one on one with malcolm

[Holden Ross]

The red lights flash across the parking lot, reflecting off of car windows, and across the grinning face of Holden Ross. The camera catches him watching as Elijah Dixon is loaded into the back of the ambulance. Watches in pride as the door are shut and the engine revs that split second before it tears ass through the parking lot, on its way to the hospital. Holden turns his grin on the camera and shrugs.

“What can I say? I am responsible for that!” Holden’s voice swells with pride. “My actions caused that waste of skin to be carted outta here like a sack of garbage. The landfill is where he belongs.”

One of the many unnamed assistants that are occasionally seen on camera approaches Holden, holding out a folded piece of paper, and his eyes on the ground. Holden takes the piece of paper and the assistant disappears as if he was Deeds butler.

“This is a notice from P.C.W. brass; you read for a scoop?” Holden clears his throat. “At the next Trauma taping, “The Bastard” Holden Ross versus Razor Blade for the Underground Championship.”

He shakes his head, slowly, in disgust as he crumples up the sheet of paper and tosses it over his shoulder.

“Are they serious? The last time he and I met, for this same belt, I left him lying half-fucking-dead! Boy, management must really not like you…”

The camera follows Holden as he crosses the lot towards his waiting Caddy. From the pocket of his jeans he produces the keys and unlocks the door. As he grabs the handle to open the door, David Hunter walks into the shot on the passenger side of the car. He grins as he pats the North American Championship currently slung over his left shoulder.

“We proved, once again, that we are the Greatest Tag Team in the company. There should be no doubt about it…” he opens the door and presses a button inside, unlocking the passenger door. “Razor, I hope you were watching. I hope you saw how I manhandled Dom and possibly ended Elijah's career.”

He slips behind the wheel and closes the door. The engine fires after one crank and the throaty rumble of the exhaust is music to a gearheads ears. David is in the passenger seat, texting. The heavily tinted drivers window rolls down silently and Holden lights what appears to be a blunt.

“I have no doubt that half-wit will put out a promotion, talkin tough and full of confidence. Tough talk and all the confidence in the World didn’t help him last time we met and it sure as shit didn’t help young Elijah.” He draws deep from the blunt and offers it to David who waves him off. As he speaks, smoke filters out through his lips. “At this Trauma things won't be any different. The fans are paying to watch you get slaughtered like crowds used to pay to watch gladiators slaughter weaker foes in the Coliseum. To be clear, you are the weaker foe, I know you've taken a lot of head shots so I wanted to clarify…”

He slips the car into gear and it idles down.

“Big Dog, I'm gonna neuter ya and leave ya cowering in your own piss. You won’t stop me from once again being the Underground King. I will walk out of Trauma with that crown, once again, perched upon my head.” He looks to his right, off camera, and grins at Tabitha, who is apparently on her way to her vehicle, a dry cleaners apparel bag slung over her left shoulder.

"Call me....?"  she asks with a coy smile and He replies with a wink.

“Razor, you remind me of one of my first girlfriends; her and I, no matter how many times we got back together, always ended in knock down drag-outs. You and I have gotten together in that ring a few times, we always seem to keep finding each other, and it always ends with either one, or both of us, losing dangerous amounts of blood. This match, lil pup, won’t be any different.”

David reaches out and turns the volume knob on the dash and Prof's newest track, "Cousin's," thunders through the sound system. Holden gives a smug grin to the camera and shrugs his shoulders as the car begins to roll forward while the scene fades to black.

Thursday, September fifth.

Holden sits in Malcolm's office, across from the doctor, his knee bouncing his anxious energy. Malcolm scribbles something in his spiral notebook before giving his patient his “You're doing wonderful!” dollar store smile. Holden shows no emotion, aside from the bouncing knee, his face is expressionless. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, and half-lidded.

“Are you under the influence right now?” the doctor asks his patient.

“I smoked a blunt on my way here but I haven't drank or done any of that other shit…”is his reply.

“You know, marijuana is a crutch, and doesn’t help with your anxiety or depression. In fact, it has been shown to makes them worse, in some cases.”

“And dickheads on them pills you want me to take have wandered into restaurants and shopping centers armed with high powered weapons and mowed down a slug of folks. What's your point?”

“I still feel you should quit using marijuana. Now, I’m not going to order you to stop –“

“Cause you know it wouldn’t fuckin work!”

Malcolm holds his hands up and mouths “Calm” at his patient. Holden grinds his teeth and shakes his head.

“We will stick a pin in that for another day, alright, Holden?” the Doc quickly tries to change the subject before Holden shuts down and becomes completely uncooperative.

“Can I ask you a question, Holden?”

“Shoot, doc….”

“When we talked in our last solo session, we briefly touched on how you attempted suicide as a teenager.”

Holden shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with this new question, and slams down a glass of water.

“What was it that made you feel so helpless? What caused so much pain that you felt taking your life was your only option?”

Holden is quiet. He stares at his fingernails on his right hand for a minute before taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, shaking his head, more intensely this time.

“Haven’t you ever felt you shouldn’t be here or, like, you don't want to be here anymore? Some days, and it’s been like this for as long as I can remember, some days I wake up and my first thought is 'Walk your fuckin ass into traffic.’” he stares at a gouge mark on the surface of the coffee table, unwilling, or unable, to look at the Doc. “And I did it once a few years ago. Twenty sixteen; I was walking to work and stepped off the curb into the path of a car but they had good brakes. I did it two more times on my way to work that day. Christ! I couldn’t even fuckin kill myself, Doc!”
“Is that when you started cutting?”

Holden's eyes make a connection with the Doc's, briefly, before he looks away, ashamed.

“May I see your scars?” Malcolm asks, almost with an air of…is that jealousy?

Holden looks at his doctor, looks into his eyes, looking for any sign of mockery or degradation. This is a question usually not asked by most normal people, let alone a therapist, but Malcolm isn’t your normal doctor. Holden slowly, carefully, lifts his shirt, and undershirt, to expose his stomach. Dozens of feint scars crisscross the skin of his stomach. Holden’s eyes return back to the gouge on the table top and lowers his shirt.

“Holden, are you ashamed?”

Holden's head moves up and down, almost imperceptibly.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. You, my child, are truly one of the evolutionary advanced! You were broken and, in being broken, you have only become stronger due to the pain you experienced. You are the next step on the evolutionary ladder! You, Holden, are a perfectly beautiful, broken child of the new World that we are on the brink of discovering! Embrace your pain, Holden. Nuzzle into it’s cold embrace. Learn from it. Listen to the secrets it whispers to you when your are alone at night with your demons.”

A buzz from a timer on Malcolm’s desk signals the end of this session.

“Holden, think about what I’ve said here today. I want you to really mull it over and we will discuss it at your next meeting. Believe me, you are something truly unique and powerful. Something unlike any other man walking the surface of this spinning rock. Let me show you how special you really are….”