🄼🄾🅃🅷🅴🆁 | ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇʀᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪʟʟᴀɪɴ, & ᴍᴇ | Act I
Mar 30, 2023 19:53:29 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Max f'n Daemon, and 1 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope on Mar 30, 2023 19:53:29 GMT -5
“Lissie?”
I sat in front of my mirror applying the finishing touches of my eyeliner. I’d needed to be camera-ready for the occasion – we were going to be relying on New York sunlight pouring in through the curtains, and I wasn’t entirely confident in the young faces of the camera crew, even if a Paramount+ press pass lanyard hung from their necks.
And I wasn’t confident in the hazy smog of the city either. It was always a struggle to see the Statue of Liberty in the distant because of the smoky air. But the sunlight reflected off the windows of the high-rises, and the kaleidoscopic mirage always reminded me of my dreams.
I do call it Dreamland, after all.
“I’ll be out in a second,” I called out from my bathroom.
Every match I’ve competed in lately was a war. From my three battles with Tatiana Jolee to my impending showdown with Serenity Holmes — and the violent and brutal prison I escaped in my vengeful affair with Casanova English that we took to the glitz and glamour of the Las Vegas crowd, a corporate and sponsored event that never expected to see such devastation —and it was all coming back to me now.
I visualized each of their faces staring back at me in the reflection of the mirror, like a series of ghosts who would forever haunt me in my sanctuary. In my safe space. In my home.
“We’re ready for you.”
I couldn’t rid myself of them.
Even when I embrace my femininity and spend so much time and energy skillfully crafting my makeup — my artwork — the only lasting bit of humanity left after four years of sacrificing myself to the spirits of the squared circle and all of the bloodthirsty animals that roam unleashed in the locker room, I still want to keep my identity intact. I’m still a woman who wants to be honored and loved and protected. I still have hope that I can reconcile what I’ve lost, and what’s at stake, and what I’ve needed to sacrifice to be the best wrestler in the world.
It’s never fully repressed.
My artwork is still my warpaint.
“No, they’re not,” I verbalized to myself in a volume just above a whisper. My stiletto heel echoed off the floor with every step as I entered my hollowed out living room. Filling the empty void of Johnny’s favorite couch was a long-legged director’s chair just for me — and sitting opposite was a dark silhouette hiding in the shadows of the spotlights and camera-lights. Her watchful eyes awaited my arrival.
“I really appreciate the opportunity to interview you today, Lissie,” she said. I’d been in contact with Candace – an executive producer and documentarian from the original content branch of Paramount+ – following my stint last winter on Celebrity Big Brother. The chance to create a biopic of my journey in the wrestling industry was such a tremendous honor, but there was still a part of me that felt like it was premature.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to start at the beginning.”
My palms clammed up as I felt a rush of adrenaline course through my body. It materialized with sweaty palms and the racing beat of my heart. I felt the emptiness of the living room now – a place where I’d shared some of my favorite memories with Johnny.
And the only thing I could think about was how it all ended.
There’s nothing quite like making your first purchase as a couple.
Johnny and I had visited several department stores together looking for the perfect couch to accent the angular corners of my condo. I wanted him to have his imprint on the decor – he had the intrinsic eye for artistry. He was so bold and colorful and knew what worked — knew how to do things. How to say things. How to complete things.
And he was my perfect match since I tend to leave things incomplete. I’ve never been one to finish a project. If it was left in my hands, this corner of the living room would be packed to the ceiling with unsorted boxes. But I wanted Johnny to feel comfortable. I wanted him to call my home his home.
We maneuvered one corner through the narrow doorway and he grimaced when he banged his elbow on the frame.
“You okay??” I asked with concern. He laughed it off and didn’t skip a beat.
“Gotta tell ‘ya, Tiger,” he affirmed. “This was a good find.”
“I’m so glad you like it, babe,” I said, feeling my heartbeat accelerate. I couldn’t tell if it was my shortness of breath or the magnitude of how far we’d come together. “I think you might spend more time on it than I would. But –” I said, setting the corner down just outside the doorway. “I think it may be big enough for both of us.” He winked suggestively and I couldn’t contain a giggle. “But how the hell are we gonna get this through here?”
With his eyes fixated on mine, and both of our burning desires to test the ‘quality’ of the couch growing by the second, he banged his elbow on the frame a second time.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered in painful aggravation.
“Aww babe,” I said, leaning over and offering a kiss. “Let me get on the inside – I’m smaller. I’ll lead, you follow.” I switched places with Johnny, feeling his breath on my neck as I squeezed past him. It sent electricity through every inch of my body. “The faster we get this done –” I said… unable to complete the sentence, but the implication didn’t need to be said.
I lifted the couch up onto my knee and manuevered it through the door. We found it’s permanent spot in the corner of the living room. “This is perfect”, I offered. “Centered with the television. You can open the bay windows and get that nice breeze in here and we never have to turn on the air!”
