Maybe the concussion spoke for Xander. He wished he could blame that injury for this sickness that inflected in mind. The plague that curdled his thoughts had always been with him. The concussion only seemed to break through the blockage in his thoughts. The violence that poured out of him did not surprise him; after all, everyone knew Xander was a factory of brutality. Born into the wrong era, Xander believed whole heartedly that he was better off being a savage, raiding, sacking, raping, and killing. Once upon a time, his ancestors attacked the entirety of Europe. They feared his ancestors. Long ships appeared off the coastline, and all was vulnerable pillage, be it the riches of coin or the riches of a woman’s body. His mind had been programmed to respond. Perhaps since birth his wiring had been such a way. He wished he could continue to blame the abuse of his uncle, but perhaps genetics should be held responsible; he inherited this sickness. Doctors, who studied for years the sickness of the mind, they diagnosed him as bi-polar.
If he was, Xander knew that the two poles were depression and anger. He flipped between the two, only if he had control over that switch. Only if he had control over the strong emotions that assaulted him constantly, overwhelmed him sometimes, and extracted murder on his logic. He defied the established hierarchy. He singlehandedly tried to destroy the patriarch, the proverbial godfather of professional wrestling. He alienated, violated the order. Now they truly all hate him. As they should.
Humans and their order.
Xander felt as if he pulled back the curtains, revealing that order that everyone believed in was an illusion. This is the reason why people hated him. This is the reason why his peers despised him. They thirst for his blood. Ignorant of their hypocrisy, they swiped at him, tossed punches. They peddled in the same violence as he had. Did not they see that? In fact, they seemed embarrassingly subservient, pitiful as a slave who tried to protect his abusive owner. They were weak. They were hollow. They were self-righteous.
Xander didn’t care what they were.
If they lined up in his way, he would knock him down. Every single one of them. He didn’t care for their name. He didn’t care for what they have accomplished in their wrestling careers. They flocked to be the one to take down the fugitive. These bounty hunters wanted their claim to fame. They wanted to shore up their vanity and capture glory.
Xander welcomed the challenge.
If they were a challenge, then they would thaw the ice that encased Xander. His strong emotions, those that drove him to violence, to extremes that make the everyman’s stomach curl in disgust, were suspended. They didn’t drive him as they once did. He reached for him. He called out for Saint Anger and the empowering rage that God bestowed upon him. He even asked for sadness, the usual unwelcomed guest who once reminded Xander every day of the love he broken, the lover he lost, and the potential he wasted. Yet they were absent, as his parents were. They once nurtured him, fed him, enabled him to take on the entire world. Where did they go? Xander felt lost. He felt empty with them.
Xander wanted to feel something. Something!
He wanted to ignore his awareness. He knew within him, a silent vacuum sucked everything, including his strength. A mental barrier held him back. The painstakingly yet at the same time dull agony of an invisible hurtle presented itself. Before him, the Rubicon of his destiny awaited him. All he had to do was to cast the die. But his arms were numb, the strength he bore seemed to have evaporated. What was he to do?
No!
No, he refused to allow the torrents of time to wash him away. Despite this unsettling numbness, he knew this was an internal battle for survival. Did his struggle mean anything? Did anyone’s struggles mean anything? Did it ever matter if you win or lose? Time erased everything, but Xander knew if nihilism snarled him, he did not have a future. Self-indulgent pity did not bear fruits. He had to care. If he didn’t strike against the world with conviction, he would fail. Failure could be anything: death, imprisonment, starvation, and poverty. He wanted to live. He wanted to feast.
But he needed to feel.
He needed to feel.
His entire consciousness felt the same as a leg fallen asleep. A tantalizing buzz, a painful awareness of capacity, but paired with an equally strong cognizance of his inability to move. They said the drugs would cure him of this reality, but drugs only brought ignorance. He didn’t need to be blind to know of this cage. He needed to know how to cut through the bars. So he acted out, pressed against his spirit’s restraints, struggling despite not knowing if he bore the strength. Xander pushed. Pushed. He pushed against the suffocating world’s collapse that threatened to crush him.
He fought back. After all, Xander Valentine only knew how to fight back.
The razor blade sunk into his flesh. Crimson blood oozed from the flesh, in an oddly graceful matter. The sharpness of the pain failed to melt away the frozen state of his psyche. Xander did not try to sever any artery. No, this was not a suicide attempt, but a desperate method to fill the conscious hollowness with some sort of fill. He removed the blade. Disappointed. He stared at his pale blue eyes in the mirror.
