Disenchanted (or: Nobody is Ever Missing)

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12/24/21

It was unseasonably warm in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas. Unconscionably warm. Apocalyptically so, Ash mused to herself as she slid out of her rental car and into the afternoon sun. She rolled her neck with one hand gripping the sedan's roof to keep herself steady. The pain had mostly subsided, the tinnitus now came in ebbs and flows, yet her equilibrium was still… floaty.

"You good there, chief?" Olive Adler called out in her usual impish-tone, loud enough for half the block to hear to compensate for being on her boss' friend's off-side. Nevertheless, Ash blushed, offering her left ear towards her erstwhile protege.

"Never been better!" Ash chirped in response, her off-kilter backwards stumbling as she slammed the driver's side door shut betraying her. Her lips curled into a frown as her eyes darted towards the ground.

"All I'm saying is, you throw up on me again I'm going to have to start throwing hands."

Ash blushed, rolling her eyes.

"Thanks again, by the way."

Olive raised an eyebrow as the pair made their way towards the house they'd parked in front of. "For what?"

"Being here, I guess."

Olive scoffed. "Not like I have anywhere better to be; I gotta be in Vegas for that fucking awards show in a few days, and Hanukkah ended on the 6th."

"You're insufferable, you know that?" Ash said, trying her hardest to suppress a smile — and failing, despite herself, as she stumbled onto the stoop and rapped at the door.

"No, I've never heard that before in my life," Olive retorted, a glib smirk on her face as the door swung open to reveal what could've passed for a mirror image of the woman beside her, lunging out and wrapping Ash in a tight embrace.

Ash stifled a wince in the older woman's embrace, as the jolt of electric pain that shot through her injured left shoulder momentarily replaced the dull pins and needles she'd felt since before the plane landed.

"Merry Christmas, mom," Ash finally offered in response as she reciprocated the embrace, though her mother's eyes shot towards Olive with a quizzical eyebrow raise.

"Who's your friend?"

---

You're embarrassing, Elisabeth.

Y'know, I've been thinking about this moment from the minute this match was announced. I've had no shortage of time to dream about this, to fantasize about how all of this was going to go the second I finally got to look you in the eye, and tell you exactly what I think about you. About the little stunt you pulled. About what you've done to all of us, and yet I keep coming back to is two little words I uttered at you the night you decided to chuck it all in the fire.

You're embarrassing. What else is there to say?

You got your big moment, didn't you? The crowd couldn't help themselves but to erupt with cheers when you dropped me to the canvas, and for a moment all was right with the world, wasn't it? Because Lissie Hope got to be the big hero; she finally got to live up to one of her cringeworthy little marketing strategies.

And all it took was throwing your chips in for Johnny Bacchus. I hope you remember him; the man who so deeply got under your skin you ignored my warnings about engaging with. The mess you made. The mess that made me deaf in one ear to clean up. So go ahead, talk your shit, queen. Whine all you want about how you didn't feel supported by Philidor. Parade your good deed around as you grasp for the good graces of the rabid mobs in the crowd who one year ago didn't care if you lived or died.

But don't forget that your moment was built on my spine, because you don't have one of your own. And don't forget why you did it. You didn't do it for Johnny, to do right, or for redemption.

You did it for them. Because ultimately, all you ever cared about was their approval. Their blind, unquestioning adoration. And when they gave you cold feet, who was there begging you, urging you to hold steady? You wanna talk protection? I don't think you could even count how many times I put my neck on the line for you. And I think we both know that I don't mean that figuratively. Every hesitation, every indecision of yours I threw myself on the hook for. To clean up a mess you made, I likely will never hear out of my right ear again.

Were my sacrifices not extravagant enough for you, oh ever-consuming maw? I guess not, when compared to the fleeting validation of a roaring crowd. You said it yourself, 'it's nice not being the most hated woman in Action Wrestling,' after all. That's all it's ever been for you, chasing the dragon of fame and praying you don't wind up like Hana Kimura.

You remember her, right? You cared enough about that tragedy to write her name on yourself in Tokyo, but I guess not enough to let it stop you from diving headfirst into the transient approval of the same glowy-eyed freaks who drove her off this mortal coil. That pull was just too powerful, wasn't it?

God, go fuck yourself.

You can give yourself your forty lashes, talk about accountability all you like, but at the end of the day I was one who martyred myself for you every step of the way. So do me one courtesy and step down off that cross. If this is the hill you want to die on, let's just be clear that you're dying for nothing.

Shouldn't be a shock, given that's about as much as you've ever stood for.

But what do I know? I'm just the girl that replaced you, after all.

---

"Your friend's, nice," Lisa Blakesley muttered as she ushered her daughter into the kitchen, shooting a wave towards her unexpected guest before refocusing her attention on her daughter, whose eyes reflexively shot towards her feet.

"She takes some getting used to."

"And she's a co-worker of yours?"

Ash pursed her lips, cocking her head.

"Yeah, I guess that's still true."

Lisa sighed, letting her hands fall atop her daughter's shoulders, drawing both a sharp inhale and a poorly-disguised grimace from Ash.

"Just a shoulder thing; don't worry! I just slept on it wrong or something."

"Right."

For a moment, the pair stood in silence, neither moving until the elder Blakesely broke the ice.

"Are you ever gonna tell me what happened at your old job?"

Ash's breath hitched in the back of her throat and her eyes widened. "It's, complicated. You know?"

Lisa pinched the bridge of her nose. "I saw it on the news, they say the company just vanished!"