“Almost perfect,” he replied, looking out over Jamaica Bay. And then he turned, snapped me off my feet, and tackled me onto the couch. I squealed in delight as he placed his soft lips on my neck, arching his body into mine and moving his fingers along my ribcage. “...and now it’s perfect.”
My smile waspermanently affixed on my face as I laid my body onto his, feeling his heart beating through his chest. Mine accelerated to match his. “I just want to lay here with you forever.”
“Is that a promise?”
“One I hope I don’t break,” I said softly. “We just have so much to do. So many places to go. I don’t want us to drift apart by the separation. I know we still have Cult –” my voice faded with uncertainty. “-- but there’s still everything else.”
He listened with intent, marinating on my concerns.
“If we still can be here together at the end of the night,” I said, trying to manifest a glimmer of hope. “Then it doesn’t matter what we do during the day, right?”
I noticed he wanted to say something. But I continued instead.
“This is starting to feel like home now.”
“Our home,” he promised.
And I believed him.
I felt a tear roll down my cheek and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Pulling me into his body, I felt the weight of his words.
“I love you so much, Tiger,” he said. “And I would do anything for you.”
And I felt weightless.
Floating.
Like gravity couldn’t hold us down.
I waited until I heard the gentle hum of his snoring begin.
I sat in front of my mirror applying the finishing touches of my eyeliner. I’d needed to be camera-ready for the occasion – we were going to be relying on New York sunlight pouring in through the curtains, and I wasn’t entirely confident in the young faces of the camera crew, even if a Paramount+ press pass lanyard hung from their necks.
And I wasn’t confident in the hazy smog of the city either. It was always a struggle to see the Statue of Liberty in the distant because of the smoky air. But the sunlight reflected off the windows of the high-rises, and the kaleidoscopic mirage always reminded me of my dreams.
I do call it Dreamland, after all.
“I’ll be out in a second,” I called out from my bathroom.
Every match I’ve competed in lately was a war. From my three battles with Tatiana Jolee to my impending showdown with Serenity Holmes — and the violent and brutal prison I escaped in my vengeful affair with Casanova English that we took to the glitz and glamour of the Las Vegas crowd, a corporate and sponsored event that never expected to see such devastation —and it was all coming back to me now.
I visualized each of their faces staring back at me in the reflection of the mirror, like a series of ghosts who would forever haunt me in my sanctuary. In my safe space. In my home.
“We’re ready for you.”
I couldn’t rid myself of them.
Even when I embrace my femininity and spend so much time and energy skillfully crafting my makeup — my artwork — the only lasting bit of humanity left after four years of sacrificing myself to the spirits of the squared circle and all of the bloodthirsty animals that roam unleashed in the locker room, I still want to keep my identity intact. I’m still a woman who wants to be honored and loved and protected. I still have hope that I can reconcile what I’ve lost, and what’s at stake, and what I’ve needed to sacrifice to be the best wrestler in the world.
It’s never fully repressed.
My artwork is still my warpaint.
“I really appreciate the opportunity to interview you today, Lissie,” she said. I’d been in contact with Candace – an executive producer and documentarian from the original content branch of Paramount+ – following my stint last winter on Celebrity Big Brother. The chance to create a biopic of my journey in the wrestling industry was such a tremendous honor, but there was still a part of me that felt like it was premature.
“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to start at the beginning.”
My palms clammed up as I felt a rush of adrenaline course through my body. It materialized with sweaty palms and the racing beat of my heart. I felt the emptiness of the living room now – a place where I’d shared some of my favorite memories with Johnny.
And the only thing I could think about was how it all ended.
One month ago -
There’s nothing quite like making your first purchase as a couple.
Johnny and I had visited several department stores together looking for the perfect couch to accent the angular corners of my condo. I wanted him to have his imprint on the decor – he had the intrinsic eye for artistry. He was so bold and colorful and knew what worked — knew how to do things. How to say things. How to complete things.
And he was my perfect match since I tend to leave things incomplete. I’ve never been one to finish a project. If it was left in my hands, this corner of the living room would be packed to the ceiling with unsorted boxes. But I wanted Johnny to feel comfortable. I wanted him to call my home his home.
We maneuvered one corner through the narrow doorway and he grimaced when he banged his elbow on the frame.
“You okay??” I asked with concern. He laughed it off and didn’t skip a beat.
“Gotta tell ‘ya, Tiger,” he affirmed. “This was a good find.”
“I’m so glad you like it, babe,” I said, feeling my heartbeat accelerate. I couldn’t tell if it was my shortness of breath or the magnitude of how far we’d come together. “I think you might spend more time on it than I would. But –” I said, setting the corner down just outside the doorway. “I think it may be big enough for both of us.” He winked suggestively and I couldn’t contain a giggle. “But how the hell are we gonna get this through here?”
