A cold sweat, hot headed believer
Sept 26, 2021 12:11:38 GMT -5
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Lissie Hope, Trey Bouchet, and 2 more like this
Post by niamh on Sept 26, 2021 12:11:38 GMT -5
When the human mind is desperate it can create and destroy wonders.
672.
That’s precisely how many tiles made up the outdated ceiling design that Niamh had been staring at for the last fifteen minutes.
104
That’s how many tiles were untouched, without imperfection or damage. She had counted those twice now, just to be sure.
An educated guess would be that counting tiles and imperfections was a practiced procrastination technique. But an insightful one would in fact be that she was allowing the ‘professional’ to disclose more about themselves, than Niamh would disclose in several sessions. As the certified psychologist rambled on about cognitive therapy techniques and healthy coping strategies, Niamh amused herself with empty minded strategies of her own. It was something akin to counting sheep at bedtime, the simple act of counting to keep the mind from considering itself.
”Why are you here?”
Now THAT is an interesting question, why is she here? Why this office? Why Action Wrestling? Why any of it?
”We’re almost a third of the way through our session and you haven’t said a word.” He sounded almost gruff, like a school principal telling the wayward child in his office that she can do better.
”I’m here because it’s where I’m supposed to be. Because I owe a debt and this is how it’s to be repaid…” her words trailed off for a moment, that gaze of hers finally ripped from the ceiling to meet his eyes. ”Do you ever think about the fact that you're charged with fixing people. But in turn if you actually do that, you’ll be out of a job.”
Niamh pulled herself into a seated position on the couch, leaning back against it with a wry smile.
”Our professions are the same in that way, aren’t they? My job is to beat the fuck outta people, but if I do my job too well… I’ll run out of people. And sure you could argue that there’s always gonna be more wrestlers; but what quality, what worth? Ole Josiah is a great example of that.
A low class, dead energy level competitor who exists just for something to do. I’m gonna guess that you have the same kinda clients in your business too. Not real money makers, they’re never gonna be the subject of some ground-breaking discovery they just sort of… keep the books open. Josiah is essentially the same in my line of work, I’m sure when he was hired he believed he had a shot at being the big marquee name. I’ll even bet that he grew up believing he could be somebody.
But he can’t.”
She plucked a tissue from the box that separated her and the doctor opposite. He seemed tired of her act already, clicking his pen in a way that demanded her attention.
”Niamh…” before he could continue, she piped up and interrupted him.
”I know, I know. You want to talk about my father. You’re hoping if you dig deep enough into that trauma you’ll strike oil. Well, doc, I’m sorry to say that my Daddy issues are a lot like CVO.”
She paused, leaning a little closer with what could only be described as a shit eating grin.
”It all looks like a crazy wild mess but, once you scratch beneath the surface? There’s not much left to see.
Now I’m not gonna sit here and be an absolute asshole when it comes to my old friend… I won’t even use her government name. But what I am gonna do is point out that she's had more first times than a backpage hooker. CVO restarts about as often as an emo kids computer in 2009 after they discovered Limewire.
What I’m saying is, she’s been around the block. So really, that should mean that she brings more to this match than a rookie and a man who cites Buffalo Bill as his childhood hero. It SHOULD mean that she’s the odds on favorite for this one… but she isn’t.”
As Niamh reaches for the rorschach test cards laid out on the table, she lets out a soft, low chuckle. Finally she selects a card and lifts it up to the camera.
”Tell me Doc, what do you see?” Niamh’s tone is not only condescending and harsh, but it drips with venom as though she’s daring him not to play along.
”A… A tree?” As he stutters out an answer, Niamh let’s out a frustrated sigh, shaking her head whilst holding out the card.
”No originality! No wonder you’re covered by my insurance.” She taps a well manicured fingernail against the card, addressing the camera once again.
”What I see, is three people who are yet to live up to their promises, all with very different reasons for wanting to come out on top in this match - and let’s not ignore the fact that this is probably the only circumstance in which Josiah “lotion” Howard ever fantasizes about being on top - standing on the precipice of a victory.
They say that you can’t count a victory if you run your opponents into the dirt before the match. But that’s all out bullshit, winning always matters and the W is always worth something and anyone who says otherwise, probably still needs their mommy to hold their hand when they use a restaurant bathroom. It’s not now, nor has it ever been, my job to make anyone feel or look good.
