Post by Matt Slater on Mar 9, 2016 16:11:40 GMT -6
The Grieving Process
February 2nd 2016
Caguas, Puerto Rico
Traditionally, black is the prefered colour of clothing for a funeral. It is commonly used to offer respect and condolence, with men and women showing a sense of etiquette during the grieving process. Men usually wear matching suits and ties, and women wear dresses and coats, occasionally completing the ensemble with a hat or fascinator. In the case of the widow, women can cover their faces with a laced veil if they so choose, visually isolating themselves from the bereaved congregation and identifying the void that can no longer be sufficiently filled by another.
The last time he attended a funeral, Slater simply wore a black suit and tie as he presided over the coffins of his brother and parents. He never imagined, multiple years later, that his black wrestling attire would symbolically foreshadow the tragic passing of the woman he loved, several hours after they had competed in an emotional No Disqualification Match.
With his eyes stinging from the irritation of blood and tears, Slater gazed painfully at the stained material of his trunks and boots within the confines of his hotel room. He looked like the ghoulish embodiment of death, as if he had personally triggered the events that led to Cera’s heart failure. Affected by guilt, he felt solely responsible for her demise; she had accepted his challenge for the event, which exposed her to the potent hatred of Caguas’ surprisingly remorseless citizens.
Fraught with rage, Slater tore the articles of clothing off his blood-stained body. Everything he wore would not be meticulously cleaned, but instead discarded like yesterday’s newspaper. Soon enough, each item was carelessly dumped into the waste bin; this included his leather boots, which seemed to become inflexible and kept the steel lid from properly closing.
Not that it mattered; their protrusion merely forced Slater to banish the entire bin from the room, leaving it unattended amongst the summer-themed decorations of the corridor. Consequently, a lone bystander glanced at Slater’s naked body, adjusting her glasses as if to improve the accuracy of her vision. Once the unknown female witnessed the filth adorning his skin, she turned and studied the carpet, knowing full well this appalling and embarrassing sight would linger in her mind for the rest of the morning.
Mentally unstable, Slater furiously cleaned his body as much as he could. Crimson water swirled around the shower drain, impurifying the base and marking stubborn reminders of his failed promise. That was until he desperately scrubbed away the stains, grimacing with discomfort and anger as a particular mark failed to disappear.
Nothing would remind him of Cera’s death; no visible remnant, no crippling thought. He did not want to remember her fastened to the stretcher, bleeding onto the white padding and struggling to inhale pure oxygen. He did not want to remember her tears, orchestrated by enragement and sadness at those who condemned her existence. He did not want to remember the doctor’s uncomfortable words, announcing that the woman he wanted to save and care for was now deceased. He could not even bear to witness his poor choice of attire, as if designed by the cruelness of fate.
So he sought a distraction; anything to keep him occupied, anything to prevent an irreparable breakdown.
The television went on, mainly for background noise, never to be switched off.
And for what seemed like an eternity, operating under dim fluorescent lights, neither did he.
* * *
February 6th 2016
Caguas, Puerto Rico
Knock-knock-knock. The front door rattled.
Slater remained still on the bed, waiting for the fourth knock to occur. When silence elapsed, he disregarded the interruption, continuing to focus on the painted flowers that artistically-improved the room’s smooth, plain ceiling.
For the past few days, food and bathroom deliveries had become a routine occurrence. They were ordered and transported by one serviceman of the hotel, a man who felt compelled to satisfy Slater’s needs as much as possible. However, there were certain conditions the young, exuberant man named Andres had to follow: he needed to knock approximately five times on the door to prove it was him, he would be the only one to deliver whatever Slater needed, and under no circumstances was he allowed to reveal Slater’s location to anyone, even if it was an emergency. These terms were respectfully agreed upon, and Andres had not failed his sworn objective since Tuesday morning.
