Post by Brenna Gordon on Apr 10, 2016 21:05:30 GMT -5
The sound of someone hammering at the door jars Brenna awake before the fist can make its third impact.
Jolting as if she was hit by a blast of icy water, there's a soft gasp that leaves her lips, her chest heaving as if surfacing from her dreams is a more literal thing. As her eyes force themselves open, her head turns toward the sound involuntarily. What she sees, though, is not the door and the dingy white walls surrounding it. Instead, her face winds up buried in patchouli-scented hair-- and since the rest of her body turned with her head, that means she's settling in against skin that is as pale as her own with slender, almost fragile hips that her own eclipse wholly. It takes her a moment to piece together what happened the night before when she went out to celebrate her first win in PCW, an almost alcohol-esque haze being shoved aside to find what she can recall... and what she can piece together has her groaning to herself. The woman sharing her bed called herself Memory when she introduced herself, saying about how 'You'll always think about me when you remember anything good,' or something like that. The exact details beyond how the suggestion of changing her name to Mediocrity would not go over well are lost to the dark-haired female as she turns her gaze to the ceiling anew, the sight of copper-colored curls no longer stirring anything within her. She just-- wanted her gone, wanted to have her bed to herself again. For whoever-the-Hell to stop banging at the door like it owed them money would be a bonus at this point.
"Go away." The grumbled complaint isn't remotely loud enough to reach the door, much less to stir the snoring (How had she missed that before?) monument to bad decisions beside her.
Figures.
Extracting herself from the slumbering female beside her, she swears she can feel some sort of suction trying to draw her back in... some small part of her wanting more of the physical contact and the emotional numbing that comes with it. Brenna can feel that familiar, unwelcome void within yawning open anew as she stands, hands moving to idly scratch an itch here, shift an unruly strand of hair there. The rhythm of that persistent knocking--joined by what she can only guess are curse-words slurred past cotton lips and a dry mouth-- serves as the beat which she dresses herself, a black miniskirt of questionable origin pulled over her hips while a Joy Division t-shirt with the arms and most of the sides cut out covers her upper body. Not paying any mind to how close her bust is to falling into the open air, a few strides carry her over to the door-- something she only opens a crack, just enough to give a death glare to whoever woke her.
"You fucking asshole, open up! I know my girlfriend's in there with yo-- oh, uh..." The clean-cut preppy that's been all but treating her door like he's bound to treat any Starbucks employee that doesn't remember his usual is suddenly growing some decorum when he finds himself meeting those bottomless eyes, straightening up a bit and trifling with his hair as if the whole Alpha Male shtick is worth a damn. "Is Sarah in there? I'm her boyfriend, and I haven't been able to reach her all night." A beat. "I didn't mean to wake you, if I did."
Sarah? It takes a minute to percolate, for bits and pieces to line up-- and to brush aside the question of 'Why would you call yourself something as cliche as Memory when Sarah's a perfectly fine name?' to get to where she can use this information. To say that things suddenly make sense isn't entirely accurate, though five seconds of being exposed to this modern-day John Smith does a rather thorough job of explaining why a petite redhead with slender hips and shoulder bones so like a bird's would approach her in a crowded bar. Brenna's smile is a faint thing when it finally comes forth, her tone pleasant enough... well, pleasant enough for her at least as she feels that faint twist of her mother's particular accent surfacing, equal parts amusement and beratement that she aims right at his heart. "If you didn't mean to wake me, you wouldn't have been having a tantrum at my door until someone answered."
"I, ah..." The blink of confusion at being called on his actions is oddly satisfying to her, something she takes a full visual sip of as he takes the smallest step back. Little John isn't accustomed to being questioned, it seems-- and that impression only gets stronger at the awkward laugh that leaves him, complete with that 'Aw, shucks!' grin that she knows how to see through. He pauses for a second or two longer than he ought before he's offering up what he thinks passes as an apology. "Okay, my bad on that one. But is she there? I really wanna talk to her."
And I really wanted to sleep until my alarm went off in a few hours, but you couldn't let that happen, now could you? Brenna lets her eyes roll like they want to, her smile growing and sharpening about the edges as she feels those old lessons of childhood clawing their way to the forefront. Her hand moves to grip the edge of the door, opening it just enough to offer a glimpse at the obviously naked redhead sprawled out in her bed before she's pulling it back close to herself so that he can't easily squeeze past her. "If she wants to return your calls, I'm sure she will when she wakes up. So how about you move along and go occupy yourself with something more your speed there, mm?" She cannot help the condescension that follows any more than she can help breathing, much less the snap in her words. "I think Sesame Street is on in a few minutes."
"Listen here, you bitch," comes the reply as that golly-gee-shucks facade crumbles in the face of him not getting his way, manicured fingers curling into fists. One has to wonder if perhaps this is the true face of Abercrombie, the crimson-splotched scowl of entitlement at being so utterly and calmly denied of what he wants. It's all too easy for her to imagine his voice raising a few octaves to match that 'I-want!' tone of the boys on the playground, enough so that his next words very nearly give her a chuckle. "Sarah is my girlfriend, and I want to talk to her. Right. Now. Now be a good little lesbo-whore and wake her up for me so I can take her home, okay?"