Now THAT is where you and I differ doc, cause where it’s your job to pander to the needy and the soft? It’s my job to laugh in the face of those same people. Okay, so that’s not quite my job but it’s a fun extra I like to throw in for free.”
Niamh drops the ink blot to the couch as she stands up, moving around to stand behind the couch. Her eyes locked on the professional who clearly had more in this session than he had bargained for.
”If I had to do what you do, sit around and listen to people cry about their meaningless problems all day? I’d probably be as delusional as Josiah by now. I guess Josiah and my Daddy have a few things in common; they both see women as the weaker sex, they both have ideations that went out of style two decades ago and, if my mother is to be believed? They both exude small dick energy that can only be reaffirmed by their insecurity in their own self measured masculinity.”
Niamh pauses, her right eyebrow lifting as the ‘doc’ looked as though he was about to comment on what she just said. It’s fair, of course, to think it more than a little odd she’d be comparing dick sizes against her fathers.
But Niamh is more than a little odd.
”CVO, she's your bread and butter. You could probably buy a Holiday home in the Hamptons off her session bills. For all the ego I have, she has self doubt. When I look in the mirror I see a woman superior to the world around her. When CVO looks in the mirror?
She cries.
A woman who has been so desperate for attention she bragged about injecting heroin into the flaccid cock of Alabama’s answer to Children of the Corn.
CVO, girl, I love you. But you have no place in this match. This reads like an add-on after they made the decisions so you didn’t cry about being neglected all over again. Josiah and I? We have shit to hammer out, we have a score to settle. And sure, you can wander on over and talk about the things he said last week, you can fake some disgust at the way he jerked his cock to descriptions of my delicate lady flesh.
But it actually has fuck all to do with you.”
Niamh mimed jerking off a tiny little dick, another smirk playing on her lips before she moved around the office. Picking up one trinket or another, nothing seemed to hold her interest until eventually, she found herself behind the man who had, by all accounts, lost complete control of the session now.
Dropping down beside the slightly exasperated looking psychiatrist, Niamh ruffled his hair with another grin before settling in far too comfortably beside him.
”But that’s enough about them! Let’s talk about the interesting portion of the match…”
It’s only then that Niamh opens up the box on the coffee table. A standard cardboard storage box where offices tend to keep files. A little worn and beat up, knocked in edges and a rip at the lip of the lid show this box has been around and about for a while. On the front, in faded ink was the name Niamh.
The rest of the label is either worn off or faded into old brown stains.
Niamh tosses the lid to the floor and reaches in, pulling out stack after stack of official looking papers. Bright red ink and deep black ink stamps on some of the pages that were briefly waved before the camera made it quite apparent that Niamh had been under ‘medical review’ at several institutions almost all of her life.
”Me.
The little girl with her life in a box.
The unknown and unheard of wrestler who booted a door down and demanded that attention be paid to her. I get that from my mommy you know? She was the most confident woman you could ever meet and she showed me just how weak people really are. My entire childhood was spent fostering unshakeable values that my mother knew I wouldn't survive without.
See, the difference between me and the two bodies I’m sharing the ring with is, I know what I’m doing here. I don’t need to question my drive or wax poetic about why I wanna bloody the fuck outta people for a living wage. There’s no carrot on a stick you can shove out in front of me for different results. I’m here because it’s exactly where I am supposed to be. I was trained specifically for this, I was taught how to make someone grimace and suffer and shriek. I do this, because I was born for it - not for your shitty fans to applaud and adore me or for my name at the top of a page on some sycophantic list.
And it doesn’t matter how many big boob jokes CVO makes or how many baskets into pits Josiah lowers, they’re just not as good as me.”
Finally, Niamh tosses the contents of the box to the floor and pulls out a small, charred edged photo. She doesn’t show the photo to the camera, instead she looks back up and into that lens with a considerably more empty grin than she had before.
”And they never, ever will be.”
The camera is still pointed at the now empty chair where the pair had been sitting. Despite there being no one in the frame, the familiar voice of Niamh can be heard somewhere off camera.
”I let you down, I know.”
The distance between wherever she was standing and the position of the camera still within the office means only her side of the conversation can be heard.
”I’m sorry.”
Still only Niamh can be heard, her tone softer than it has been heard before, almost regretful when paired with her words.
”I won’t let it happen again… No, no of course not. I understand… There’s always a little collateral damage with these things. Just don’t let him find out.”