"Bad decisions," Ash muttered, though the singsongy 'hm?' she got in response informed her that she'd spoken too softly.

"I said we made some bad decisions; put our faith in the wrong people. Spies in the house of love."

Ash's mother squinted at her, before shaking her head. "Okay, but that doesn't explain how a whole company just goes poof."

"I'm just, trying not to think about it for a minute," Ash lied. Truthfully, it was all she could think about, all she wanted to think about. Closing her eyes, she saw it all over again: Lissie Hope's boot against her jaw, the abandoned offices of 44 Union Square, the Dark Man in the corner of her eye.

She hoped that when she opened them again he'd be there, sharpening his blade—

A swift, heavy knock at the door jarred Ash from the daydream. The pair exchanged confused glances, each silently interrogating the other about the nature of the disturbance.

"I'll go see who that is."

Turning away, Ash crossed the tiny house until she made it to the front door, which when opened revealed no visitor, no interloper.

Just a gift-wrapped package on the doorstep.

---

Oh, did you think I'd just forget that little crack? That barb. That hook you plunged into my skin months ago? Was that your camaraderie, Lissie? Your friendship?

No, that was your ego. And that was your precise, measured little pretension shattering all around you in the blink of an eye. Because what is Lissie Hope without her good old, tried and true, girlboss women-empowerment shtick? That's your thing, right? The thing you've always been about, advancing women in this rotten industry.

Except for when they start to shine brighter than you. Then we're replacements. We're taking your spot from you. How dare I, right? Didn't I know that in Lissie Hope's vision of feminism, the only woman who belongs in the picture is Lissie Hope?

You fickle, emotionally stunted narcissist. This is why it all fell apart. Why it was doomed to fail from the start: at the end of the day, there is nothing Lissie Hope believes in, aside from Lissie Hope.

Of course you stand for nothing. Of course you barely even believe that feminist-lite #girlboss dreck you can't help but spew. Because principles are tough. Convictions are tough. Lines in the sand alienate people, and if there's one thing Lissie Hope needs more than anything it's as many people fawning over her as possible.

And that's why at your best everyone likes you, but nobody loves you. Because underneath it all, there is nothing to love. Just empty branding and marketing slogans. I know, I know, far be it for me to cast that stone; but if the shoe fits.

And that's why this was never going to work, right? Because you've never been able to see past your own nose. That's why that little vanity project gym of yours was tossed in your lap: it was a shiny toy you wanted. Not to make a difference, not to a help a community, not to spread the fucking gospel.

But for you to rub elbows with goddamned influencers.

Because that's your dream.

I think I might've run this into the ground, but god, you're embarrassing.

We tried to give you what you needed and you threw it back in my face because it wasn't what you wanted.

You didn't need a goddamn gym.
You didn't need the roar of approval from these fickle people.
You needed a purpose.
You needed something to actually believe in.

And I couldn't give that to you, could I? Because you envied me; you saw what I accomplished — screw it, there's no we anymore so I might as well take credit for my accomplishments — and you raged at the heavens, wondering why that couldn't be you.

Because you loathed me; you saw that I was the only person you've met in a long time who cared less about Lissie Hope the wrestler and more about Lissie Hope the person, and that made you uncomfortable. Because it meant the legacy you built for yourself meant nothing to me.

Because I wasn't your fucking brother. There are two types of people you allow into your life, aren't there? Well, allow to be close, at least: Daddies and Dependents. People you can look to in order to fill the Robbie-shaped hole in that empty chest cavity of yours, and people you can surround yourself with who treat you like their own personal Robbie.

I was neither.

So go ahead, honey: spin this all you want. Cling to any desperate justification for what you did when the cameras are flashing and a microphone is shoved into your face. How you just had to do the right thing; so inspiring, so brave.

But you locked us both out of heaven with that little stunt, you stupid bitch, so don't you dare say you did it to save your soul.

I know you've heard me give this spiel before, but pay attention because we're changing things up.

Come January third, I'm not going to hurt you.

I'm not going maim you.

I'm going to fucking kill you, Elisabeth.

---

With wide eyes and trembling fingers, Ash shot a glance around the area to find nothing out of the ordinary; just the same neighborhood it had always been. As she reached down to lift the box, she couldn't help but notice the awkward weight distribution; it seemed to roll around as the box tilted, rustling the tissue paper inside.

Bringing the box to eye-level, she caught a glimpse of the gift tag: TO ASH. She could feel the saliva drain from the back of her throat.

"Who is it?" her mother called out from the kitchen.

"Nothing!" Ash called in response, stepping outside and closing the front door behind her. Dropping to a seat on the doorstep, she tore through the wrapping sloppily, her slick, shaking fingers lingering on the exposed box underneath.

Drawing a deep breath, Ash closed her eyes tight and fumbled it open.

When she opened them once more, all she found was a note, neatly set atop the tissue paper:

Consider this your severance package."

Clenching the note in her fist, she rifled through the paper, her hands groping and caressing at something cold, clammy, pallid. Brushing away some of the paper, Ash held her breath before looking in.

Something gray. Graying, at least. A bulbous, discolored mass that seemed to devour the sunlight whole.

Her hands sunk deeper, the mass was tough, weathered, leathery. Shaking fingers fumbled into what seemed to be a hole near the bottom of the mass, fingertips tracing its jagged, teeth-like crevasse.

Then she looked down and saw his eyes.

Recoiling away, the box slipped from her fingers and from it rolled the severed head of Peter Garvey.