Unfortunately, since Slater’s personal information was stored in the hotel’s database and frequently logged for maintenance, there was a possibility that his room number would be carelessly leaked. And as he stared at the ceiling, realizing no fourth or fifth knocks were going to transpire, he knew something had gone horribly wrong.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.
What sounded like a service bell emanated behind the door, yet Slater continued to ignore the presence of his unscheduled visitors. His privacy was paramount, as was the barbequed chicken roll he ordered fifteen minutes prior, which had been delayed for some ridiculous reason.
Muffled voices followed, which managed to overlap the volume of the television, currently broadcasting CNN International and their coverage of an invigorating Tennis tournament overseas. Not that he specifically wanted to watch CNN; he just wanted anything to keep his brain occupied, keeping it away from dwelling on the grief he had yet to properly cleanse from his system.
He wanted his barbeque chicken sandwich. He wanted to know exactly how many flowers were in the room, counting each one with committed proficiency. He wanted to listen to the Tennis stars talk about serving speed and marginal errors, something Slater had never been interested in until now.
For the purpose of protecting his sanity, he was conditionally trapped in a state of unrest, finding anything useful to keep Cera’s death away. Such tasks included playing games and watching videos on his phone, reading hotel instructions on laminated cards, folding tissue paper into various shapes and, naturally, using these same tissues to wipe away the aftermath of his sexual urges if he was deeply aroused.
Moments passed with no sound emanating from the locked door. All Slater could hear were the questions being asked to a female Tennis player and her sudden responses. Briefly he relaxed, finally completing his flower count before he stubbornly began counting again.
Ding-a-ling-a-LING-A-LING-A-LING!
As if returning to irritably unsettle him, the sounds of the distant service bell flowed into the room with a louder, more obnoxious pitch.
Click. Click.
And then the door was suddenly unlocked from the outside, a situation that should have gotten Slater moving rapidly. Instead, despite the dangers involved, he remained perfectly still on the bed, unwilling to prevent whoever was entering his room without permission from doing so.
‘Ta-deta-da-deta-da-deta-TA-DA!’
Mimicking the tones of an introductory trumpet call, a seemingly-rambunctious, blonde-haired woman entered the room, smiling profoundly as if she were about to address an applauding audience. Glitter and paint decorated her smooth face, making her resemble, in some coincidental way, the female equivalent of the late David Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust” character. Unfortunately, Slater failed to see her appearance, transmitting concentration as his eyes remained glued to the ceiling.
‘Thank you, thank you!’ the flamboyant woman said, gratuitously responding to her own invisible welcoming committee. In her hand was a small bell which had made the noises, a bell that was placed onto a nearby table. ‘And now, joining me at this time… JB and Sweet T!’
With a dramatic, theatrical turn, the blonde beckoned two other women forward, watching them enter the room with different expressions. The first - a taller, short-haired, black-coated woman with a rusted, metallic cross necklace - appeared to joyously smirk, waving her arm to nothing in particular. Following her was another blonde woman - dressed in a white, elegant dress with long, flowing hair - bitterly scowling at their obnoxious, undignified entrance.
‘Was t-that really n-necessary?’ the white-clothed blonde asked with an annoyed tone of voice. Her stance seemed to be loose and uncaring, emitting disinterest as she coldly scanned the room.
‘Incorporate some excitement into your life, JB!’ her face-painted companion replied. Shortly thereafter, she studied her friend’s exposed cleavage, nodding with satisfaction as “JB” wrapped her arm around her breasts to shield this enticing sight. With a wink and a shrug, the eccentric woman looked back at Slater and performed a silent drum-roll. ‘Anywho, I present to you, intrigued viewer… Matthew Slater!’
After being treated like a special tourist exhibit, epitomizing the result of heartbreaking loss and what it could physically and emotionally do to a person, Slater continued to avoid eye contact with the intrusive group, shifting the direction of his bruised, reddenned eyes to the opposing wall.
‘Told ya he was hot, Thea,’ the unnamed blonde said, adopting the role of a tour guide as she playfully nudged the woman formerly known as “Sweet T”.