With his eyes fixated on mine, and both of our burning desires to test the ‘quality’ of the couch growing by the second, he banged his elbow on the frame a second time.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered in painful aggravation.
“Aww babe,” I said, leaning over and offering a kiss. “Let me get on the inside – I’m smaller. I’ll lead, you follow.” I switched places with Johnny, feeling his breath on my neck as I squeezed past him. It sent electricity through every inch of my body. “The faster we get this done –” I said… unable to complete the sentence, but the implication didn’t need to be said.
I lifted the couch up onto my knee and manuevered it through the door. We found it’s permanent spot in the corner of the living room. “This is perfect”, I offered. “Centered with the television. You can open the bay windows and get that nice breeze in here and we never have to turn on the air!”
“Almost perfect,” he replied, looking out over Jamaica Bay. And then he turned, snapped me off my feet, and tackled me onto the couch. I squealed in delight as he placed his soft lips on my neck, arching his body into mine and moving his fingers along my ribcage. “...and now it’s perfect.”
My smile was
“Is that a promise?”
“One I hope I don’t break,” I said softly. “We just have so much to do. So many places to go. I don’t want us to drift apart by the separation. I know we still have Cult –” my voice faded with uncertainty. “-- but there’s still everything else.”
He listened with intent, marinating on my concerns.
“If we still can be here together at the end of the night,” I said, trying to manifest a glimmer of hope. “Then it doesn’t matter what we do during the day, right?”
I noticed he wanted to say something. But I continued instead.
“This is starting to feel like home now.”
“Our home,” he promised.
And I believed him.
I felt a tear roll down my cheek and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Pulling me into his body, I felt the weight of his words.
“I love you so much, Tiger,” he said. “And I would do anything for you.”
And I felt weightless.
Floating.
Like gravity couldn’t hold us down.
I waited until I heard the gentle hum of his snoring begin.
And that’s when I was pulled back to earth.
I didn’t like to leave the water running – and Johnny had been running it for awhile.
It was peculiar; he’s a California resident. He’s aware of water shortage. But there was something happening inside that bathroom.
My thoughts ricocheted with every worst-case scenario. I knew about his work with Casanova English, and he was keeping the details vague and close to his chest. I didn’t want to press, either – I couldn’t allow that slimy bastard to step in between the two of us.
But why was he in the bathroom so long?
I needed to clean. I needed to keep myself occupied, otherwise these thoughts would eat at me and leave my conscience permanently disfigured and irreparable. My anxiety and restlessness was beginning to amplify, further threatening the tranquility and peace in the home we’d created.
So I started vacuuming the couch cushions. That was his favorite spot, and I didn’t want him to lie on dirt and debris. And when my hand tucked under the cushion, I felt the small, 1-inch by 1-inch sealed baggie in the crevice. It burned a hole in my skin, a sensation I hadn’t felt since Casanova stubbed his cigarette on my flesh.
And I panicked.
“Johnny -” I screamed, exploding through the doorway. And I saw the red swirling around the sink.
And I felt the wounds on my wrist reopen.
And I felt the staples from the self-inflicted gash on my stomach tearing out – the reminder of the scar I could only cover with a World Championship.
And I felt my heart shattering.
And I felt myself bleeding out on the floor.
And I could see the terror in his eyes.
Johnny was finally afraid to get my blood on his hands.
One week ago-
I didn’t like to leave the water running – and Johnny had been running it for awhile.
It was peculiar; he’s a California resident. He’s aware of water shortage. But there was something happening inside that bathroom.
My thoughts ricocheted with every worst-case scenario. I knew about his work with Casanova English, and he was keeping the details vague and close to his chest. I didn’t want to press, either – I couldn’t allow that slimy bastard to step in between the two of us.
But why was he in the bathroom so long?
I needed to clean. I needed to keep myself occupied, otherwise these thoughts would eat at me and leave my conscience permanently disfigured and irreparable. My anxiety and restlessness was beginning to amplify, further threatening the tranquility and peace in the home we’d created.
So I started vacuuming the couch cushions. That was his favorite spot, and I didn’t want him to lie on dirt and debris. And when my hand tucked under the cushion, I felt the small, 1-inch by 1-inch sealed baggie in the crevice. It burned a hole in my skin, a sensation I hadn’t felt since Casanova stubbed his cigarette on my flesh.
And I panicked.
“Johnny -” I screamed, exploding through the doorway. And I saw the red swirling around the sink.
And I felt the wounds on my wrist reopen.
And I felt the staples from the self-inflicted gash on my stomach tearing out – the reminder of the scar I could only cover with a World Championship.
And I felt my heart shattering.
And I felt myself bleeding out on the floor.
And I could see the terror in his eyes.
Johnny was finally afraid to get my blood on his hands.