The voicemail icon flickered on Xander’s cell phone, left unheard. His son’s caretaker, issuing another unnecessary demand that Xander visited the boy. He pressed the phone against his chest, releasing an anguished sigh. Hunter tilted her head, her now long flowing locks flowed from behind that mask that hid her face, spilling to her side. Curious emerald eyes raised the question of what bothered her warden. In the vast network of hallways underneath the arena, they didn’t speak. They rarely spoke in public, almost never at SCW events. Her bright crimson lips puckered inquisitively. Xander avoided eye contact, marching forward towards the locker room instead, and allowing only the sound of his steel toe boots to answer her. Many had yet to arrive for the show that evening so only briefly did stagehand interrupt their privacy.
Xander stopped at the end of a corridor, felt the cellphone slipped form his hands, pried free by Hunter. She swiped his pattern. He wanted to groan, feeling the need to complain about the breach in her privacy. He never gave her permission to access his phone, but that didn’t stop her. But he didn’t feel like he had much standing to complain about violation of his personal space; after all, he done far worse to her. He convinced himself such concern served as a waste, privacy with her was such a frivolous worry. Hunter alone could bring him to answer for a number of crimes, all of which could potentially lock him away for years. A part of him always seemed aware that she could one day become responsible for his imprisonment; however, he refused to satisfy that urge to remove her. He had decided that he would instead nurture, build her into an individual that could stand on her own again. Reparations intended to soothe that rotting guilt.
“Why do you avoid him?”
“It’s complicated. I’ve told you already; he’s a painful reminder.”
“You’re afraid,” Hunter scoffed, spinning out in front of Xander. Even with her face hidden, she touted her chest forward in accusatory fashion. He pressed one hand on her shoulder, moving her out of the way. He shook his head in weak denial. She correctly assessed him again. He feared fatherhood. He feared confrontation with his son; not particularly his son, but instead the emotions that the sight of his son would evoke. Hunter was right; however, he did not concede the point. He knew if gave an inch, she would press him to confront his fear as he done for her in her rehabilitation. All for the sake of strengthening one’s being.
“That’s alright. Your silence is enough admission.”
“You’re overthinking the matter. Right now, I don’t have the luxury of time to waste playing father. I doubt the boy wants anything to do with me. I don’t blame him,” Xander spoke under his breathe, scarcely audible enough for Hunter to hear his words at his side. He didn’t want to discuss his private affairs in public; leave the skeletons hidden in the close. He made enemies of the entire world, he needed to keep any potential weaknesses shielded from their exploitation. If someone poked into his business, they might uncover his numerous crimes and countless sins; he doubted solid evidence would be found by any outside, but any more bad press would derail his career. SCW already tried to ice his career once. He picked up his pace. Anxiety slipped in, casting Xander into a restlessness; once upon a time, Conner instilled a much different set of emotions in Xander.
Conner almost saved him from Abaddon.
Xander knew. He always knew. In the back of his head, the truth burrowed deeper down, like a worm tunneling through the rot of his mind. The thinly veiled awareness remained in his consciousness, the weight which it bore grew over time, now weight slowly crushed him. He always had a choice, a say. To shy from responsibility, he created Abaddon. He shifted the fault to a self-fabricated scapegoat, a mental construct that bore the burden of guilt and blame for all his sins. Desperate to flee from responsibility, Xander always questioned whether Abaddon truly existed as a separate entity. He allowed himself to question, a wall to prevent an implosion. Yet as the medication locked in the needed chemical balances, the thick fog started to dissipated. Xander started to see the past as his delusion crumbled to dust.
Back then, he pretended Abaddon acted alone. Xander convinced himself he witnessed Abaddon’s monstrosities as a passenger. Abaddon carried out the destruction of lives and the murder of innocence, not Xander Valentine. A devil possessed him, how could he bear any responsibility? He had a disease. Abaddon committed those misdeeds with a shit grin, but that smile did not belong to Xander. But only one pair of lips existed, and those same lips were the same that curled in pleasure. Only one set of hands existed, those same hands struck Calli. Only one pair of fists hammered victims for enjoyment. Only one body existed between the two, and they belonged to Xander. Xander accepted that he and Abaddon were one in the same, maybe at one point divergent two sides of the same coin, but he ultimately held the ability to end the madness. He flushed the pills and committed to sinning, in order to indulge himself in depravity. Once he had his fun, he isolate himself form the shame through delusions.
