Post by sheckler on Jan 7, 2018 22:30:55 GMT -8
She woke up stiff. Before her eyes opened she felt the nagging pain of a torn muscle and one hell of an irritated ligament surrounding her left knee; it had bothered her intermittently since she shattered it in her early adulthood. She sighed, sitting up in her studio apartment in downtown San Clemente, overlooking the famous pier. To her right was Byron McCall. I'd explain who Byron was, but how do you explain the sole person that turned something so dark and sinister into something that felt real human emotion in such a short matter of time with . . . Frankly, not that much in common?
"Knee bothering you, babe?" A raspy, barely awake voice muttered from beside her.
"Yeah," Lexi threw her head back, stretching out her neck to one side and then the other. For having just turned thirty-three this October, she felt although she might've been ninety. The torment her body has been through in these, uh, short fourteen years.
He remained on his side, drifting in and out of consciousness as the sun began to rise over the west coast. She threw the covers off, throwing a pair of black, tapered joggers and a form-fitting wife-beater tank top on. She headed towards the kitchen where she knew there was a promise of breakfast:
Instant coffee and a cigarette.
She pulled out one of the barstool's tucked into the kitchen island while simultaneously fidgeting with the top of her cigarette carton. She could hear that Byron was not too far behind her, padding footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor down the hallway to the bathroom. She pulled out another mug, knowing he wouldn't refuse a little morning pick-me-up either.
She lit the cigarette and watched the end light up a bright red, a calm surging through her. As she touched it to her lips, Byron walked into the kitchen, lightly grabbing it from her mouth and ashing it into the kitchen sink.
"Hey," Byron leaned up against the granite countertops facing Lexi. "You told me you'd try to quit when you started training again."
"I've not had a smoke since we began; I've kept my promise."
"I kind of feel like I just ashed your promise in our sink," Byron nods back to the still-smoking cigarette dwindling to lifelessness behind him.
"Our sink?" She smirks, mockingly.
"Don't change the subject," Byron smirks back, walking over to her and placing a kiss on the top of her head before taking the seat next to her.
"You know that I do a lot of bad fucking shit," She begins, getting up promptly at the mildly alarming dings of the Keurig coffee maker, "But one thing I don't do, is lie."
"Then why this morning of all mornings?"
"When I felt that pain in my knee . . . It freaked me out, man." She started, shaking her head a little bit as she wandered over to the fridge to grab the cream. "It was a reminder that I'm getting older, but not any more successful. I'm not going to be in good health forever, especially not with the shit I've put my body through. I've taken so many breaks away from wrestling and then I met you and we got into fighting. I did the martial arts thing, I did the pro wrestling thing, and I don't feel . . . "
She paused, shrugging her shoulders. Byron couldn't tell if she just didn't have the right words, or if this was her way of noticing that she might've been opening up to someone for the first time (probably ever, based on her history) and felt uncomfortable with it.
"You don't feel . . . " Byron said, trying to egg her on to finish her train of thought.
"I don't know," She indignantly surmises. Byron takes the hint, he knew she was finished opening up for the time being.
"You don't feel like you're as accomplished as you should be as a thirty-three year old professional wrestler."
Lexi looked disapprovingly over her shoulder, turning slowly with both cups of coffee and walking over to the island to set them down.
"Babe, I get it. But you're talking about it like you're some over-the-hill, washed-up has-been with no future left. You're just going through some shit. You killed your MMA debut, and to be honest with you, the you that I met sure as hell never shied away from talking about the legacy you built in professional wrestling."
"You sayin' I brag, McCall?" Lexi lifts an eyebrow quizzically at her strikingly different signifiant other.
"Yes," Byron states confidently. "And I'm saying that you have every right to. Your heart has been in this since you were nineteen. You've won championship after championship. People feared you; you were the woman to beat if you wanted to be anyone."
