Kaleidoscope Hearts (and how to break them)
Feb 28, 2021 21:13:00 GMT -5
Lissie Hope, Carter Shaw, and 3 more like this
Post by Ash Blake on Feb 28, 2021 21:13:00 GMT -5
You have reached the voicemail box of Ashley Blakesley, please leave a message at the tone.
"It's your mother, Ash. I figure you may need the reminder, seein' as you don't call and you don't write."
"It's your mother, Ash. I figure you may need the reminder, seein' as you don't call and you don't write."
The night of was foggy at best. A series of blurry vignettes in not-quite the right order played over and over again every time Ash closed her eyes. They'd greeted her in the mornings as she woke, and bid her farewell as she drifted off to another night of dreamless sleep each day for the past eleven. Since the night of.
In a hospital room in Florida, all was still; Ash could imagine that, too. Soft footsteps traipsing outside the door, the quiet beeps of the heart rate monitor, and soft breathing from the bed where Noris Cranley lay, half-way between a coma and opiate-induced delirium. Of course, she could only imagine it. It wasn't as if she'd been to visit — it wasn't as if she could bring herself to face him.
Ash's eyes opened and once more, she was back in the real world. The facade of the hospital gave way to the coldly familiar main room of the apartment that'd belonged to 'Grace Leary' for the past two months. The shuffling footsteps became the bustle of cars outside the window, distant sirens, a screaming match on the sidewalk. The monitor's beeping was replaced by the droning of a news report on the improprieties of Governor Cuomo. The breathing was the constant, but she didn't have to turn her head to figure out whose it was.
"Hey, are you alright?" asked the soft, reassuring voice of her dear
With a sigh, Ashley Blakesley retreated back inside herself, rolled her neck, and became Grace Leary once again. She could feel a weight lifted off her chest, she could breathe again. A small smile dotted the corners of her mouth as she turned to face him.
He was a fed alright, effete trying to be rugged. Still, he had a certain unassuming charm. Probably just the lantern jaw.
"Oh, nothing!" Grace responded, shaking her head. "It's stupi— nothing, is what it is."
He eyed her, brow arched. "Doesn't sound like nothing."
She let her smile slip, face flushed. "It's just, um… it's my brother. Half-brother."
Through fluttering eyelashes, she watched as his expression shifted from curiosity to concern. His jaw hung agape, eyes wide. He sat, frozen, unsure of how to react. Hook.
"We weren't—aren't close. But some guy jumped him a couple weeks back and it doesn't, like, sound good. And he's a thousand miles away and I'm right here and I—"
With short, shallow breaths Grace fanned herself with her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. Before Elliot could commit to a course of action, she fell forward, burying her head into his chest.
"I think it was my fault," she mumbled into his shirt, before the waterworks began in earnest.
And as Grace Leary sobbed into his chest, Ashley Blakesley let herself exhale.
Oh, Corey. To be honest, I was hoping that when I ripped the title you held so dear from your cold, clutching hands, that would be it. That you'd go gentle into that good night, tail tucked between your legs, and I could go back to those halcyon days before I could picture every detail of your rotten, putrid face with my eyes closed. Alas, it seems the fates had other plans for us, didn't they? Of course, realizing that comes with swallowing a pill that might be just a bit too bitter and jagged for your taste.
Tell me, Corey, how much does it hurt? Not that I beat you. Not that you proved me right on every single count. Not even that I'm now the rightful owner of this belt you tried so hard to convince yourself you deserved. No, Corey, how much does it hurt to know that Torture doesn't even trust you to get the job done in the rematch? That he's going to have to march himself right down to the middle of the ring and park himself right in the thick of things just to make himself believe you can do it this time?
Because that's what this is, isn't it? This is Torture's hail mary, his last ditch effort to fight the rising tide and slow Philidor's momentum in any small way that he can. What else would this be about? Righting a wrong — what wrong? You can check the tape all you want, it doesn't change facts: Jim Mud never touched you. You threw him out of the ring and in your infinite wisdom you decided to take your eye off the prize to make him hurt instead.
So, tell me, what's the injustice, there? Nevermind, I got it: the injustice of Corey Black, one of the most grizzled and seasoned veterans on the roster making a rookie mistake and getting exposed for it. His boy got made to look like a fool and Torture just couldn't handle that. Not Corey Black, the man who was supposed to bring an air of legitimacy and class back to the world championship — by getting pinned by every other champ in the company and teaming with perennial PR black eye Walter, of course.
So now Torture has to take matters into his own hands. A bit sad, isn't it? That must hit you below the belt, that not even the man who threw this rematch together has full faith in you.