Xander Valentine was the devil, no other entity. He tore off the mask of lies, exposed his unveiled face to the mirror. By accepting his ugliness, he finally came to terms. For most his life, Xander believed deep down he carried goodness, a hero waiting to rise. Calli enforced that idea. Yet such a concept is a flimsy fantasy, reality stated that one’s actions dictated the character of the individual, not some romantic home buried underneath bullshit. Xander never possessed goodness. He always been tainted, corrupt, devoid of goodness, the darkest black. Abaddon existed only to shoulder the blame; no, Xander never been the passenger, he owned those sins and those crimes. Currently, he ventured in uncharted territory, he tried to complete herculean labors in order to shred the shame he incurred during his madness. He needed to first accept the monster with lurked within and collar the beast; harness that internal carnage and transform his darkness into a weapon. If he wanted to survive, he held no other choice.
—————————–
But acceptance hadn’t always been present. Back then, he survived by hiding in Abaddon’s shadow. On a few occasions, light penetrated the shadows, threatening to eradicate the mirage, undoing the delusion Xander cradled. Conner once came close to serving the roots cleanly that burrowed into his head. A moment of clarity threatened, accompanied with a deep understanding of wrong and a glimpse at a serenity he always desired.
He didn’t expect much when Calli came to him. Thinned, almost malnourished, as she snuck into his bedroom. White stocks concealed her pale legs, strung up to a garter belt. Thick lacy strap of a matching white thong stretched across her waist, across a pair of dimples, snowflakes dancing sensually across a equally pale backdrop. During this period of time, Xander refused to allow Calli to wear any covering when within the walls of their residence. Instead, he dressed her like a slut. He denied her the right to decide on her own clothing, one of many shows of his control over her. His selection of white mocked her innocence. On this evening, dark rose bud atop small mounds greeted her, laid exposed when he burned her bras. At this point, their relationship had crushed her will, he had turned her into a obedient dog through terror. His dog. Her punishment for ever becoming close to him.
She was supposed to be his queen, but she failed. At the time, he did not accept her as an equal.
A simple wood chair served as Xander’s throne. At his feet, another woman curled up like a dog, a girl whose name now escaped him. A collar strapped around her neck. Abaddon raised his eye, accusing the imposing Calli of defiance. He had not called for her. His wretched little queen lowered her shoulders, her head cast down as she basically crawled before him. Already, she flinched as if the glare struck a blow to her body. Most her bruises had faded, her obedience now tendered through manipulation.
She approached.
“You dare to disturb my relaxation? I told you, I would call if I wanted you. Until, you were to wait in your room,” Abaddon stated as he idly petted the top of the girl’s head. The girl clung to Xander’s bare legs, acting out her part as his pet. He never needed to train her; she came willing to be his dog but his would-be queen acted her equal.
“Xander-”
“Why do you try to irritate me? If you wish to speak, you need not to play games.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How many times do I have to explain I hate such admission of weakness. Sorry? Apologizing only wastes time,” he rose to feet. He shook his leg, to knock the woman back. The girl looked up, pleading for his attention. Xander didn’t torment her in the same way his queen. The queen knew better. The pet’s ignorance fell on its owner but the queen’s ignorance fell on her alone.
“I need to talk to you. I have news. I’m so- Please, my love,” Calli pleaded, raising her head to show Xander teary green eyes.
He turned and roared at the pet, “Out!”
The pet leapt to her feet. She bounded towards the door, knowing that when her master issues a command, she answered. Only if his queen understood his authority, maybe he didn’t have to resort to such tactics. He watched, savoring the swaying ass of his pet as she passed through the door that Calli had entered. Calli slid to the side, wrapping her arms around her, hugging herself tightly as she kept her gaze towards the smoky hardwood floors.
“Don’t make me regret entertaining your plea. This better be important.”
“It is. I promise. I wouldn’t dare interrupt otherwise.”
“Spit it out.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Everything melted away. The dark mist around Xander evaporated. For a moment, Calli seemed to glow, a saint canonized in Xander’s mind. He rushed over, his hands sliding across her sides. He caressed her. He needn’t asked, she bore his child, no other man’s but his. His palms ascended her body, as he pulled her into a tight embrace; he pressed his lips onto his forehead, affection infected his core as strongly as any rage squall had before. He felt bliss. He felt joy. A child! His child!
“You’ve given me a gift,” Xander whispered into her ears. “A gift that I will always thank you for.”
