes on the screen he then gestures with his left hand to come toward it. Without hesitating...I approach him and look at the screen and I can immediately put together that it’s a moving MRI of my knee. And the motion of the blood going through. The obvious scars of previous surgeries are there in my knee. As well as what seems to be something crystal looking across the bones. I take a moment to think of what those could be before I remember a previous doctor saying what was probably ailing my knee now.

“Arthritis…” I say out loud.

“Good guess.” he answers flatly, “But the MRI has shown that in your left knee...where all the damage was and especially right under your kneecap where it seemed to have been shattered at one point. That’s where it has started to set in. Looking at you...by all accounts the last number of years on your file you’ve had your injuries but physically you look healthy.”

I just shrug at his last sentence. I know he’s sugarcoating for once.

“But you’re a professional wrestler...correct?” he turns to me sternly.

“Yes. Started training at nineteen and then more or less have been doing this close to fifteen years now.” I blink thinking of my journey in bullet points, “Before that I was a football player at the high school level.”

“Wear and tear.” he interjects.

“That’s bound to happen with anybody…” I interject.

“I’m not going to lie.” he blinks, “Your knees are probably closer to someone who is elderly than someone of your age despite the good health you have in other aspects. You’re probably going to need a replacement knee at a young age relatively speaking. There’s also the worry of all the structural damage through years of doing what you end up doing. Things I can’t fathom as a normal person putting your body through. I’m not going to tell you WHAT to do. But you and I both know you don’t have that much longer left in terms of your active career.”

“How much longer do you think?” I question.

“If you wrestle every week I doubt your body will make it to forty before you have to be forced out.” he answers glumly, “That’s looking at it optimistically.”

“Better than what I’ve heard before…” I shrug my shoulders.

The moment that sentence escaped his mouth...it just brought me back to one of the first words a veteran of the sport had ever spoken to me. He saw me after I had just bloodied a younger wrestler that hasn’t been seen much at the local level and he just had that air of a superiority complex to him along with the odor of booze. He just had this hint of glee as he proclaimed to me in front of everyone in the locker room that I’d better find another occupation because I’d never make it past thirty.

...I’m thirty five already. Turning thirty six in a couple months…

“Then here’s hoping when I come in here when I’m forty I prove you wrong like I’ve done to many other people in my life.” I sneer, “I’ve never always been one who has been fully conventional.”

He looks at me not with condensation in his eyes but matching my own steely determination...one that had been dormant for quite sometime, with his own line of approval. Almost his own form of respect.

“Then I hope you’re right and I’m wrong on that.” he smiles before that quickly vanishes, “But if I were you...and I figure you’re smart enough to know this...I’d have a backup plan working. Time is ticking on whatever you want to do in your current line of work.”

He gives me a nod and I just bawl my fist up with a different form of desperation...mixing in with the darkness of the last defeat. I’ve always wanted to be remembered as one of the best in my line of work. Maybe THE best. And I’m more than aware that even father time erodes away my own senses. There will be a point where some young buck might get lucky...or I land wrong one too many times or one too many spills to the outside...and that’s it. It’s the one time I can’t get up no matter how much I’ve preserved what I can.

But it isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Not with this disgusting defeat entrenched in my mind. Not with everything I still need to do to solidify myself as one of the game’s greats and repair the damage Matt Slater did in one painful evening in Norfolk. And it’s going to be at least one whole year before I can rectify that...even if there is that slight chance that my own mortal body can’t hold up and keep feeding off the sick and twisted will that I still possess.

But you have to crawl before you can walk or even run. And it starts by rectifying a different wrong…

A wrong that was perpetrated when years ago I was in a hospital bed with my other knee in a brace after surgery when a different doctor told me I’d never wrestle again. The kind of wrong that was done by someone who had always claimed that they cared for other human beings when time and time again they’ve always abandoned those that they care about just under the guise of their own sick sense of religion for their own fabricated God.

...In Baltimore it’s going to be way worse than your defeats on the first Breakthrough or the first Pay Per View for you Reya. It’ll be the definition of despair.

...because I’m going to beat the living hell out of you in one way or another until every bit of retribution I seek has been delivered while you wallow in the familiar result of our previous encounters.

...wallowing in the darkness of despair...finding yet another way to disgrace your family name.