“What am I doing?” He questioned softly.
Almost a month had passed since he almost drowned. Only then he felt alive. In the face of death, he felt alive! He couldn’t bring himself to bring that along that path that would allow him to bleed out. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t have it in him to risk his life. He thought if he teased danger, he would capture that feeling again. Dehydrated veins budged, tempting him to try a game of chance that he did not believe he would win. He tossed the browned blade upon the tiled floor at his feet. With two fingers of his opposite hand, he applied pressure on both sides of the fissure, watching the slippery crimson ooze flow away from the back of his forearm. He felt the pain, but the pain felt dull, such as his longing for more, such as his disappointment. Dull. His nerve endings seemed to call out from a distance. He wanted was the loud, deafening pain that shook his entire being. A pain that forced him to realize he was still alive. Instead, everything remained DULL!
He grasped the sides of the mirror. He wanted to yell. He wanted to plant his fist, watch the cracks radiate from the crater his fist left, pasted with the blood from cuts on his knuckles. He didn’t give in to his temptation. Instead, he continued to tightly clamp down on mirror’s brass frame. He stared deep into icy blue eyes. He needed to get control of himself. Why did he feel so fucking restless? Frustrated, he spun away.
Hunter stood at the door. Her arms crossed tightly against her firm breasts, forming the only concealment to her bare chest. A pair of the plainest white panties imaginable served as her only attire. The warmth of the color in her skin spoke her finally enjoying a regular, healthy diet. Tone muscles, their sharp outlines just visible enough to point to their existence, held tight to her once petite frame. Her azure eyes seemed blue as the darkest oceans, always exposing Xander. God, Hunter was beautiful. Her hips swayed as she marched. She didn’t seem fazed by stepping in puddles of his blood. Despite the torrent of attraction, pulling on a man’s primal instincts towards finding a suitable mate, Xander still perceived her along the lines of a daughter, a child, a sister. Despite once ravaging her body, he no longer could even picture her in a sexual light. He felt the ideal alien, frightening, and borderline sickening. Still, she was beautiful.
Hunter had become family.
“Out. I need to piss,” Hunter declared.
“All right,” Xander responded. He actually blushed, as he finally became realized his erratic behavior. A monster showing embarrassment! He almost choked on laughter towards his pitiful self. He acted like a school boy, being made a fool in front of the entire class by his own sheer stupidity. At least shame burned, a poor-quality fill to the hole he felt, but at least shame did fill. He stepped past her to give her privacy, but she cleared her voice before he crossed the door’s threshold. Xander turned. Her hands planted on her disproportionate hips that served the bottom of her body’s pear shape. “What?”
“You’re hurting.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine,” Xander lied. He went to leave, but her diminutive hand cuffed his wrist. She couldn’t even wrap her fingers around. Still she dug her fingers to compensate for the lack of a grip. His blood squeezed from the cuts underneath pressed fingers. The slight pain that radiated from her biting finger nails sent a wave of ecstasy through out his body. He tried to suppress his heavy breathes. He couldn’t afford to let himself become aroused. Instead, he stared at the blood slipping from underneath the pressure of her grasp.
“What are you? A school girl carving attention?”
“An accident.”
“If in the morning, I see bruises on your face, are you going to tell me you fell down the stairs?”
“What are you asserting?”
“Her name was Marissa. Head cheerleader, most popular girl in my school, but most importantly, she was my best friend. She tried her hardest, whether it is to doing flips and tricks on the side lines, being the life of the party in someone’s garage, or being the hottest piece of ass that walked the hallways. And I didn’t notice, how pale her skin was. I didn’t notice how thin she started. I didn’t notice how after we finished lunch, she would excuse herself. I thought the scent of vomit was from some creep kid who always sat by our table, who always gawked at us,” Hunter weaved her tale, only inches from Xander. Her free hand gently petted his opposite shoulder. Xander could not break eye contact.
“And how is this important?” Xander kept emotions cleared from his face, a task that in his current state wasn’t much difficult. He feigned indifference. Yet that couldn’t be far from the truth, he wanted to hear his reveal. Hunter opened up about him, spoke about her past. He cared. Somehow, he cared.
