WHACK! The full force he right hook crashed into the pad, dead center. Enough impact to surprise Xander who had to lean forward to stand his ground. WHACK! A follow up swing, this one slightly off target, but her knuckles slapped against the cushion as Xander pushed her backwards. She regrouped, returning to a defensive posture. Her gloves raised. Without hesitation, she flowed into another barrage of strikes! WHACK! WHACK! THUD! She started with a jab, followed by a straight with the opposite fist, and finished with a body punch right. She aimed for the liver but connected right center of his torso. The air from Xander’s lungs forced out by the blow, and for a moment, Xander suffocated. The sensation made Xander appreciate the oxygen in the air when he finally started to breathe normally. He held up on glove, signaling her to wait as he recovered. As he proceeded to steady his breathing, his bright eyes scanned across her. The image of her, standing tall and ready to strike, swelled pride within his heart. To him, this was an unusual sensation, never had he felt proud of another person; however, she evoked such pride. Standing there, gloves raised, sweat glistening in the brilliance of the overhead fluorescent lights, he traced the beads with his eyes as they flowed serpentine from the sides of her face, through the contours of her necks and shoulders into the crevice of her breasts. The flow disappeared underneath a black sports bar and appearing again, crossing the ribs jutting out from her sides, a reminder of how far she has come in the past several months.
“Again,” she demanded, hungrily to attack.
Xander straightened his back, swing his body towards her. He bent his knees slightly, and waved her on, but issued a warning, “If you leave yourself open this time, I’m going to strike back.”
She ignored his comment, stepped forward, bobbing her head while staying light on her feet. She has absorbed his lessons as well as he did as a kid. Her eyes narrowed towards her target, and if he wasn’t careful, she would aim for his flesh, not the pads. She wanted to hurt him. She wants to hurt me, so I don’t hurt her, Xander thought as she squared up and delivered another punch.
CRACK!
Few months earlier…
CRACK!
Xander accidentally slammed the door close behind him. Some would have jumped at the occurrence, but Xander simply shrugged. Darkness consumed the entirety of the expansive living room of the condo. Through the diminutive glow of the street lights, the small amount that filtered in through shuttered blinds, Xander discerned the outlines of the furniture, enough so to navigate. As he passed his sofa, he discarded the duffle bag, laden with the weight of spoiled clothes, his boots, and knee pads, though not much of burden normally given his strength, but after the evening’s workout, his muscles felt like mush. As usual, he didn’t find any signs of life in the home. The woman always isolated herself in her bedroom. She ate, but sparsely. Enough so, he worried her health was deteriorating. He afraid he would have to risk bringing her to a doctor sooner or later. Then gamble at the risk of questions being asked and his crimes being exposed. Though she did eat, food disappeared from the fridge and the pantry; the remnants of her few meals piled at the bottom of the trash bags he removed first thing whenever he returned from a trip. Outside of the trash, Xander had yet to see a dirty dish. The kitchen always remained spotless as if never used. The stovetop wiped clean.
She’s afraid of attracting my attention. She removes all traces of her existence. Does she really think I will beat her over a dirtied dish? Xander shook his head, a younger version of himself might have very well snapped over such an occurrence. There were lesser causes for Xander to attack Calli during some of the darker periods of his life. Yet now, with the magnitude and multitude of is worries, dirty dishes no longer bore the spark to ignite his rage. His rage, once violence and explosive, had changed. He still felt the rage. The rage still drove his existence, but the rage froze over and grew quiet. Cold and silent, the rage always remained with him. Somehow that rage felt even stronger than the anger her used to carry in his prouder days.
To his surprise, light slipped out from underneath the bathroom door. As he stepped closer, the sound of rushing water roared. A bath? He released a sigh of relief. Hygiene could be taken as a promising sign of recovery. He moved closer to the door, drawing his ear close. A slight cry and a sharp intake of air bounced off the tile floors and walls, echoed out to Xander’s hearing. Fear seized Xander that instance. Another cry and this time a grunted, a muttered curse almost. Dread twisted Xander stomach in a knot. He only recently had felt such terror. In a blur, his entire body burst through the door. Under the weight of Xander’s entire might, the lock busted, and the door caved in, the wood snapped around the knob. The sudden action startled the woman. A kitchen knife hopped across the tile floor; each bounce cried out with resonating metallic clang. She scooted her body against the corner of the bathtub, covering her wet, nude body. Blood dripped from her wrist, but droplets slipped out from a clasped hand that hid the wound, landing and dispersing in the bathwater.