But of course, it's Philidor who's corrupt. We're the crooked ones. Torture will say we're the blight on the industry, all the while he punishes me for winning a match fair and square more than he ever punished Frank Lowe or Walter.
It's fine, though. It's good, actually. I hope you're listening to this, Torture, and I hope you can just feel the glee in my voice that it's going to be you in that ring standing between Corey and I. I bet you look good in stripes. And it's going to feel euphoric when I look you in the eye with Corey Black's shoulders pinned to the mat and make you count to three. I wonder how the albatross around your neck will feel when you realize you'll have nobody to blame this time, but yourself.
Oh, well. Heavy is the head, right?
"Anyway, I'm just callin' because some guy came around a couple weeks ago lookin' for you. Real nervous lookin' fella, don't quite know what his deal was, he said he was a friend of yours. Said his name was Eddie, told me you'd know who he was."
The night of, there were two limousine rides out of the arena.
The mood in the first, however short-lived it was, was triumphant. They'd won. Once again, Corey Black had tried to get his pound of flesh, but they denied him the satisfaction. Once again, they were one step ahead and Corey was left a day late, and a dollar short. Ash's smile was infectious as they peeled out of the arena, and the group devolved into laughter as the limo hit the road. Except, of course, for the HR Department: Garvey's cold sneer remained, and Samson made no token effort to mask his disdain, staring daggers through the supposed 'Noris Cranley' who sat in silence, his hood still up.
"Lighten the fuck up," Shaw said, patting his best frenemy hard on the back. With his hand still on 'Noris's jacket, Shaw reached up, ripping the hood down, revealing the smirking face of Ricky Flippy.
As eyes collectively widened around her, Ash felt two burning gazes fall upon her, the smug satisfaction of the intruder, and the expectant glare of one Samson Saltair. In the face of the imposter, Ash grinned, the same grin she'd given so many times. "Have you ever hit the back of your head on the curb?"
Flippy's smirk faded just as soon as it seemingly appeared, his eyes just as wide as the collective.
"Would you like to?"
Flippy shook his head.
"That's what I thought."
In the blink of an eye, the limousine was peeling out of the arena once again, seeming to chase the sound of sirens up ahead. Though, of course, as Ash's eyes settled and the reality constructed around her, she realized that the limo wasn't following Noris' ambulance. An empty space where Ricky Flippy once sat,
And there Ash sat, an island of dissonant serenity amidst the torrent.
You know the difference between you and I, Corey? Why I can tell Torture to his face how good it will feel when he's the one forced to count me pinning you? Why I can feel the outcome in my bones? I'll give you a hint, I'm not going to launch into some bloviating rant about how much more talented than you I am. As a matter of fact, just between us, Corey, you're clearly the better wrestler. Always have been. Odds are, you always will be. You've forgotten more about this sport than I've ever learned, but just like everyone else with more experience, more acumen, more ability who's stepped between the ropes and squared off with me, it won't matter in the slightest.
There's something special about facing someone on what should be their sacred turf, and then pulling the veneer back inch by inch, until they realize the trap they've just walked themselves into. Because if I'm going to stroke your ego, let me go all the way: you're a great wrestler, Corey. You might even be the greatest to ever do it.
But that's when we're playing by your rules. And I don't know if you've realized it yet, but this little game of ours? It's never been played by your rules. You see, and please forgive my vulgarity, but I don't give a shit about the markers you hinge your respectability, your reputation onto. Philidor Holdings isn't in the wrestling business, remember? We said as much from day one, when we crashed your coronation and made you our puppet king. We're in the empire business, and hun, I don't think the sun is setting on us.
Of course, you know this already, don't you? You must've felt it in your gut, you've been playing our game since October twelveth. Because that's what we do. That is our game; watch as we take the proud King, the man who's seen it all, done it all, has such an accomplished resume that no one bats an eye when they try to leverage themselves as beyond good and evil, and drag them right back down to Earth. And not just Earth. Let's be real, Corey, we've dragged you right into the mud.
It didn't even take us six months to knock the King, the alleged 'Man Made' God off his pedestal and prove him just as mortal as anyone else on the roster. The King is dead, and the God is as fallible and broken as the men and women who worship them. In less than a month we got you teaming up with the monster you vowed to destroy (oh, I'm sorry— am I beating a dead horse with that one? Well, I didn't make that bed, so don't ask me how long you have to lay in it). One completely fair title win later, and we have you breaking out the sadistic smiles, putting one of ours on the shelf.
But there's levels to this, Corey, and you didn't quite get it.