‘He’s also ignored us this entire time,’ the black-clad Thea replied, analysing Slater’s dismal appearance with her light eyes. ‘I don’t think he wants us to be here, E.’
‘Oh codswallop!’ the now-identified “E” argued, using outdated English slang that she had picked up at some point in her life. ‘We’ll cheer him up.’
‘He d-doesn’t want t-to be cheered up. He’s just wallowing in his own self p-pity.’ JB concluded her opinion coldly, shaking her head at this individual that many had deemed a courageous, upstanding legend of Professional Wrestling. ‘We s-should just go.’
‘Thirty six,’ Slater suddenly said, expressing a tone of calmness and normalcy as he focused on the ceiling again.
‘Wut?’ “E” blinked, confused by this random exclamation.
‘There are thirty six flowers in this room,’ he clarified. Unexpectedly, his body jolted with a surge of adrenaline, as if he had just been startled by an ear-piercing noise. “E” curiously peered upward, beginning to count the yellow paintings above her.
JB frowned. ‘I don’t see the po-point of…’
‘Thirty-six… flowers,’ Slater dryly interrupted, mishearing the pale blonde’s disinterest. ‘There’s also two stains above the front door. Interestingly enough, one of them looks like a duck bouncing on a pogo stick.’
Fascinated, the eccentric “E” skipped to the door and glanced at this specific stain. ‘Oh my God, it totally does!’
Thea adjusted her styled hair and looked at her companions. ‘I think we should sit down.’
“E” started to look around for an available seat. ‘Ooo, a futon!’ she cheered, locating the aforementioned chair set against the wall and falling onto it tiredly. ‘My feet hurt.’
‘Start wearing shoes then,’ Thea advised, acknowledging the bare, wrinkled soles of her friend.
Instead of agreeing, JB focused on this man they had apparently been tasked with locating. ‘Why should we s-stay?’
‘Why did you come here?’ Slater asked in return. JB failed to answer, but “E” did.
‘We came here to see you!’ She massaged her feet. ‘So… how have ya been? What have you been up to?’
‘All sorts.’ His response was quick and to the point, although he remained worryingly still. ‘By the way, did you know Rosemary Church’s favourite word is “precisely”? She must have said it last night more than a hundred times.’
'This is a w-waste of our ti-time...' JB harshly stated.
‘How long has that Television been on?’ Thea asked, casting the negativity of “JB” away.
‘I can’t remember.’ Slater briefly consulted the bedside clock. ‘A long fucking time.’
Thea teased responding, but she did not need to. She knew just by looking at his dishevelled, bruised form that he was struggling to hold on. For a split second, she showed him a visible sign of compassion. He needed to let loose. He needed to unleash all of his frustrations and begin repairing what he had become.
Without acknowledging his visitors, Slater anxiously laughed.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he said, spewing words that sounded overly-defensive. His verbal tone exposed a clear, underlying issue, no matter how much he was fighting to establish his positivity. ‘I’m fine. I’m as right as rain. I’m as happy as Larry.’
‘Larry The Cable Guy?’ “E” pondered.
‘Might as well be,’ Thea shrugged with a slight smirk. A few moments later, her smirk faded. ‘But… look at yourself, Matt.’
‘I have done. Plenty of times.’
‘That’s not what I mean. You look like you haven’t been to sleep in days.’
‘What’s sleep?’ the flamboyant “Ziggy Stardust” impersonator replied quizzically, as if she was legitimately unsure what the act of sleeping entailed. Thea, despite the uncomfortable atmosphere, began to laugh.
‘Sleep is something you should do more often too.’
‘Why? There’s a lot I have to do in 25 hours!’
‘24 hours,’ Thea corrected.
‘See?! I’ve lost an hour already!’
‘I hope you’re just being--’
Halfway through Thea’s response, a particular news story piqued the interest of everyone in the room from the television.