He felt his fear recognized as he soaked in the frightened woman’s image. Her eyes widened, conveying the usual terror his presence always induced. Xander didn’t care. He didn’t hesitate. He never reacted to her nudity, not anymore. He pulled away the hand to check the cut on her wrist. The cut, or cuts, weren’t deep. In fact, only a few tiny punctures broke the skin and served as the source of the blood. Xander already knew she chickened out the moment she felt pain. Xander had once read, certain people were programmed to be incapable of self-harm. If falling under that genetic protocol, not even the most suicidal could not take their lives. The body ignored the mind’s act to injure. Maybe she falls in that category. But there’s no way I want to risk seeing if there’s truth behind that assumption.
“Why?” Xander asked, taking her hair and running his hand through her tangled locks. She shrieked form his touch. Her hair had grown long since being in Xander’s care. Her dark roots had leached out deeply into the blonde, the color which Chad had chosen as a sick joke.
Shying away from making eye contact, with Xander, she tried shielding her face. She suddenly slipped out through Xander’s grasp, her skin slick due to the bathwater. She dove out of the tube onto the floor, scrambling for the knife. Slow to reach, Xander was a moment too late as she managed to grasp the blade. She drew the blade towards her neck; gibe no other options, Xander cupped the sharp blade with his hands. He winced in pain as the blade sliced into his palms. She froze at the sound of his grunt, his eyes raising to meet the painful expression distorting his face. She tried to reel back, the blade biting into his flesh once more. Another hiss, but the hiss was enough for her to scream, releasing the blade and falling backwards onto her ass.
“Enough,” Xander asked. To his surprise, he didn’t shout. The rage, always frothing underneath the surface, didn’t erupt. Instead, he felt disappointment and sadness. He repositioned the knife, now gripping the weapon by the handle. The blood pouring out of his wound made the task difficult, the surface of the blade now slippery due to the crimson oil that had parted his body. He eyed the blade intensely; most of scarlet color was his, but some of her blood mixed with his. She definitely did not like the fact he held the knife now. Why? Why is she like this? Why is she trying to harm herself? I’m the monster that needs to be slain. She should target me. Instead, she was about to slice his wrists and bleed out in that tub. She shouldn’t take her life, but mine. But she’s weak, she’s scared, she’s trying to flee this existence by dying. I can’t let her. I need to do something. I need to save her, but I’m no hero. As Xander’s eyes once again fell across her, she crossed his arms, and gripped herself. Her raspy breathing, erratic, as she struggled with the terror that seized her. And he remembered how that felt, as a boy in his Uncle’s care. He too wanted to escape such a life, and maybe if he hadn’t been freed of that tyrant, he would have had taken a knife to the bathtub as well. She was just like me. But to escape, I didn’t die, I became the hunter.
Xander offered the bloodied handle of the knife, to return the blade to the woman. She looked at the weapon, but she didn’t take his offer. With Xander’s other hand, he pulled both her hands over the hilt and tightened his grip to for her to grasp the blade. He leaned forward, placing his forehead across hers as she weakly resisted his grasp and touch. Her eyes however looked with his. He spoke, almost at a low whisper, “You cannot allow yourself to die. You can’t. If you to escape this hell, then escape. Destroy me if you must, but don’t destroy yourself. If you don’t have the strength, then try to find the strength tomorrow. But you can’t allow yourself to give in. You can’t allow yourself to die.”
“Why?” a single word escaped her chapped lips. The sound of her voice felt alien to his ears. He only heard her speak a few times prior.
“Because you’re not the monster. You don’t deserve to die.”
“I don’t understand,” she spoke slowly, as if speaking aloud was as alien to her voice was to Xander. She didn’t motion the blade forward. Finding himself grateful his foolishness didn’t punish him, he pulled himself away from her. The moment he released her hands, the knife dropped onto the floor again. He stood, not giving her a response. Leaving a bloody palm print on the mirror of the medicine cabinet, he pulled a box of bandages from a shelf. He painstakingly began to wrap his hands tight, to stop the bleeding. Might be some time before I can properly make a fist. Fuck. As he thought to himself, he turned to her when she cried out to him in a frail voice, “I can’t.”