You picked the fight that put Peter and Samson in prime position to almost kill Graham Baker. We weren't the ones banging your door down. We didn't put a gun to your head and make you pick backing up Walter over protecting your boy.
The Following picked the fight that put Wesley on the shelf. They can cry all the crocodile tears they want, they knew what they were getting into, sticking their noses into business that wasn't theirs'.
And you picked the fight that saw you drive Noris through the floor. That's your badge, I hope you wear it with pride right up until it gets shoved down your throat. Oh wait, that already happened, didn't it? Because you did it to see the look on my face. You wanted to see me squirm. You wanted to hurt me.
And all I gave you in response was the same goddamned smile that's been burned into your retinas at this point. Because I was never going to give you the satisfaction. My mom's been a waitress most her life — it's where she met my dad, actually. And when I got my first job, she gave me two pieces of advice.
Don't let anyone touch you anywhere you don't wanna be touched.
And don't let anyone see you cry.
So, please, humor me: why the fuck would I break either of those rules for you? You, Corey Black, who's started behind the eight-ball and pocketed it in the first stroke every single time we've stood face-to-face? You, who's unquestioningly fallen in line with whatever rules I've dictated for the past four months? You, who almost crippled one of my sponsorees, and was still the one more fazed by that outcome?
You can be the greatest wrestler of all time all you want, but in my world, you're more Barbaro than Secretariat. Starting out strong, and then hobbling yourself right before the homestretch. Keep going, Corey. I never get tired of seeing an alleged legend hamstring themselves so regularly, making sure to land face-first right under my boot.
If you were anyone with a spine, I couldn't guarantee you'd even make it to Battlefield. But, don't worry, Corey: I'm not going to kill you.
My colleagues aren't going to kill you.
You haven't earned that.
Instead, we're just going to take something else from you. Something much more core to your being than a title belt that was never yours in the first place.
In the blink of an eye, Ash could almost feel herself being forced to stand as the cramped facade of the limousine seemed to melt around her, replaced by the intimate loneliness of the Floridian hotel they'd booked for that evening. Seated on one of the twin beds, Olive shoved a drink into Ash's grasp with her good hand.
"I'm good," Ash responded, startled. Her grip remained tight around the cup.
"No, you're not." Olive shot back, rolling her eyes. "You haven't stopped smiling since the limo, you can give it a rest for five seconds."
She could feel a familiar ache in her cheeks. Her eyes darted first to the floor, then around the room; though she couldn't see him, Ash could feel the
"You know, some people's liver damage isn't entirely self-inflicted."
Olive shook her head.
"Just drink it."
Ash swirled the cup in her hand, watching the ripples, the hypnotic waves.
Oh, hell, she thought to herself as she brought the cup to her lips and welcomed the distantly familiar burn like a long-lost lover.
In the blink of an eye, she's lost track of how many she's had, sinking into one of the beds, staring up at the spinning ceiling while Olive's passionate slurring goes in one ear and out the other. She couldn't even remember what provoked the rant in the first place, but with how much her intern had gotten into it, Ash could almost swear she saw Olive's crippled arm moving gesturing for emphasis.
In the blink of an eye, Olive's voice — "I'm just sayin', Jared's really sweet once you get to know him" — echoed in Ash's ear as she stumbled, wobbly-kneed and blind towards the bathroom. As she crossed the threshold, however, she felt hands clutching her shoulders, nails digging into her skin as she was shoved into the wall. She couldn't see him through the veil of shadows, but she could feel his eyes, boring through her.
"Sam—"
"The tail doesn't wag the dog," the Dark Man snarled, his breath hot on her face.