Lexi simply stared at him. This wasn't the first time she had these thoughts or feelings, she'd been experiencing this sort of nostalgic lethargy about her career since she hit the prime age of thirty. She had a slow rise, but a nonstop one – then, to hit the climax that she did was nothing short of euphoric. Undefeated streaks, gold, money, fear, power . . . But it was gone even faster than it came. The ego took control of her and suddenly she lost the passion to bite after the bark.
"It's a different world than it used to be, that's for certain. I'll never find anything else to do that I enjoyed quite as much as taking this innocent, poor soul and completely driving the will to carry on out of their skull with my fists. Watching their ego's fade into oblivion with every hit that connects; listening to their words become simple groans and coughs as they gasp for air with my foot crushing their throats . . . Having my hand held high, hearing my name, hearing my music, watching the fear in their eyes grow as I get closer to that ring. The blood stains engrained into the canvas for years telling a story I could never write in words."
She had been, out of habit, scratching at the finish of her mug taking some of the paint off in the process. Byron listened to her intently, captivated completely by the ability to compel another human with just her words.
"My identity was solidified, but I left it wherever it dripped and I've never once found it again. I enjoyed fighting; I enjoyed MMA; I enjoy training with you day in and day out. But it's not my world like it is yours."
"I know," Byron stood up and walked to the other side of the island where she was. "But if you know what your world is, why aren't you making a call right now? You and I both know you're an immediate asset to anybody's roster."
"For the first time in my life, I'm scared that I can't do what I used to be able to do."
A short silence fell between the two; Byron tried to hide the state of shock he found himself in when somebody like Lexi expressed fear; something it has truly taken her thirty-three years to feel. They both knew it was a delicate moment never to be dwelled on or spoken about again.
"You are who you are for a reason. You were born to do this for a reason. You made the impact that you did for a reason, Lexi. There is not one person like you out there who has put so much of their body and soul into this sport, and you know what, honestly, the sport needs you. The bullshit drama-fest that industry has moulded itself into needs a hero to bring it back to what it once was. Bring the honour back into it."
He slid an arm protectively around her waist, knowing that too much personal contact could be detrimental to his persuasion. She looked over at him and nodded nonchalantly. He nodded too, an unspoken communication occurring between the two. He slid his cell phone out of the pocket of his pyjama pants and slid it across the counter to her.
"Make the call."
"Knee bothering you, babe?" A raspy, barely awake voice muttered from beside her.
"Yeah," Lexi threw her head back, stretching out her neck to one side and then the other. For having just turned thirty-three this October, she felt although she might've been ninety. The torment her body has been through in these, uh, short fourteen years.
He remained on his side, drifting in and out of consciousness as the sun began to rise over the west coast. She threw the covers off, throwing a pair of black, tapered joggers and a form-fitting wife-beater tank top on. She headed towards the kitchen where she knew there was a promise of breakfast:
Instant coffee and a cigarette.
She pulled out one of the barstool's tucked into the kitchen island while simultaneously fidgeting with the top of her cigarette carton. She could hear that Byron was not too far behind her, padding footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor down the hallway to the bathroom. She pulled out another mug, knowing he wouldn't refuse a little morning pick-me-up either.
She lit the cigarette and watched the end light up a bright red, a calm surging through her. As she touched it to her lips, Byron walked into the kitchen, lightly grabbing it from her mouth and ashing it into the kitchen sink.
"Hey," Byron leaned up against the granite countertops facing Lexi. "You told me you'd try to quit when you started training again."
"I've not had a smoke since we began; I've kept my promise."
"I kind of feel like I just ashed your promise in our sink," Byron nods back to the still-smoking cigarette dwindling to lifelessness behind him.
"Our sink?" She smirks, mockingly.
"Don't change the subject," Byron smirks back, walking over to her and placing a kiss on the top of her head before taking the seat next to her.
"You know that I do a lot of bad fucking shit," She begins, getting up promptly at the mildly alarming dings of the Keurig coffee maker, "But one thing I don't do, is lie."