‘We have the latest update on the shocking aftermath that occurred following Visionaries of Wrestling’s Double Jeopardy PPV event in Caguas, Puerto Rico. Some of these details may be upsetting to some viewers.’
‘This won’t be good,’ Thea predicted. Before she could intervene, “E” rose from the futon and spread her arm out as a preventive measure.
‘Wait,’ “E” whispered to her entourage, semi-smiling as she looked at the man they had voluntarily chosen to rescue from his insomnia-riddled stupor.
Slater slowly looked at the seldom-watched television; hardly state-of-the-art technology, but the reception was conveniently stable. Whilst the three women focused on him, he developed an unbreakable fixation on the screen, watching a professionally-dressed reporter idly wait for her cue to speak.
For all of his distracting methods, the void in his heart had finally taken control.
Beyond her right shoulder, the Coliseo emitted a strong essence of marigold, as if the building featured an incandescent exterior. Visually it was a beautiful sight, but only for those who had no prior knowledge of the horror that atmospherically darkened its inner hallways.
Eventually, the reporter’s expression changed, indicating her time to speak had come.
‘It is a sight that no sports fan wants to see: a professional athlete being rushed to the hospital as their life hangs in the balance. This was the sight that many wrestling fans saw here at the Coliseo Héctor Solá Bezares in Caguas, Puerto Rico on the evening of February 1st, either in person or on television, when Cera Janason, aged just 31, stopped breathing after she was savagely attacked by a crazed fan with a sickening agenda.’
As soon as she was mentioned, a stock photograph of Cera appeared on the dusty screen. Slater remained idle, staring at Cera’s vibrant eyes as his brain struggled to control his bereavement. “E” stiffened once she witnessed the image, whereas Thea looked sympathetic, and JB acted indifferent, even issuing a brief yawn.
‘She was rushed to the local hospital, where she tragically passed away after suffering a heart attack. The crazed fan who attacked Cera Janason under the guise of a technical lighting fault was later apprehended by the authorities and charged with her murder, but this latest update may acquit the man, Romeo Vasquez, of those charges.’
Slater’s expression did not change upon hearing this revelation. He was eerily stoic, hardly flinching or frowning as a mug shot of the thin, moustachioed Vasquez covered the majority of the screen. A natural reaction would have been disgust or anger, but Slater viewed his face with lack of emotion; alarming considering he yearned for accountability, wanting the offender to be served his due punishment and to suffer the consequences.
‘According to Caguas’ chief coroner who pursued this case, the following details have come to light over the past couple of hours.’
The reporter revealed a printed document, obviously chronicling the inquest and the coroner’s findings.
‘After Cera Janason’s autopsy reports were finalized, details have emerged that blunt force trauma did not specifically lead to her heart attack. Instead, a history of drug-related chemicals, which were topped by the inhalation of cigarette smoke, were the direct cause of Ms Janason’s heart failure, as detailed from a separate toxicology report. The excessive use of these chemicals, accompanied with the strenuous work ethic, travelling stresses and physical combat of professional wrestling, resulted in the enlargement of her heart and the increase of cardiovascular issues. Because of these findings, Romeo Vasquez’ original charges have been dropped, and instead he will likely be charged with battery and assault, and attempted murder, lessening his original sentence substantially based on this confirmed evidence.’
No longer wanting to hear the remainder of this depressing update, Slater mentally blocked out the noise from the television and returned his head to the pillow. Instantly, he recommenced staring at nothing in particular, finding it harder to do so as, at long last, his body worryingly shuddered.
There had been a modicum of justice served, but the circumstances in relation to her passing had created a damaging whirlwind within his mind. It was a whirlwind that tried to push out the grief, which made coping with her loss astonishingly difficult.
The atmosphere in the room worsened. Up to this point, “E” had maintained a pleasant, almost-hypnotic smile. Once the reporter delved into Stadium and Arena Safety Laws and the maximization of security, she acknowledged a man who was on the brink of mentally collapsing with an emphatic frown.