"I don't—"
"T̶̢̼͉̮̞̿̍͜h̸̛͔̥i̷̝̬̊͛̔́͒́s̴͇̗̪̾̌̒̃̂̒ͅ ̷̞͖͈̰̯́͌̀̂̏͊̇i̶̹͖̳̐s̴̖̜͚͙͎̹̦͔̀͐͐͘ ̶̜̱̓̐w̶̺͕̪͓̹̩͑̓h̶̦͕̉a̵̧͓̠͇̘̲̝̾̆͗̽̚͜t̸̞̪͚͊͒͒̔̓̕ ̶͖̻̺̝̗̓̃́̍̊̚y̵̠̪͔͖̓ͅǫ̷̺̳̖̮̝̝̬͌͋͝͝u̸̪̽̾͆̔̆̔̔͠ ̵̪̭̝͚̰̤͑͑̈́͂̒̓̚w̷̞̲͉̠̻̳͍̟̓̾ȁ̵͍͍̩͖̠̹̆͛n̷̤̞͐͂ṫ̷̢̡͇̬̣͝é̷̡̻̳͉̗̺̊͆͐̚d̸͍̹̫͕͚͈̔̆͜.̸̪̳̳̳͍̭͕͔͂͝ ̴̙̐̂̈́͌͒̿ ̷̪͍̪̩̓̅͊̆T̸͎̮͍͚͑͌͑́̇͐͆͝h̸̻̗͎̩̗̓̋̿̓͊͑ḯ̸͉͕͖̪̠͚s̶̰̏̿̾͂͛͘ ̶͔̞̬̭̜̱̭̥̓̃̿̈́̌̃͝ị̸̖͚̟̼̽̈́̍͝s̴̡͈̗͍̫͖̖͐̑͂́̇̓ ̷̩̜̯̦̭͐͂̓ṇ̵̎̎̉̈͋̂ͅṍ̵̫͆̽͌͑͘ṭ̴̡̤́ ̸̭̻͔̄̀̽͆͑h̵̲̘͕̅͜ò̸̮̭̐̈̎̌̚ẅ̷̛̜͍̱́̋͑̐̇͋͐ ̵̨̛͉̱̔̔̍̔̎̇y̷̗̲̪̎̾͑o̴͎͎̯̤͙͖̖̊͗̍̂̅͝ͅu̵͇̭̗̩͋͊̍̀̈̇̾̕ ̸̨̩̬̱̠̥̠̪̏̿̀̄͛͂͝b̷̹̳͕͚̜́̂͂͐̈́͗́̕e̵̝͍̝̞̎̚h̷̠͍̻̟̼̣̜̀̌a̵̹͖̅̔͑̏̓v̵̹̹͒̐͝ͅe̵̯̟̙̗̙̗͐͛͛͘ͅ."
"I get it, but—" she thrashed, attempting to push herself free as she felt him loosen his grasp.
"H̶̡͎̩̜̳̳͎͔͎͑̐̔̉͊̎̀̅e̸̛̘̯̋̅͐̓̄̽̚ä̷̧̹̝͉͉̹̥̠̟̙̘̹͕̮͒v̷̢̡̞̱̲̟̯͔̝̬̳͙̻͙̫̌̈̿̈́̀͒̾y̵̰͝ ̸̨̡̨̥͍͕͎̩͎̼̫̻̪̭̩̠̗̻̈́̈͛̓̔͐́̈́̅͋̚͝ĭ̵͈̾͂̏̆̆͑̿̈͗s̵̝̠̰̪͚̼͍̭̭͓͍̩̖͎͇̻̏̔̈́͂̉̅̅̊̔̌̓́̚ ̶̢̛͔̩̭̹̥͕͔͍̪̎͒̎̊͌͋̆́̉͘̚͝t̶̢̧͈̟̟̠̲͈̳̳̘̯̠̺̒̒̃̕̕̕͠h̴̛̝̩͕͖̻͓̞͍̯̼̣͇̠͑͂̐͗̈́̂̋̕͘̚͝ȩ̴̻̪̻̹̱̟̭͎̱̱͇͌̽̎̐̈̒̉̋̈́̔̐̉͋͝͝͝ ̴̛̩̫̫̦͌́͐̓̋̓̑̊̔͆̋͊̒͘͝͠͝ḥ̷̨̧͊̓̈́͋̉̾̇ế̸̛̲͕͙̱͙͉̺̹͚̹̳̃́̓̈̎̽̆͜͝å̸̧̞̟̥̹̜̗̤̯͎̺͍̼̪͂͋̃͑́̒̓͑̆̑͂̔̅̂d̴͉̮̈́́̅̿͠."
Ash nodded, the sight of his dour visage coming through in the dark.
"I had a dream last night. You were there."
But, what more could we possibly take from you, Corey? We don't just have the belt you thought was yours, we own your whole reign. We have your dignity, your pride, your ability to lead and not just fight off your backfoot, what more could we possibly want?
Do we want to reach deep inside you and rip out your guts? Oh, right. You don't have any, anymore. You know who had guts? Graham Baker, on the roof, staring down Peter and Samson. There was a man ready to go down swinging, to fight for himself until his last breath because his brothers in arms abandoned him. He was willing to stand on his two feet against impossible odds, and that made him deserving of being the shape of things to come.
Do we want your spine? If we did, we'd be out of luck there, too. You traded that in to get your fourth for that fateful match. You know who showed spine? Some actual nerve, for once in his miserable career? Wesley, right after I took the number one contendership from his outstretched hands. For once, he decided to not be the nice little wallflower who sinks right back into the waiting arms of being lost in the shuffle. He decided to fight for what he thought was his, what he thought I, what he thought Philidor took from him. You ask him now, he might be wishing he didn't, but in that moment he became worthy of being the message sent to Kemp. He became worthy of being nailed to the wall, so he could squint into the sunset and watch the business as he knows it die.
