Post by Malachi White on Nov 21, 2019 21:52:20 GMT -5
Darkness.
Then, the slow, rhythmic beating of a battered heart. Or was it the stars that danced in his periphery, on the edge of consciousness, that slammed against his skull. If only the voices matched the tune; they overwhelmed him worse than the pain, all speaking over one another as they tried to make sense of the madness. But what sense was there to make? In the midst of all the noise, it seemed foolish to add one’s own confused writhing to the chaos. Better to just roll over, cover one’s ears, until the ringing stopped for good. Embrace the quiet. Embrace the en—
Malachi rolled, and opened his eyes.
The room was dark, but not dark to the point that he was blind. He could make out the fan rotating overhead, make out its low, dull drone. He glanced to his right at the digital alarm clock. 3:24 A.M. Thurs. He hadn’t been able to sleep through the night since the attack. Concussion testing, overnight examinations, and then . . . the long wait. Refreshing the social media accounts and website, lying awake at night, hoping for answers to given by someone. It was never fun to go through pain without reason.
White sighed and threw the covers off of him, rolling over to the edge of the bed. His bare feet hit hardwood floor as he stood up. His body caught the light from the outside bleeding through the windows, illuminating his torso and arms. The bruising had subsided for the most part around his ribs, where he had taken most of the impact from Fortain’s spear. Just the barest hint of yellow where they had once been purple and blue.
Malachi snatched something indiscernible from the bedside table as he strode across the room, pulling the sliding door open that led to his apartment balcony. He ignored the chill from the Nevadan night as he moved to the edge, back to his room and his worries for the moment. His hands moved to his face and, after a few moments, the click of the lighter is heard. A visible cloud is blown out, a mix of White’s breath and smoke that shrouded his vision for a moment.
“I smoked for the first time,” Malachi finally said, “on my eighteenth birthday. Not a store-bought cigarette, either. No, my grandfather insisted that my first one was one that he rolled himself, like it was done years and years ago. While he rolled it, he told me of the history of the practice, how it was introduced by the fur traders and popularized by the gold miners. A very western practice that had taken root in our homeland and, along the way, took many lives in the process. These days, almost everyone I knew never bothered with what my grandfather was doing, but he would not waver. And, when he was finished and he passed the cigarette to me, he told me why.
‘A man should never accept harm to himself that he did not have a hand in inflicting.’
Of course, as a teen, I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. I muttered some half-hearted thoughts on his advice as I sputtered and coughed, too caught up in the moment to really reflect on it all. It was probably wasn’t until two years later, when I started training in wrestling, that it began to make sense to me. I realized that there would be points in our lives where we would make choices that could drastically impact us and, in those moments, we had to step back and consciously accept the consequences that came out of it, both the good and the bad. Complacency was the alternative, but complaining was not to be tolerated at all. Not when the pain, be it physical or otherwise, was by one’s own decisions.”
Malachi turned back to face the doorway, cigarette hanging his lips. Embers clung to the tip, glowing orange in the dim. He took another drag and pulled it away from his mouth as he blew out a second cloud.
“Thus, I accept everything that happened to me this past Monday night, up until the moment James Nightingale stepped through that door with a chain wrapped around his fist. I will stand here and admit that on that night, Felix Fortain was the better competitor. He battered me and bruised me, but he did not break me. And, distraction or no distraction, he beat me too. I accept those failures, painful as they may be, because they were inflicted on me by a man who abided by the rules of the contest. The fight ended with the three count, and we went our separate ways. Was I disappointed? Certainly, but I was taught on the very first day of training that victory was not something we always achieved on a daily basis. Some days, it was making it to the next one would be the only win we would achieve.”
White tapped his index finger. Ashes scattered, carried away by the early morning breeze.
“James Nightingale wouldn’t even let me have that. A simple post-match examination spiraled into a six-hour affair in a hospital because James wanted to make an example out of me. I went from looking at stadium lights to the flashlight dancing in front of my eyes as the doctor silently checks for signs of concussion, leaving me to desperately wonder if my entire career was over before it even begun. All for a message. Eradicating the weakness?”
Malachi paused.
“Do I look weak to you?”
Another pause.
“A weak man would have taken this all as a sign to back out while it was still an option. I’m sure that that’s the game plan. Prey on the newcomers who were still walking around on shaky legs, still figuring out their place in this company. They’re so focused on everything in front of them that they don’t even see the attack from behind until its too late. Boom. You get to check off yet another unestablished name off of your never-ending list. A bully whose is drunk on the limitless potential that this company’s undercard offers you.
But boy did you pick a heck of a first target.
Because even if my legs were shaky before, they aren’t now. No, they are firmly planted in your path. Face to face, so no more room for sneak attacks. If I had given up after Monday night, you just would’ve moved onto the next hopeful soul, but I did not give up. I will not give up because, like my grandfather taught me, I am to accept only the harm that comes by my own hand’s doing, and this just isn’t the case. You attacked me, unprovoked and without reason, and now I look to return the favor.”
Malachi balled his fist, crushing the cigarette in his grip.
“And I hope in the final moments, after I have beaten you up and down that ring and I have pinned your shoulders to the mat for that three count, you realize the bitter truth: you brought it all on yourself.”