"Then why this morning of all mornings?"
"When I felt that pain in my knee . . . It freaked me out, man." She started, shaking her head a little bit as she wandered over to the fridge to grab the cream. "It was a reminder that I'm getting older, but not any more successful. I'm not going to be in good health forever, especially not with the shit I've put my body through. I've taken so many breaks away from wrestling and then I met you and we got into fighting. I did the martial arts thing, I did the pro wrestling thing, and I don't feel . . . "
She paused, shrugging her shoulders. Byron couldn't tell if she just didn't have the right words, or if this was her way of noticing that she might've been opening up to someone for the first time (probably ever, based on her history) and felt uncomfortable with it.
"You don't feel . . . " Byron said, trying to egg her on to finish her train of thought.
"I don't know," She indignantly surmises. Byron takes the hint, he knew she was finished opening up for the time being.
"You don't feel like you're as accomplished as you should be as a thirty-three year old professional wrestler."
Lexi looked disapprovingly over her shoulder, turning slowly with both cups of coffee and walking over to the island to set them down.
"Babe, I get it. But you're talking about it like you're some over-the-hill, washed-up has-been with no future left. You're just going through some shit. You killed your MMA debut, and to be honest with you, the you that I met sure as hell never shied away from talking about the legacy you built in professional wrestling."
"You sayin' I brag, McCall?" Lexi lifts an eyebrow quizzically at her strikingly different signifiant other.
"Yes," Byron states confidently. "And I'm saying that you have every right to. Your heart has been in this since you were nineteen. You've won championship after championship. People feared you; you were the woman to beat if you wanted to be anyone."
Lexi simply stared at him. This wasn't the first time she had these thoughts or feelings, she'd been experiencing this sort of nostalgic lethargy about her career since she hit the prime age of thirty. She had a slow rise, but a nonstop one – then, to hit the climax that she did was nothing short of euphoric. Undefeated streaks, gold, money, fear, power . . . But it was gone even faster than it came. The ego took control of her and suddenly she lost the passion to bite after the bark.
"It's a different world than it used to be, that's for certain. I'll never find anything else to do that I enjoyed quite as much as taking this innocent, poor soul and completely driving the will to carry on out of their skull with my fists. Watching their ego's fade into oblivion with every hit that connects; listening to their words become simple groans and coughs as they gasp for air with my foot crushing their throats . . . Having my hand held high, hearing my name, hearing my music, watching the fear in their eyes grow as I get closer to that ring. The blood stains engrained into the canvas for years telling a story I could never write in words."
She had been, out of habit, scratching at the finish of her mug taking some of the paint off in the process. Byron listened to her intently, captivated completely by the ability to compel another human with just her words.
"My identity was solidified, but I left it wherever it dripped and I've never once found it again. I enjoyed fighting; I enjoyed MMA; I enjoy training with you day in and day out. But it's not my world like it is yours."
"I know," Byron stood up and walked to the other side of the island where she was. "But if you know what your world is, why aren't you making a call right now? You and I both know you're an immediate asset to anybody's roster."
"For the first time in my life, I'm scared that I can't do what I used to be able to do."
A short silence fell between the two; Byron tried to hide the state of shock he found himself in when somebody like Lexi expressed fear; something it has truly taken her thirty-three years to feel. They both knew it was a delicate moment never to be dwelled on or spoken about again.
"You are who you are for a reason. You were born to do this for a reason. You made the impact that you did for a reason, Lexi. There is not one person like you out there who has put so much of their body and soul into this sport, and you know what, honestly, the sport needs you. The bullshit drama-fest that industry has moulded itself into needs a hero to bring it back to what it once was. Bring the honour back into it."
He slid an arm protectively around her waist, knowing that too much personal contact could be detrimental to his persuasion. She looked over at him and nodded nonchalantly. He nodded too, an unspoken communication occurring between the two. He slid his cell phone out of the pocket of his pyjama pants and slid it across the counter to her.
"Make the call."
