Post by Ash Blake on Aug 14, 2022 13:33:04 GMT -5
8/8/22
"Where are we right now?" Olive Adler asked as she and Ash guided Johnny Bacchus towards an empty chair, wincing reflexively as her gaze darted between the knot forming on his head and the vacant-eyed, teeth-clenched stare on Ash's face. Around them, the backstage area was still abuzz, a flurry of chatter and loud, clacking footsteps.
"Cleveland," Johnny offered in response, squinting at the lights overhead as he struggled to maintain eye contact with the woman asking him questions. Olive tsked, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, but where, specifically?"
"The fuckin' uh, QuickenLoans Arena."
Olive cocked her head and pursed her lips in contemplation. "Close enough."
"D'you got an Enswell or anything?"
"Why the fuck would I have an Enswell?"
Johnny shrugged. "I dunno, all's well that Enswell?"
"I will double concuss you."
"Why are you playing doctor anyway? Shouldn't I be seeing the trainer?"
"Well," Olive began, gesturing towards Ash, who herself did not seem to notice, "Thanks to the space cadet you call a partner—"
"You mean your girlfriend?" Johnny interjected. Olive compulsively flipped him the bird, to which he responded by sticking his tongue out at her, screwing up his face.
"—I've become something of a self-taught expert when it comes to concussion tests."
"Real comforting to know, Doc." Johnny pinched his nose and clenched his eyes shut, swearing under his breath.
"Oh, shut up."
Out the corner of Olive's eye, she saw Ash's hands ball into fists. Biting her tongue, Olive's gaze shifted away from Johnny, towards the still empty-eyed expression glued to Ash's face. A familiar discomfort jolted down her spine as she studied the look; she'd seen it before.
"Speaking of space cadet," Olive muttered under her breath with a weak chuckle, reaching out and grabbing onto Ash's shoulder. "Hey? Anyone home?"
Ash's eyes fluttered and she shook her head. Her focus darted throughout the hallway, seemingly to acclimate herself to her surroundings, before settling on her seated partner. "How's the test going?"
Johnny opened his mouth to speak, but bit his tongue. Olive shook her head and returned her focus to him.
"Right."
She took a beat to compose herself, then raised the next question on the checklist.
"What day is it?"
I'm sorry, John. Really, I am.
I'm sorry that it has to be you this week; and I'm sorry that it has to be me. Maybe, if it were anyone else in my shoes, they'd look past you. They'd look down on you. They'd give you the chance to capitalize on their arrogance and shock everyone, yourself included. But I'm not wired that way. I never have been.
But I think the thing I'm most sorry for, John, is that I'm sure you believe this is about you. This is about your rebound — out of the frying pan, into the fire with a dragon to slay that'd instantly legitimize you. That isn't what this is about, though.
It's about me. It's another opportunity to relitigate who exactly I am. To reaffirm the faith my colleague has placed in me, the lengths he's gone to advocate for me, the reputation he's sacrificed to help me save myself. Pardon the grandiosity of that statement, but it's the truth. It feels like every breath I've taken in the last few weeks has been an opportunity to fail. To betray that trust. To let the mask fall from my face.
But that's the irony of it all, isn't it? There is no mask; there's nothing for me to shed because there never has been in the first place. And in everything I do, every act I've committed (and every single one I didn't), there's been a confession.
And the confession here is a simple one — a common refrain, all told. The nicest thing I could do for you would be to look right through you, like so many of my contemporaries would.
But I'm lookin' right at you, hun. I see you perfectly clear, beneath all the bluster, beyond your insistence to anyone who'll listen about just how hard you're going to come for them, behind the tough talk from the landlord comedian stapled to your side like a security blanket.
And you know what I see?
I see a loser with a loser heart. Someone more content with the moral victory of 'being taken seriously' to ever actually turn heads. Who'll scratch and claw his way into the doldrums of mediocrity and build himself a house there.
You'd much rather break my nose than pin me, wouldn't you? Just so you can show the world that you made me bleed.
Which is why I'm sorry for so many things, John.
But I'm not sorry that I'm going to beat you.
"Who do you think you are?" croaked The Supervisor as Ash's eyes snapped open. His pale lips were curled into a sneer, a permanent fixture of his pallid, otherwise lifeless face. Her heart sank as her eyes darted around the space and she felt the cold embrace of the inky blackness once more.
"C'mon," he began, gesturing towards the cement chess table between them. Ash glanced down at the board, scowling. Exhaling a sigh, her gaze returned to the cold, dead eyes of her erstwhile boss as she dragged her arm across the board, sending the pieces scattering into the abyss.
"I'm not playing this game again."