Malachi unclenches his fist and steps back into his bedroom. The scene fades a moment later.
Then, the slow, rhythmic beating of a battered heart. Or was it the stars that danced in his periphery, on the edge of consciousness, that slammed against his skull. If only the voices matched the tune; they overwhelmed him worse than the pain, all speaking over one another as they tried to make sense of the madness. But what sense was there to make? In the midst of all the noise, it seemed foolish to add one’s own confused writhing to the chaos. Better to just roll over, cover one’s ears, until the ringing stopped for good. Embrace the quiet. Embrace the en—
Malachi rolled, and opened his eyes.
The room was dark, but not dark to the point that he was blind. He could make out the fan rotating overhead, make out its low, dull drone. He glanced to his right at the digital alarm clock. 3:24 A.M. Thurs. He hadn’t been able to sleep through the night since the attack. Concussion testing, overnight examinations, and then . . . the long wait. Refreshing the social media accounts and website, lying awake at night, hoping for answers to given by someone. It was never fun to go through pain without reason.
White sighed and threw the covers off of him, rolling over to the edge of the bed. His bare feet hit hardwood floor as he stood up. His body caught the light from the outside bleeding through the windows, illuminating his torso and arms. The bruising had subsided for the most part around his ribs, where he had taken most of the impact from Fortain’s spear. Just the barest hint of yellow where they had once been purple and blue.
Malachi snatched something indiscernible from the bedside table as he strode across the room, pulling the sliding door open that led to his apartment balcony. He ignored the chill from the Nevadan night as he moved to the edge, back to his room and his worries for the moment. His hands moved to his face and, after a few moments, the click of the lighter is heard. A visible cloud is blown out, a mix of White’s breath and smoke that shrouded his vision for a moment.
“I smoked for the first time,” Malachi finally said, “on my eighteenth birthday. Not a store-bought cigarette, either. No, my grandfather insisted that my first one was one that he rolled himself, like it was done years and years ago. While he rolled it, he told me of the history of the practice, how it was introduced by the fur traders and popularized by the gold miners. A very western practice that had taken root in our homeland and, along the way, took many lives in the process. These days, almost everyone I knew never bothered with what my grandfather was doing, but he would not waver. And, when he was finished and he passed the cigarette to me, he told me why.
‘A man should never accept harm to himself that he did not have a hand in inflicting.’
Of course, as a teen, I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. I muttered some half-hearted thoughts on his advice as I sputtered and coughed, too caught up in the moment to really reflect on it all. It was probably wasn’t until two years later, when I started training in wrestling, that it began to make sense to me. I realized that there would be points in our lives where we would make choices that could drastically impact us and, in those moments, we had to step back and consciously accept the consequences that came out of it, both the good and the bad. Complacency was the alternative, but complaining was not to be tolerated at all. Not when the pain, be it physical or otherwise, was by one’s own decisions.”
Malachi turned back to face the doorway, cigarette hanging his lips. Embers clung to the tip, glowing orange in the dim. He took another drag and pulled it away from his mouth as he blew out a second cloud.
“Thus, I accept everything that happened to me this past Monday night, up until the moment James Nightingale stepped through that door with a chain wrapped around his fist. I will stand here and admit that on that night, Felix Fortain was the better competitor. He battered me and bruised me, but he did not break me. And, distraction or no distraction, he beat me too. I accept those failures, painful as they may be, because they were inflicted on me by a man who abided by the rules of the contest. The fight ended with the three count, and we went our separate ways. Was I disappointed? Certainly, but I was taught on the very first day of training that victory was not something we always achieved on a daily basis. Some days, it was making it to the next one would be the only win we would achieve.”
White tapped his index finger. Ashes scattered, carried away by the early morning breeze.
“James Nightingale wouldn’t even let me have that. A simple post-match examination spiraled into a six-hour affair in a hospital because James wanted to make an example out of me. I went from looking at stadium lights to the flashlight dancing in front of my eyes as the doctor silently checks for signs of concussion, leaving me to desperately wonder if my entire career was over before it even begun. All for a message. Eradicating the weakness?”
Malachi paused.
“Do I look weak to you?”
Another pause.
“A weak man would have taken this all as a sign to back out while it was still an option. I’m sure that that’s the game plan. Prey on the newcomers who were still walking around on shaky legs, still figuring out their place in this company. They’re so focused on everything in front of them that they don’t even see the attack from behind until its too late. Boom. You get to check off yet another unestablished name off of your never-ending list. A bully whose is drunk on the limitless potential that this company’s undercard offers you.
But boy did you pick a heck of a first target.
Because even if my legs were shaky before, they aren’t now. No, they are firmly planted in your path. Face to face, so no more room for sneak attacks. If I had given up after Monday night, you just would’ve moved onto the next hopeful soul, but I did not give up. I will not give up because, like my grandfather taught me, I am to accept only the harm that comes by my own hand’s doing, and this just isn’t the case. You attacked me, unprovoked and without reason, and now I look to return the favor.”
Malachi balled his fist, crushing the cigarette in his grip.
“And I hope in the final moments, after I have beaten you up and down that ring and I have pinned your shoulders to the mat for that three count, you realize the bitter truth: you brought it all on yourself.”
Malachi unclenches his fist and steps back into his bedroom. The scene fades a moment later.