A long pause, not even the sound of her breathing was picked up, as though she were holding her breath to the response out of earshot.
”Not until I make him proud.”
672.
That’s precisely how many tiles made up the outdated ceiling design that Niamh had been staring at for the last fifteen minutes.
104
That’s how many tiles were untouched, without imperfection or damage. She had counted those twice now, just to be sure.
An educated guess would be that counting tiles and imperfections was a practiced procrastination technique. But an insightful one would in fact be that she was allowing the ‘professional’ to disclose more about themselves, than Niamh would disclose in several sessions. As the certified psychologist rambled on about cognitive therapy techniques and healthy coping strategies, Niamh amused herself with empty minded strategies of her own. It was something akin to counting sheep at bedtime, the simple act of counting to keep the mind from considering itself.
”Why are you here?”
Now THAT is an interesting question, why is she here? Why this office? Why Action Wrestling? Why any of it?
”We’re almost a third of the way through our session and you haven’t said a word.” He sounded almost gruff, like a school principal telling the wayward child in his office that she can do better.
”I’m here because it’s where I’m supposed to be. Because I owe a debt and this is how it’s to be repaid…” her words trailed off for a moment, that gaze of hers finally ripped from the ceiling to meet his eyes. ”Do you ever think about the fact that you're charged with fixing people. But in turn if you actually do that, you’ll be out of a job.”
Niamh pulled herself into a seated position on the couch, leaning back against it with a wry smile.
”Our professions are the same in that way, aren’t they? My job is to beat the fuck outta people, but if I do my job too well… I’ll run out of people. And sure you could argue that there’s always gonna be more wrestlers; but what quality, what worth? Ole Josiah is a great example of that.
A low class, dead energy level competitor who exists just for something to do. I’m gonna guess that you have the same kinda clients in your business too. Not real money makers, they’re never gonna be the subject of some ground-breaking discovery they just sort of… keep the books open. Josiah is essentially the same in my line of work, I’m sure when he was hired he believed he had a shot at being the big marquee name. I’ll even bet that he grew up believing he could be somebody.
But he can’t.”
She plucked a tissue from the box that separated her and the doctor opposite. He seemed tired of her act already, clicking his pen in a way that demanded her attention.
”Niamh…” before he could continue, she piped up and interrupted him.
”I know, I know. You want to talk about my father. You’re hoping if you dig deep enough into that trauma you’ll strike oil. Well, doc, I’m sorry to say that my Daddy issues are a lot like CVO.”
She paused, leaning a little closer with what could only be described as a shit eating grin.
”It all looks like a crazy wild mess but, once you scratch beneath the surface? There’s not much left to see.
Now I’m not gonna sit here and be an absolute asshole when it comes to my old friend… I won’t even use her government name. But what I am gonna do is point out that she's had more first times than a backpage hooker. CVO restarts about as often as an emo kids computer in 2009 after they discovered Limewire.
What I’m saying is, she’s been around the block. So really, that should mean that she brings more to this match than a rookie and a man who cites Buffalo Bill as his childhood hero. It SHOULD mean that she’s the odds on favorite for this one… but she isn’t.”
As Niamh reaches for the rorschach test cards laid out on the table, she lets out a soft, low chuckle. Finally she selects a card and lifts it up to the camera.
”Tell me Doc, what do you see?” Niamh’s tone is not only condescending and harsh, but it drips with venom as though she’s daring him not to play along.
”A… A tree?” As he stutters out an answer, Niamh let’s out a frustrated sigh, shaking her head whilst holding out the card.
”No originality! No wonder you’re covered by my insurance.” She taps a well manicured fingernail against the card, addressing the camera once again.
”What I see, is three people who are yet to live up to their promises, all with very different reasons for wanting to come out on top in this match - and let’s not ignore the fact that this is probably the only circumstance in which Josiah “lotion” Howard ever fantasizes about being on top - standing on the precipice of a victory.
They say that you can’t count a victory if you run your opponents into the dirt before the match. But that’s all out bullshit, winning always matters and the W is always worth something and anyone who says otherwise, probably still needs their mommy to hold their hand when they use a restaurant bathroom. It’s not now, nor has it ever been, my job to make anyone feel or look good.
Now THAT is where you and I differ doc, cause where it’s your job to pander to the needy and the soft? It’s my job to laugh in the face of those same people. Okay, so that’s not quite my job but it’s a fun extra I like to throw in for free.”