“If you don’t want to be the victim of circumstances, then take control of the situation,” Xander found his answer. The words struck a chord with him as well, reflecting the current state of affairs. He lately found himself expressing the same advice to himself regarding his savage impulses; believing that if he didn’t want to be victimized by his moral weakness, his character flaws, then he must take control. Easier said than done. In her case, she needed a reason to live, a reason to fight. She had to find the strength to dig herself out of this hole she had found herself in. He had to find some way to empower her, to give her the resolve to face live. He knew if he failed, this would end with a body he would need to dispose of. No, the body would be the least of his concern, facing failure again scared him more than any consequence that might befall him.
“I’m worthless,” another short sentence. He turned towards her. She stood now, hands trembling at her side. She would have probably fled from the room, but he blocked the exit. Her head hung forward, staring at her bare feet, her hair shrouding. “And why do you care? You should have killed me that night. I will never feel whole again.”
Xander approached her again. He lifted her hand. She didn’t resistance. She felt like clay in his hands, wishing to be formed into whatever creation he wished. He brought her palm across his face. Again, he forced her to slap her. Again and again. After the fifth slap, she pulled away and stared at her hand. He knew her hand burnt with pain as much as his face. A red ring formed around her uninjured wrist, from where he had latched on. She managed to look up at him, questioning his actions with a resentful glare.
“I raped you. I violated you. I know you’re angry deep down. You hate me. So why not become someone who can act,” Xander raised his voice, gritting his teeth as he lowered his face towards her. There, with only several inches separating their faces, he yelled, “Hit me! Damn it! Hit me or I’ll hit you!”
Unsure if she acted out in anger or in fear, she backhanded Xander across his face. She felt surprised at her own action and staggered back. Xander smiled, lifting his knuckles to pat his newly formed bloodied lip. She sat down onto the side of the tube and stared at her hand once more. He knew she started to understand, started to see, but she will not fully realize his lesson overnight. She will be saved.
“You have a choice now. Either you will become the hunter or the hunted. You choose,” Xander departed with those words. As he left the bathroom, he brought the knife with him. He carried the knife out into the kitchen before he tossed the blade into the sink. Reaching up into the cabinet besides the refrigerator, he pulled down an old-fashioned glass. From another cabinet, a bottle of Johnny Walker. He ventured over to a chair and dropped down. He felt emotionally spent. Having to contend with the woman and her condition had drained him all of his mental strength. He doesn’t know if there ever had been a time he truly considered another person’s wellbeing until now. And he didn’t know if that made him a better man or not, stronger person or not, because he felt weak. And to make matters worse, I don’t know what to call her. She has no name. Fuck it. Depending how things go, I’ll make her give me a name. And if she’s refused, I’ll give her one. Xander thought as he lifted the glass of scotch to his lips. He allowed himself a sip before he stood again to make a fire in the fireplace. At some point, he failed to realize the light in the bathroom had vanished and the door to her room closed. I can’t help her anymore tonight. She has to decide what’s next. She has to save herself, I’m no hero.
Present Day…
Hunter almost caught Xander with an uppercut, purposefully trying to slide the fist in between the punching pads. He managed to side step and with his arms, he captured her extended fist. Her chest labored heavily, lifting and raising, he held tight. Her chest pressed against his elbows. Hunter tilted head, to peer through Xander’s block. Her eyes locked his. They were fervent, sharp, unlike the dull, lifeless stones he had seen months ago.
“Nice try,” Xander commented as he shoved her back. He turned his back on her as he walked over to his towel. He continued, “Maybe next time, huh?”
He heard footsteps rapidly race towards him from behind. He turned, hooked her extend arm, and threw her over his shoulder onto the mat. She laid there, sprawled out, her hair spilling out around her head. She gritted his teeth in frustrated defeat as he stood there, crossing his arm. She sometimes tried to surprise attack him. He didn’t believe she was trying to kill him as she had yet turn to using a weapon. She seemed more than capable of pulling a trigger, thought she would have to get access to a gun. She might succeed in stabbing him to death if he wasn’t care, but she showed no signs of intending murder, only bruises. I don’t know if this is going to work out for the best; but at least, she’s alive. And for some reason, that fact made him feel slightly less of a shitty person. In fact, her existence brought a little warmth to Xander.