"Right." A gravelly laugh escaped The Supervisor's lips. "You've gone straight now. Well, sort of."
Silence lingered between the two as their eyes locked on the other. Ash opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to the punch.
"And what you've just seen happen to your newfound associate shocks and horrifies you."
Ash shook her head. "I'm not shocked. You could hear the pull in his voice whenever he mentioned the horrible things he's done; he was always halfway out the door."
"And you aren't?"
Her eyes widened and she leaned over the table, head cocked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Don't play coy, he's just like me. And I'm just like you."
"We are not the same."
He rolled his eyes at the remark, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"Does your savior know?"
"Know what?"
"Just who he's trying to save?"
Ash felt her throat tighten as her eyes darted to avoid The Supervisor's gaze.
"That's what I thought."
"He knows enough."
"Is that your decision to make? Or are you just scared that if he saw the full picture, he'd realize just how badly he fucked up in going out on a limb for you?"
His sneer became a grin; there was still nothing behind his eyes.
"You're protecting him though, aren't you? How fucking selfless, Ashley. Almost as selfless as not letting your little girlfriend know what's really going on between your ears. It's definitely not because she'd turn and run the other direction if you let her in."
"Shut up," Ash muttered.
"You replaced him with us. And you replaced us with her."
"I said shut the fuck up."
"Temper temper," he retorted with a snicker. "Do you really think the third time's gonna be the charm?"
She pounded both hands on the board, her face a mask of seething rage. But now it was Daniel Fehl who smiled back at her.
"Don't kid yourself; there's no half-measures for this."
Because I've made clear my distaste for those types of moral victories from day one. There's no such thing in my vocabulary for a stellar effort in defeat, and I've never been one to be satisfied with just my pound of flesh; I want the whole thing. So the tired rhetoric of proving you can hang, of proving your competence does little to inspire confidence in me. There's no second gear for you, no drive to exceed.
But I'm willing to be proven wrong on that front. I so hope that isn't the case, but I can't go against the evidence I see with my own eyes, can I?
So, go ahead, John. Puff that chest out. Cock back as far as you can and hit me with the hardest shot you can muster. Put up the fight of your entire life. And maybe, just maybe you can find a part of me that isn't scarred to leave your mark on so that you can feel a little bit better when I drop you on your head.
Because that's how this goes. No matter who it is that gets the glean in their eyes and thinks they're on their way to show that Daniel Fehl isn't so special in his ability to call my bluff, all they can achieve are flesh wounds and scar tissue. A dislocated shoulder here, a ruptured eardrum there, even a fractured orbital couldn't keep me down for the count. I have been run through the meat grinder like few others in this profession ever have, so you better be coming with a lot more than just a fighting spirit.
But you aren't, are you?
You're coming with your heart.
Your desire.
Your toughness.
And none of it will mean anything if you can't execute. And all that's been proven, time in and time out in recent memory is that you can't. Look around you, John. Look at the stage you've been thrust upon.
I'm not Jessie Lee.
I'm not Alexandra Calaway.
I'm so much worse than that.
8/14/22
"Shave and a haircut," Ash muttered under her breath as she knocked on the hotel door before her in the same pattern, a banker's box balancing precariously on her raised knee. By her count, an eternity had passed as she waited, gripping the box with both hands once more and trying in vain to calm her racing heart.
Finally, the door swung open and Johnny Bacchus stood in the doorframe, a gauze pad wrapped around the spot where Daniel Fehl struck him with the crowbar. His eyes narrowed on the box before shooting up to meet hers, and he wordlessly ushered her into the room.
"When you texted, you said it was urgent. I didn't know that meant 'I'll be over in ten minutes' urgent."
Ash shrugged, placing the box on the ubiquitous hotel room desk.
"What's in the box?"
Ash exhaled a sigh.
"That's sort of what I wanted to talk about." Her eyes darted to the floor, and she picked at her cuticles.
Johnny rolled his eyes. "The suspense is killing me. In addition to the head wound, of course."
"It's my life's work."
Once more, his eyes narrowed. Though, his focus remained solely on Ash.
"It would be a breach of doctor/patient confidentiality, were I a doctor."
"Go on."
She felt her heart in her throat. Swallowing a mouthful of spit to coat the back of her throat, she sighed.
"Okay, fine. It's a complete inventory of the blood on my hands."
He raised an eyebrow, crossing the room towards the box.
"It's thorough. Years worth of documentation. This, whatever it is, can't work unless we're truly and fully honest with each other, right?"
A silence overtook the pair for a moment as Johnny ran his finger through the collection of manila folders.
"I apologize if the one on the very end isn't accurate; it's hard to get a read on someone from one session under the best of circumstances, and ours wasn't exactly that, was it?"