Niamh drops the ink blot to the couch as she stands up, moving around to stand behind the couch. Her eyes locked on the professional who clearly had more in this session than he had bargained for.
”If I had to do what you do, sit around and listen to people cry about their meaningless problems all day? I’d probably be as delusional as Josiah by now. I guess Josiah and my Daddy have a few things in common; they both see women as the weaker sex, they both have ideations that went out of style two decades ago and, if my mother is to be believed? They both exude small dick energy that can only be reaffirmed by their insecurity in their own self measured masculinity.”
Niamh pauses, her right eyebrow lifting as the ‘doc’ looked as though he was about to comment on what she just said. It’s fair, of course, to think it more than a little odd she’d be comparing dick sizes against her fathers.
But Niamh is more than a little odd.
”CVO, she's your bread and butter. You could probably buy a Holiday home in the Hamptons off her session bills. For all the ego I have, she has self doubt. When I look in the mirror I see a woman superior to the world around her. When CVO looks in the mirror?
She cries.
A woman who has been so desperate for attention she bragged about injecting heroin into the flaccid cock of Alabama’s answer to Children of the Corn.
CVO, girl, I love you. But you have no place in this match. This reads like an add-on after they made the decisions so you didn’t cry about being neglected all over again. Josiah and I? We have shit to hammer out, we have a score to settle. And sure, you can wander on over and talk about the things he said last week, you can fake some disgust at the way he jerked his cock to descriptions of my delicate lady flesh.
But it actually has fuck all to do with you.”
Niamh mimed jerking off a tiny little dick, another smirk playing on her lips before she moved around the office. Picking up one trinket or another, nothing seemed to hold her interest until eventually, she found herself behind the man who had, by all accounts, lost complete control of the session now.
Dropping down beside the slightly exasperated looking psychiatrist, Niamh ruffled his hair with another grin before settling in far too comfortably beside him.
”But that’s enough about them! Let’s talk about the interesting portion of the match…”
It’s only then that Niamh opens up the box on the coffee table. A standard cardboard storage box where offices tend to keep files. A little worn and beat up, knocked in edges and a rip at the lip of the lid show this box has been around and about for a while. On the front, in faded ink was the name Niamh.
The rest of the label is either worn off or faded into old brown stains.
Niamh tosses the lid to the floor and reaches in, pulling out stack after stack of official looking papers. Bright red ink and deep black ink stamps on some of the pages that were briefly waved before the camera made it quite apparent that Niamh had been under ‘medical review’ at several institutions almost all of her life.
”Me.
The little girl with her life in a box.
The unknown and unheard of wrestler who booted a door down and demanded that attention be paid to her. I get that from my mommy you know? She was the most confident woman you could ever meet and she showed me just how weak people really are. My entire childhood was spent fostering unshakeable values that my mother knew I wouldn't survive without.
See, the difference between me and the two bodies I’m sharing the ring with is, I know what I’m doing here. I don’t need to question my drive or wax poetic about why I wanna bloody the fuck outta people for a living wage. There’s no carrot on a stick you can shove out in front of me for different results. I’m here because it’s exactly where I am supposed to be. I was trained specifically for this, I was taught how to make someone grimace and suffer and shriek. I do this, because I was born for it - not for your shitty fans to applaud and adore me or for my name at the top of a page on some sycophantic list.
And it doesn’t matter how many big boob jokes CVO makes or how many baskets into pits Josiah lowers, they’re just not as good as me.”
Finally, Niamh tosses the contents of the box to the floor and pulls out a small, charred edged photo. She doesn’t show the photo to the camera, instead she looks back up and into that lens with a considerably more empty grin than she had before.
”And they never, ever will be.”
The camera is still pointed at the now empty chair where the pair had been sitting. Despite there being no one in the frame, the familiar voice of Niamh can be heard somewhere off camera.
”I let you down, I know.”
The distance between wherever she was standing and the position of the camera still within the office means only her side of the conversation can be heard.
”I’m sorry.”
Still only Niamh can be heard, her tone softer than it has been heard before, almost regretful when paired with her words.
”I won’t let it happen again… No, no of course not. I understand… There’s always a little collateral damage with these things. Just don’t let him find out.”
A long pause, not even the sound of her breathing was picked up, as though she were holding her breath to the response out of earshot.
”Not until I make him proud.”