————————————————
Redemption, huh?
Sounds a like a fairy tale to me.
Sounds like bullshit to me.
Quite often those who speak of redemption, who beg for a second chance, are quite often wolves climbing into sheep’s clothing, trying to fool everyone. Seems especially the case with those who are so adamant about redeeming themselves. Why do I have this shrinking suspicious that your so-called quest for Redemption is nothing both another Blake Mason scam? You’re shouting so zealously from the rooftops, trying to convince the fans that you’re turned over a new leaf, that you’re now a better man, that you have changed. And luckily for you, the fans are sheep, and they probably believe the shit you’re feeding them, no matter how insincere I suspect you are. I don’t know, nor do I care, if you jut happened to have found Jesus or something. I don’t care if you’re hiding the fact that you’re still the same knock off James Evans you used to be.
The only thing I want from you Mason, is to shut up. Stop wasting your words on me. I don’t want to hear you try to emphasize with me.
I don’t want to hear it.
You think you know how it feels to be Xander Valentine? I think you overstated your place in this world. You see, Blake, there was a time that I put this company on my back and I elevated this company. There was a time that Xander Valentine was the cornerstone of SCW. When I was king, arenas were sold out because the people wanted to see me brutalize some poor bastard in the name of sport. Drachewych, shareholders, and everyone else made money off my sweat, blood, and tears and my opponent’s broken bones; the amount of money I drew was at a level SCW never saw prior to that point. What have you contributed? What impact have you had? Regardless of your connections. Regardless of your abilities in the ring. None of that seemed to matter. You never held any significant amount of importance. You’re been Blake Mason, the guy that never really made it to the top. You cannot envision what life at the top is like. Until you break through that glass ceiling that been keeping you at the middle of the card for year, you’re only pretending.
You never had to experience the sort of betrayal I had to. Imagine having the company, the same company you helped turn into a global conglomerate, abandon you in your time of need. Not once, but twice. Imagine that your boss, who was once so eagerly to shake your hand because you made millions, fire you because you wouldn’t deal with his dirty laundry. Imagine, being dicked around and being sent through the tryouts even though you’re a SCW Hall of fucking Famer. Imagine standing there, jobless, watching your successors wine and dine, forgetting all the predecessors who were responsible for turning this profession from that of a carnival freak to a rock star. Imagine. You never had to face betrayal like I have. You never had to deal with the amount of disrespect I have absorbed. And people wonder why I’m always so angry.
So don’t emphasize with me, because you don’t know shit, Blake. You and I couldn’t more different.
I have always had to fight to survive. You never known what the real meaning of survival. I never had money. I never had parents. I grew up a poor boy and the only thing I ever had going is that I was always bigger, strong than everyone else. My only talent is that I could kick ass. While you lived your entire life with a silver spoon shoved up your ass, I had to fight every inch of way to where I am today. I had only my fists. So don’t patronize me. You have no notion of survival. I do everything I need to do to survive. And right now, I have no qualms of licking the heels of Katya. I have no longer issues having to be a glorified garbage man for those in power. Because right now, I’m still in the middle of this fight. I’m fighting to survive in this business. I’m fighting for the opportunity to climb back to the top. And if that means I have to allow myself to be used by Katya, by Dark Fantasy, I don’t care. I never had a problem with destroying my rivals, why not add more names to the hit list.
But I’m going to cure you of your ignorance. You’re going to know what we mean when we speak of survival. Right now, you think, smugly that this is some sort of game and you’re going to find yourself feeling alive, but Blake, you’ve never faced an opponent like me. While playing chicken with a freight train might thrill you, I promise that train hits, you’re not going to be smiling in the morning. For once Blake Mason, you will be unfortunate. You will wish you never called me out on social media. You will wish you never stood against Katya. You will wish you never mocked me with your fake empathy. You will wish you were still fired. Because on Breakdown, you will understand what it is like to fight for survival.
All these years, you’ve incurred a debt. Lying. Pretending. This is a debt that money can’t absolve. Fate just happen to designate me the collect. You will remember Breakdown the night when your debts had come due and you have lost your smile.
Fade to Black.
Executioner's Plight 