See, they picked fights they couldn't finish, but you pick fights you can barely start. All it takes is one or two swings before you're facedown on the mat, beating yourself to save me the trouble. You sold your soul for a pyrrhic victory at your own vanity show, and months later we swooped in and took your belt.
But we've been over that well enough, it was never really yours, was it? So this time, we're not going to be content with just that. No, Corey, this time we're coming for your crown. Your namesake. "The King of All Wrestlers" — who, let's be honest, has been a King in exile ever since we crossed the Rubicon on January 31st.
You've been deposed of all but your moniker. Your championship? Gone. You, reduced to the same tactics you'd be sure to hand wring us about if the switch flipped. You, always playing catchup. You, always one step behind. You, with your pivotal rematch officiated by the very man who'd love nothing less than to see me lose this belt just as quickly as I won.
Philidor Holdings owned the belt you called yours from the moment you won it, and in our first shot and collecting it, we did just that. The shot was called, and then delivered. That's what this brand is all about, expedience, efficiency, and painlessness.
Philidor Holdings has owned you from the second we tempted you to play on our level. And you've been stuck in the mud ever since, trying desperately to beat us at our own game when you just can't seem to get it right.
And I've owned you from the moment I laid eyes on you. That's the one you don't want to admit, right? I'm perfectly okay with that, because I've said it before and I'll say it again, no doubt.
You need this. You need to not only beat me, but batter me. From pillar to post, you need to destroy me to even hope to make all the filth on your soul because of me worth it.
You need to be the better wrestler. And you need to prove it beyond all reasonable doubt, including the special referee's involvement.
On the other hand, all I have to do is beat you. By any means necessary.
You can fumble with your grip on the moniker of "King of All Wrestlers" all you like, Corey.
But
Eleven days later, Grace Leary looked up at Elliot Dalton, face red, eyes puffy, a weak, embarrassed smile worming across her face. He glanced down at the mascara-stained front of his shirt, biting his lip with nerves as his eyes met hers, filled more with anxiety than concern. "I'm sorry, I don't know what—"
"It's fine," Elliot responded with a nervous chuckle as he wrapped his arms around her tighter. "It's not your fault, though."
"Hm?"
"Earlier, you said you thought it was your fault, the thing with your brother—"
"Half-brother," she corrected.
He cocked his head. "Right. Half-brother. It ain't your fault. You said it, he's a thousand miles away."
"I was supposed to take care of him," Grace insisted, her voice hoarse.
"I thought you weren't close."
Grace rubbed dry her glossy eyes, shaking her head. "Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."
Elliot nodded, more out of acquiescence than agreement. "Maybe we ought to—"
"Change the subject?"
"Gladly."
A silence overtook the two, briefly filled by the same bustle and tv droning; a million conversations, all saying nothing.
"How come I've never seen your place?"
Elliot's arms reflexively crossed, his eyes darting around the room, away from Grace's. He'd never noticed the disparate tchotchkes on the coffee table before, nor the doctor's office collection of old magazine's strewn across it. He shook his head, re-focusing on the conversation at hand while
"Well, it's complicated—"
"It's your wife, isn't it?" Grace said with a knowing smile, index finger pointing to the wedding band still on his finger. His eyes widened as he struggled to respond. He slowly raised his hands in the air, his lips parting to speak as the words met his tongue, but all sound was smothered as Grace gave him a quick peck on the lips, pulling herself closer to him.
"It's okay. That doesn't scare me."
And that was the conversation. The pair sat in silence; Grace watched as Elliot's lips settled into a nervous, but warm smile. Grace Leary's heart fluttered, while Ashley Blakesley fought the urge to gag.
You have reached the voicemail box of Lisa Blakesley, please leave a message at the tone.
"Hey mom, it's me. Sorry about not being in touch lately, it's just been so hectic here at the office. I'm thinking of taking some vacation time and heading back home soon, though. Just a few more things to take care of.
"Oh, and uh, if you ever see Eddie coming 'round again, could you do me a favor and shoot him before he makes it halfway up the drive?"
"Hey mom, it's me. Sorry about not being in touch lately, it's just been so hectic here at the office. I'm thinking of taking some vacation time and heading back home soon, though. Just a few more things to take care of.
"Oh, and uh, if you ever see Eddie coming 'round again, could you do me a favor and shoot him before he makes it halfway up the drive?"