‘Matt… sweety…’
She approached his bed, until Slater started chuckling again.
‘Did you see the state of his moustache? He could get away with being called a pornstar.’
None of the women shared his amusement, as artificially constructed as it was. His mask bore cracks, as did his tense body language.
‘In fact, he might get a lot of action where he’s going now!’
More awkward laughter ensued, which failed to alleviate the despairing mood of the room. Once again he shuddered. Then, for the first time since their arrival, he looked towards the group.
“E” lightly waved, but his attention focused on her eyes. There was something peculiar about them, something eerily familiar. Unfortunately, he could not quite piece the puzzle together, eventually chalking it up to a coincidental identity. Then he saw JB, cross-armed and emotionless.
But as soon as he saw Thea, he completely froze. The slightly-messy hair covering one of her light, pretty eyes, the dark eyeliner, the black jacket with a multitude of zippers, and her relaxed posture; her appearance triggered a heart-wrenching memory, and soon he was not seeing her.
He was visualizing Cera.
No more words were spoken. No more laughs were emitted. Thea adjusted her hair, which merely strengthened his delusional observation.
Then the tears started to form.
There was nothing his mind could do. Her loss had penetrated his defensive barrier, and he was feeling the full effects of the crippling void.
He clasped his hand to his mouth, turning away from Thea and shaking. Awkwardly, albeit compassionately, Thea stepped forward. “E” and JB failed to stop her, allowing her to approach him slowly and extend a comforting hand. Once her hand touched his shoulder, he lost control.
The tears streamed down his reddenned face, wetting his bruises and thick facial hair. Chokes emanated from his throat as he tightly closed his eyes. Cera was gone forever, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
After comprehending the failure of his final promise, he re-opened his eyes and suddenly went still. Thea quizzically stared at his expression, which gradually became cold and unsettling. Meanwhile, “E” stroked her arm contemplatively, whereas JB, lingering in the background, nonchalantly checked her nails.
‘The first step is confronting things head on,’ Thea said reassuringly, even going so far as to offer him a comforting smile. ‘We can’t run from the truth forever. You just--’
‘Leave.’
Thea blinked, as did “E”. This single word had passed through gritted teeth, a word that was sudden and strict.
‘Leave,’ he repeated sharply, causing Thea to remove her hand from his shoulder.
‘You h-heard him,’ JB said, hardly caring about this entire situation as she turned towards the door without hesitation.
‘We want to help you, bruh,’ “E” confessed, ignoring JB as the latter quietly departed the room.
‘Just… leave,’ he replied for a third time. Knowing he needed personal space, Thea backed away from him and returned to her friend’s side. Both of them were sympathetic, but they were not going to force themselves to stay.
After obeying his command, Thea searched her pocket before she produced a piece of paper. Acquiring a pen from the same pocket, she quickly wrote something down before she left it on the nearest table. ‘There’s my name and number. Please keep in touch.’
‘Smooth,’ her eccentric companion said, attempting to lighten the mood somewhat. ‘Anyway, I know someone who helps run this hotel. It’s how we got in here.’
Wiping his eyes, Slater looked towards the window.
‘I’ll make sure he keeps this room reserved for you, until you decide to leave it.’
Resurrecting her smile, “E” winked before she turned and followed the now-absent JB’s trail. Prolonging her stay, Thea studied Slater thoughtfully. Eventually, she exhaled and departed the room, closing the door behind her and respecting Slater’s need for solidarity.
Once again alone, Slater glanced at the television. After a minute or so, he finally rose from the bed and switched it off. Basking in silence, he acknowledged the nearby mirror, taking note of his raw, watery eyes.
His dishevelment, his ruggedness; he analysed everything, until his vision started to blur. Light-headedness dominated him, which drastically affected his equilibrium.
Destabilized, he remembered Cera’s pained face; her captivating tears; her blackening blood.
And then, with his perception spinning, he collapsed onto the untidied bedspread.