...we are(n't) floating in space.
Jul 10, 2022 13:01:05 GMT -5
Johnny Bacchus and Alice Gemini like this
Post by Ash Blake on Jul 10, 2022 13:01:05 GMT -5
And I'm watching all the stars burn out Trying to pretend that I care 7/4/22 The crowd hurls jeers and abuse your way as you plant your boot on the back of Adelaide Ainsworth's neck, but your focus (as always) is fixed straight ahead. You can't see his face, but you're certain Johnny isn't as tickled by this situation as you are. He raises the microphone in hand to his lips, but the only thing you hear is a familiar voice scratching at the back of your skull, almost drowned out by a wave of tinnitus. "You could stomp heel first and fracture her C3 vertebrae." You don't feel Samson, but there's no mistaking that voice. Your eyes widen, darting around the arena, staring into the abyss just beyond the house lights. You feel yourself grinding the heel of your boot into your rival's downed plus-one's neck. You close your eyes. "Just a little bit of force." Your fingers tighten around the rubber mask — one of Johnny's dramatic touches. The ringing in your ears fades, and you catch your breath as your eyes snap open. "Because I won't forget it," Elisabeth almost-snarls towards him. He crosses the ring towards you, and you grin involuntarily. You feel a weight lift itself off your shoulders as you lift your boot off of Adelaide and return the mask to your face and slip into the crowd. The pair of you make your retreat in silence; cat's got your tongue. It's fine, you concede. You're hardly in a talking mood anyway. Hello, Adelaide. I have to admit, I feel a tingling sense of glee in seeing our names across the card from one another, just a couple short weeks removed from Meltdown. To look you in the eye rather than at the back of your head. Truth be told, until you reattached yourself to Elisabeth's hip and shoved yourself in front of me, I hadn't given you much thought. I'm sure that doesn't come as a shock to you, but now, like so many others who've been in your position: You have my attention. I see you, Adelaide. And let me tell you, I really don't like what I see. Because as I live and breathe, watching you gesticulate, bloviate, puff your chest out over all the things you've done to people, and all the things you will do if given the chance; I see it all for what it is. Bark. Bluster. But I see it in your eyes, and I've smelled it on you every time we've been in the same ring. Fear. Of having someone look you in the eye. Of being seen. Of being recognized for what you are. And what are you, Adelaide? You're a goddamned child. The world around you is blurry as you follow a vaguely Johnny Bacchus-shaped figure towards Gorilla, doing your best to keep your trembling legs from buckling. You feel an all-too-familiar grin dot the corners of your lips, just as empty behind the eyes as it always has been. Your face is hot and damp, exacerbated by the rubber mask still on your head; you snatch it off and hold it in a tightly clenched fist. Johnny takes a look over his shoulder towards you, a curious expression on his face. He conspicuously slows, and lets you catch up, seemingly making a mental note of your unsteady gait. "Hey, you good?" he asks as you approach. Your grin widens, as if by reflex. "Never better," you respond, almost gagging on your words. The color drains from your face and your eyes shoot towards the floor. He regards you with suspicion, his lips curling into a frown. You round the corner as he opens his mouth to speak, but before he can he's interrupted by a shrill shriek from the other end of the hall. "There you guys are!" Olive Adler exclaims, rising from her seat near the monitors and rushing towards you. Her gaze lingers on you, and you can feel the anxiety in her eyes as she approaches. She tries her best to mask it by rolling her eyes. "It's a fuckin' maze back here, you guys really should've just gone up the ramp." "What would we ever do without you?" Johnny snarks back, reciprocating the eyeroll. "Not a whole lot, I'd bet." Her attention turns back to you as she takes your hand. Your breath hitches as you try to avert your gaze, the weight from before slamming back down on your shoulders like a ton of bricks. She notices. Of course she does. "What's wrong?" she whispers. "You look like you've seen a ghost." Heard one, you bite your tongue to keep from choking out. You thrash the hand in her grasp around like a trapped animal, peeling it away. Her eyes wide, she moves to close the distance, but you press that same hand into her shoulder and shove her back. "Get the fuck off me!" you snarl out, feeling the full weight of the production staff's eyes fall upon you. "They see you now." Johnny looks first to you, then to Olive. An entire conversation plays out in the brief moments that they lock eyes, one of concern and consternation. "I'm fine," you begin, face beet red and cheeks stinging. "I just, I need some space." And without another word you retreat down the hall from whence you came, as fast as your legs will take you. You relish in your atrocities. You brandish them like a vagrant waving a switchblade to scare off anyone who gets close to you, so you can make everyone forget about all the times your threats led to little more than you grasping impotently at someone's neck, praying for the strength to squeeze. I get it. I've been there, Adelaide. Which is exactly why I have no sympathy for you. Because you just can't help yourself, can you? No, you have to scream it from the mountaintops, let everyone who'll listen know just how full of piss and vinegar you are — how they should give you a wide berth. But it's not from a position of strength, is it Adelaide? I don't hear your threats and quiver. The cruel intentions you so idly let spill from your mouth anytime the mistake is made to let a microphone within twenty feet of you don't shake me. Because you need to beat your chest to be heard. You need to tout your ill intentions and alleged killer instinct over and over again because it's the only way anyone will ever internalize them. Deep down, all you really are is white trash Regan Voorhees. Though, at least she's capable of holding onto a belt. Go ahead, bleat out your greatest hits. Exhaust your entire vocabulary — all twelve words of it — to curse everything that I stood for then, and everything I stand for now. Tell me all the horrifying things you're planning to do to me. And I'll imagine what your hands feel like around my throat when you just can't find it in you to squeeze. After all, the only time those hands of yours feel comfortable around any throat is when they're wrapped around your own, right? That's why even when you're trying to strike out on your own, you're always in her shadow. That's why your triumphant moment of capturing the belts at Evolution will be a trivia question people get wrong, because they just assumed Elisabeth did it. That's why you're the sidekick. You splash a handful of cold water into your face, shuddering as it connects with your burning face. Your reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror is particularly flushed under the fluorescent lights. Bile rises in the back of your throat, which you choke down with a grimace. You were doing so well, weren't you? "It's easy when you're not being tested," you hear him hiss at you. But you know it's not really him, right? You try once more to hold back the bile in your throat, stumbling towards one of the stalls, but it explodes out of you before you even get the door open, battering the plastic as you drop to your knees. "It's you," you mutter to yourself. "It's you." You force yourself to your feet, and approach the sink. As you wash your hands vigorously, your eyes drift toward the mirror and you gaze at your own reflection. Your face is gaunt and scarred, all sharp angles and jagged teeth. And no matter how hard you wash your hands, you just can't seem to get clean. And yet, here you are trying. Am I beating around the bush with this too much? Maybe I should just cut to the chase, huh? Do forgive me — I've been a little manic since the last time we saw each other. What I'm saying is, for all your proclamations of strength, of brash, crass, wanton destruction, you are so inescapably weak. So mind-rottingly insecure that you'll cling onto the one accolade in your trophy cabinet that can't be taken away from you: that coveted spot as Action Wrestling's Baddest Bitch. Show me how you earned that accolade, then. Throw everything you have at me, forget that we're due to see each other again in a couple weeks. Let me look you in the eye and see every godforsaken inch of you. Because despite my lack of attention paid towards you, I've seen it before, but your attention was fixed on a different adversary. Your dark doppelganger. I know the lengths you'll go to. The things you're willing to do for this. After all, you killed your own child. Then what happened? Yeah, that's what I thought. |