“I’m glad,” she looked up with him, a wide grin greeting him but the smile eroded into a concerned grimace. “But…”
“What’s wrong?”
“Xander. I can’t continue to exist like so if you wish me to be a mother. I cannot be kept caged. What I’m saying is this… I need to see doctors and make sure everything checks out for our baby.”
“Whatever you need to do. I understand. I will see that all your needs are met,” Xander answered instantly, nodding before kissing her. She shied away from the kiss. He released the hug and she slipped backwards. “Is there anything else?”
“No. I’m happy you understand.”
“I think tomorrow night we should celebrate. We’ll go to dinner. Your choice.”
“Really?” Calli allowed for the excitement to jump out of her voice. “I planned on trying to get into the doctor to confirm the test, but afterwards?”
“Afterwards.”
Xander paced back and forth in the entrance hall of his mansion. Darkness surrounded him, never turning on the lights once the daylight had perished. Everyone in the house had been sent away. He ordered everyone out, for their own safety. Perhaps he also didn’t want to see anyone see weakness if his suspicions about Calli were confirmed. They did not need to know that Calli defied his authority. He unbuttoned the rest of his white dress shirt, tugging on the collar to let cool air to flow underneath. He burned. She made him a fool. She should have returned hours ago. She didn’t answer the phone. She mocked him. She will pay for the humilitation she served him.
His phone buzzed on the floor, where he left the phone after he tossed the blasted device. A crack formed across the screen, but the screen remained readable. Calli’s name popped upon the front cover. He flipped open the phone and asked immediately: “Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m not in Rochester anymore.”
“What? You didn’t! Tell me you’re not fucking doing this.”
“Xander, as much as I want to believe that you will change and that you will become a better man as a father, I can’t take the risk. I’m leaving. Don’t look for me. You won’t find me.”
“Calli, I have every right to that child as you. The child’s mine.”
“Good bye, Xander.”
“Don’t you fucking dare hang up-,” the screen flashed interrupting Xander. Such a short phone conversation ended that chapter of their relationship. Xander lifted the phone and examined. He called her again; went straight to voicemail. The phone crushed underneath the weight of his grip. St. Anger yanked on Xander’s neck, choking him with suffocating rage. He snatched his keys, heading towards his car.
He needed to find her. He needed to collect her. She had no right to leave. Abaddon’s thoughts spiraled in his head, planning out what exactly he needed to do to track down the bitch. A police report filed. Her car quickly found in the airport’s parking. Another day, the police confirmed she emptied out her savings and boarded a plane to Louisiana. After that, the trail became cold. Calli escaped, with his child insider her. Police determined she left and fond no foul play. Investigation terminated. Xander wondered if she really bore his child. But why would she bolt all of sudden? She never made the attempt to leave him before. At that moment, he understood: she wanted to shelter the child from Xander. Rage consumed him and Abaddon returned. He thirst for her. He needed to punish her. And in that moment, Xander retreated from the light and remained in the shadows.
He stared at Hunter as she sat crossed legged on the bench across from him. She eyed him as he sat forward, having not said a single word since they entered the locker room. He understood now the reason why his relationship with Calli was doomed from the start. He didn’t respect her. He didn’t accept that Calli was her own human being, with her own boundaries and needs and rights. No matter how much effort he poured into trying to repair the relationship, nothing could have been solved if he didn’t understand fundamentals. Blame it on lack of relationships with women prior to Calli, but that didn’t excuse his behavior. Hunter sat before him as a person. He cherished that realization as a sign of progress.
Her disappointed stare reminded him of Conner and the situation brushed underneath the rug. He feared Conner. He didn’t know if back then, if he had saw Conner’s birth and spent time with him during his infancy if anything would have changed. He doubted. He predicted that if he had Calli in his care, he might have cost her the child. If not then, then at some point, he would have snapped again and falls into the care of Abaddon. He would have picked up the cycle as he done before. Abuse his family, apologize and behave, until he allowed for external stresses to crack him, and he would abuse again. Maybe he’ll revive Abaddon to escape the guilt once more.
But he has changed, right? He thought he had. The acceptance of his true nature meant things could be different. But did he want to risk his son’s jeopardy? Was he lying to himself, luring himself into a sense of also security only to become the abuser once more.
What would Calli want him to do?
“Next time, we’re home… I’ll visit.”
“Good call,” Hunter approved.
History repeats.
No one learns from history. They make the same mistakes as they predecessors.
When we will learn from past failures?