“One day, during a football game, she went up to do the same routine she did at every game. Right when we were about to toss her, she fainted. She slipped, landed awkwardly, snapped her neck. Turned out that she was bulimic. She was never the same after rehab. She dropped out of school. Last time I heard her new ailment was meth,” Hunter answered without any hesitation. Her bloodied hand walked up Xander’s arm. She snagged his jaw, her soft palm brushing against his rough stubble. “And I blamed myself for not noticing. I blamed myself for failing as a best friend. To be honest, I think I did notice but I pretended ignorance. I think I simply didn’t want to deal with that mess.”
“And I reiterate, how is this important? I’m starting to believe that you love me a friend.”
“Different circumstances. Different relationship. I noticed that you’re struggling, more now than usual. I can’t have my horse collapse underneath me while I ride forward. I’ve said this a hundred times. I need you to keep carrying me. So this is what you call… maintenance,” Hunter softly spoke. She cared. Why the fuck did she care? She had all the reason in the world to loathe, to take delight in his downfall, his suffering. Here she stood before him, offering him compassion instead of condemnation. For a moment, he saw Calli. Young Calli, when they first met, before he crushed her and turned her into a bitter husk of a woman. Before he turned her into a corpse. A flashback shook him, for a moment he recalled how Chad dressed Hunter up like Calli as part of a sick joke. He removed Hunter’s hands from his body and turned. He hated that day. He will always hate what he had done to Hunter.
“You’re overthinking. This?” Xander offered his sliced wrist. “This was an accident.”
“You think I’m stupid. At least, dispose of the evidence,” Hunter glanced down upon the bloodstained razor blade on the floor.
“I think you’re looking too deeply into things,” Xander left those words behind as he evacuated the bathroom. He didn’t want to remain. A floodgate of emotions poured into him. He felt anger at himself, for acting such a matter. Hunter had been right, but he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge her. He felt that would destroy their relationship. So he moved towards the dark living room of their residence, and headed towards his bed room. He tossed and turned. He thought of Hunter. He thought of his current place in life. He cycled through emotions, primarily consisting of shades of anger and notes of sadness, but there were bright spots of joy.
He cared again. Bubbling, a small flame burned, and Xander recognized this flame. No, he didn’t rise to the top because of his anger. No, he rose because in him, he felt a passion that could scorch the entire Earth. But just like that, the flame flickered and burned out. He lost that fire.
The next morning, apathy strangled him again.
——————————–
Often one wraps themselves tightly, with a blanket of delusion. The warmth of ignorance shields from the cold, crude, unfair reality we all dwell within. Our skulls serve as thick walls, designed to keep out invasive truths. The truth threatens to crumble our egos, lose sight of the self-image we have built up our entire lives. They call it pride. I call it self-deceit. Within those walls, our mind’s fantasy provides for us, consoles our insecurities, and prevent painful realization to erase our identity. Mental constructs prop us up. Convenient lies separate us from abyss that surrounds us. We’re safe from the outside world. I admit, even the strong retreat within those walls. The weak huddle in the shelter of their minds, armed with deflections and excuses. False hope that tomorrow the storm will pass, but the storm never passes. I step into the furry of the tempest. I know my walls fragile. I’m not the soundest of minds. I am already exposed to the crushing realization; and what I do now is a desperate bid to alleviate my internal suffering.
But what about Dean Black?
I know this story. A grizzly veteran, put out to pasture, stepping out of retirement one last time to stand up for himself. He’s going to shove it to a young gun. It’s a testament to one’s self-respect. Only in fiction does that ever pan out well for the old man. Yet in brutish world we all are apart of; happy endings are rare to find and typically you lose when you play against the odds. Your odds are slim. The old man is beaten half to death, never to walk the same again. His loved ones always do gripe about his sudden dementia.
Is your pride really worth it? Pride is simply a mental construct that you use as a clutch.
I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, Dean. Are you trying to prove that upon a time, Dean Black was relevant to the conversation? If so, we already know that you were here at the beginning. I hear you speak along the lines about how I should offer you some respect; after all, you paved the way for me, right? You speak about how you and I are more in common that I know.
But that’s farther from the truth. See, the truth that you’re shrinking from. Shortly after you patted yourself on the back, walk to the back, trade in your boots for a clip board, you realize that nothing you did mattered. Your legacy, as if it not already overshadowed by CHBK and Jason Zero, has been completely eradicated by the emergence of Xander Valentine. CHBK built the foundation, and I created the empire. Pave the way? For me? No one pathed the path for Xander. I forged my own trial. I marched across this company, leaving a trial of fire. CHBK might have laid the groundwork, but I elevated this company onto the global stage. I put this company on my back.
You did nothing for me.
Stop trying to leech off my success. I’m not a kind host like Drachewych.
I owe you nothing.
You and I are nothing alike.
I fought and I fought. I fought injured. I fought concussed. I didn’t take the easy way out and change out my gear for a grease-stained polo and loafers. Dillusion and yourself might have decided that you did enough, but I have yet to reach that point, because I will never feel complacent. I have accepted the fact that I will never feel content. I will never stop fighting until the very day I muster my last breath. We are not the same. I didn’t abandon my sword. I chose not to allow Drachewych to chop my balls off and put a leash tight around my neck. I might feign servitude to meet some ends, but I will never be a slave.
But what about Dean Black? I don’t think the same can be said about you. You yearned to serve your corporate masters… fetch, boy, fetch. If a Drachewych told you to roll over, you’ll roll over. You’re the 1%’s ideal company man, a modern-day serf. This is why I don’t offer you any semblance of respect.
You’re trying to prove that you’re a man. You’re not afraid of me. I know you’re not. I might have respected that defiance, but you’ve shown yourself to be a fool. You’re how many years removed from the ring? You’re going to take me to war and push me to my limits? I think you’re greatly underestimating me, Dean. I think in your retirement, you’ve became out of touch. This isn’t going to be a war but this going to be a struggle. And I do expect that you will fight back, resist with all your strength within that soft body. You’ll manage to bloody my lip in the process, maybe leave a bruise or two that I will feel for a few days. Fool or not, dog or not, I know you bite.
You refuse to back down.
Backing down means allowing your walls to crumble around you, to let your fragile ego dissipate in dust. The only thing that you have going for you, Dean, is that you’re a man that has nothing else to lose. You see the writing on the wall. Drachewych’s departure means the new generation is stepping in, filling in those desks, picking up those clipboards. Your cozy existence is about at its end. What are you doing to do? People in your position end up on the internet, doing podcasts for those zit-faced know-it-alls, dispensing juicy gossip like the poor man’s TMZ. You’ll earn a paycheck. You’ll find some way to remain semi-relevant.
This is your last dance, your last hurrah, and you know it.
You want to step out of that ring with a smile. Even in a loss, you’ll tell yourself that you fought valiantly and hard, against Xander Valentine. You stood up for yourself. You’ll probably candy coat the loss, convince yourself that the match was a lot closer than it really was. You’ll carry on with the rest of your days, still holding tightly onto that security blanket, breathing in that sweet sweet delusion. You’ll stay within those high walls you constructed and play out that fantasy you allow to fest within your head. At the bar, you’ll tell all the other drunks, tales of how much of a bad ass you used to be and about that one time you took it to Xander Valentine.
We’ll live happily ever after.
Only if that bore the truth of the matter. Unfortunately, Dean, as I mentioned before you underestimated me. Before me, I see a reminder. A reminder of what I could have become. As disgusting as a human being I am, at least I’m not a collared mangy dog. You might bark and bark, but you allow for the company to remove your fangs. I still have mine, sharp as always.
If you want to fight me, I’ll let you have your moment of glory. I’ll allow you to earn those bruises that will be badges of honor. But if you want to war with me? It’s the hangover that will crush you. Consider how you will explain to your future self the tragic mistake you’ve made. Explain away how this one match was worth the feeding tubes and the assisted living. I’ going to tear down the walls you hide behind. I’m going to expose the truth you ignore. You’re not the big, bad wolf anymore, you’re a domesticated house pet. You’re not the bad ass you used to be, you traded that in a long time ago. You’ll recognize this truth. My brutality will demolish your cheaply held serenity. You’ll see the truth. You’ll realize my violence is a hell you were wise to avoid for all these years, but now that you willfully descended into his hell.
It’s going to cost you.
Breakdown might be just another show for everyone else, but for you, Dean, it’s your day of reckoning. Instead of glory and pride, you’ll find nothing. I, on the other hand, find another victory against the Drachewyches.
After all, I’m about to run over the family’s much cherished dog.
Executioner's Plight 