I’m certain that I could ask myself that same question. This year’s Taking Hold of the Flame event won’t go done as one of my career highlights. And I will let Selena savor the moment for now, because I know I will eventually until I drop her on own her head, crushing all that hope she has pulled from that small victory. I’m not finished with her; and if she is satisfied with that fleeting moment of victory, then she isn’t worth my energy. I would have been wrong about her. But that’s another time, another place, yet to be determined. Selena and Regan have yet to enjoyed the full extent of my affection. They will soon understand why I’m called a monster. They will soon know truly why I consider myself the Executioner. Over and over, throughout my career, my enemies mistake battles for wars. The war has only started. I might lose battles occasionally, but I always win the war.
You will find out what a battle truly is this week, Donovan Kayl. Here you are, valiantly trudging through the final days of your career, seeking out some last minute glory. The Cornerstone of Wrestling? Is that what they like to call you? You’re right. It’s wrestlers like you that support the careers of predators like me. Without cattle, how do we feast? Maybe I am being a tad too harsh. You’ve earned respect you’re given. You have tenacity to have survived this long while so many others have retired a lot sooner than you have. As for your skill in the ring, if I wanted the next generation of wrestlers to learn the basics… sure, I’ll throw your tape into the VCR and let them learn the fundamentals, watch how you’ve perfected the basics. So yeah, I am willing to throw a little bit of respect your way. I see why, as a company man, you’d be honored by the booth for your time and service. I know, even outside of SCW, everyone admires you. You’re what they called, critically acclaimed.
But that’s it. You allowed yourself satisfied by being a proficient journeyman. You were never a competitor. You didn’t have the killer instinct to compete at the highest level. You might have toiled away into some accolades, but even a loser picks up an eight after so enough tries. But to imagine that you hold the audacity to speak as if you’re on my level. You know your way around the ring. You can probably still pack a decent punch, when compared to some asshole off the street. But you’re talking to Xander fucking Valentine, Donovan. As honored as I am that you’re allowed me to be part of your retirement tour, I think you greatly miscalculated what a match with me curtails.
If we want to take a look at recent history, go ahead…
Ask Dean Black.
Ask Brittney Lohan.
They leapt at the opportunity to wrestle me, and they all regretted. They thought I would serve perfectly as their last triumph. But that didn’t happen, did it? While the whole wrestling world might love to see you go out on top, have a heartfelt victory lap for the ages, that’s not what transpires when I’m involved. There’s something called dignity. You can be like Black, just Lohan, you can put up a valiant effort, but in the end, you’ll end up looking like worms crawling in the dirt. They all were grinded down into canvas maggots.
You really want to learn what that experience is like?
Is that truly the way you picture your farewell to be?
No, you think it’ll turn out differently. You claim that you’re different from everyone else. You’ll do what your predecessors failed to do before you. You do realize that you’re the thousandth opponent who have claimed they have faced bigger and stronger? What they all forget… not only I am enormous, agile, and physically dominating, I have the skill that makes me supreme. I am what many would call the complete package: strength, size, and finesse. While you might be able to throw a picturesque hammerlock, I’m going to suplex the fuck out of you. It’s called comparative advantage, Donovan. I’m sure an intelligent man like yourself understands what I’m getting at. IF you wanted to take a victory lap, have one last hurray, accepting this match wasn’t a wise decision. This isn’t going to be pretty. There isn’t going to be an happy ending to your career.
Because I don’t play nice. It’s why the entire roster is coming after me. I hurt people.
You tell me not to look past you. To focus on Breakdown, not what’s on the horizon. You’re right. I’m not concerned with Regan and Selena, or any other asshole who wants to come at me. Let them come. I already set in motion what I intended to do so. Right now, I have a little bit of pent up frustration; let’s call it an hangover from my bad night at Taking Hold of the Flame. I think my match against you will work out well for a hangover cure. Now, I know against you, victory isn’t certain, probable but not certain. You have enough talent to have a puncher’s chance. Mistake do happen. But even if you do manage to sneak away with a victory, you’ll be limping.
You’ll be limping all the way to Rise to Greatness… so where is your dignity then?
When you shoot a deer in the woods, you sometimes have to track the bastard down, but whether you track it far or not, no matter how far that deer fled, the deer still ended up dead and mounted on the wall. We’re playing for different stakes, Donovan. You should understand that. But you’re like so many other before you, you fail to understand that only tragedy awaits.
History repeats. You’re not special.
Win or lose, you won’t escape your execution.
Executioner's Plight 