For a moment that stretches to uncomfortable lengths by intent, Brenna lets her eyes betray nothing as she seemingly weighs her options-- does she deny this pillar of masculinity, or does she give him what he wants? Her expression is as distant as the shores of her childhood even though she knows exactly what to do without having to think about it, so natural and easy is her response. While she might give herself the chance to second-guess herself in most things ingrained in her, this is the exception in her tired mind's eye... one that she won't regret for the time being.
Let him drown.
"I'll be sure to tell her you dropped by." The door slamming in his face is more satisfying than the sex from the night before, a few twists and clicks securing the way so that Hurricane Jack can huff and puff and blow all he wants without disturbing them further. Peeling that shirt off of her head, Brenna tosses it so it hangs off of the edge of the sailcloth canopy over her bed-- the skirt discarded as she climbs back beneath the covers. While she doesn't reclaim her position right at Sarah's side, she does roll onto her side to face the other woman, a hand reaching out to gently stroke along those copper curls. She's likely going to get slammed with more than a little bullshit once her partner for the previous night awakens, but she will deal with that when the issue arises. Until then, she's going to gradually tune out the entitlement that is slowly losing steam outside of her apartment, let it fade away from her awareness like the setting sun. As much as she is loathe to admit it, there is something... calming, comforting almost about the sound of a man being denied his way. Perhaps that's what her mother finds so soothing about the idea of falling asleep to the screams of ill-fated sailors, knowing that their protests mean nothing in the end if she does not allow them to.
Within her, something trembles in a way that's equal parts unsettling and comforting at taking that scant step closer to whence she came.
She should have just left the mirror fogged up instead of swiping her hand across it. Maybe then she wouldn't feel like the walls are closing in.
The bathroom is all of ten feet by ten feet, the sort of set-up where she'd have to put her feet into the tub to sit down on it... but there is no tub, although there's a mismatched section of vinyl flooring where one used to live. A cramped shower stall of questionable origin resides in the corner in its stead, a college dorm shower curtain in lieu of a door left open to allow everything within it to dry. There's no potential for anything more than half an inch of water to accumulate, something that suits Brenna fine. For a moment, the memory of her landlord being surprised at her approval of such a thrown together set-up flashes before her eyes in a welcoming glimmer of warmth but, before she can take hold of it, the current of what she sees in the cheap plastic mirror over the sink that is probably older than she is drags her back under. The wet waves of her hair clinging to her cheeks and shoulders with black curls cresting almost like waves against the obstacle of her bust, the sallow pallor of her skin in the cheap unnatural light of the fixture above her head, the lines of her nose and cheekbones-- but it's her eyes that do her in, so like her mother's in that living room thousands of miles away and billions of seconds ago. They are so large, so darkly luminous... and worst of all? They appear pleased, satisfied like a cat that just wolfed the canary down in one bite. Unable to break eye contact with her reflection, her breaths come out in jagged little gasps--
--and the moment that voice reaches her mind's ear? There's a moment where Brenna swears that her heart stops beating right alongside of her lungs no longer drawing in a breath, the whole works only restarting with a quiver that almost makes the full transformation into a sob. Gone is her strength, the independence she has forced herself to create from nothing in the name of surviving the foster home shuffle-- it's like she's back on that stoop, trying to rationalize the first time that her mother used her charisma to wound instead of to soothe. "N-No--" Her attempt to speak wavers, cut off by another sharp intake of breath, a swallow that does nothing to bring moisture back to her mouth and vocal chords. "I'm not--"
"Stop," she replies in a weak croak, her attempt to rediscover the strength that has enabled her to all but bold-faced laugh in the face of any that would try to subjugate her failing her as that internal voice grows all the louder. Her attempt to speak doesn't so much as interrupt it, as a matter of fact.
"Stop it." Desperation claws its way to the front of her awareness, the rhythm of her breathing coming treacherously close to hyperventilating as her body trembles anew, hands balling themselves up into fists as the air around her grows all the more arid to her senses. It's as if every ounce of moisture within her, that large percentage of water that makes up every last human being, is being sucked out of her with every word. "Stop it--"
"Stop it, no--"
"I said no!" Her hand lashes out at her reflection, curling into a fist at the last possible moment.
The cheap plastic is surprisingly resilient in not so much as cracking with the force of her blow, driven by a mixture of anger and desperation and very real fear that is running through her veins--though the cheap adhesive holding it to the wall gives out without much hesitation at all. Her sides heave as the spell of the moment is broken, relief crashing over her in a wave as she doubles over. Splayed fingers push against the edge of the sink as she struggles to regain control, to draw everything back into her grasp... to feel like herself again, a free-standing person instead of a cheap copy of a woman that has long since gone mad. Brenna swallows hard as she forces herself upright, hurried steps carrying her into the other room of her apartment before her hands take hold of the sailcloth covering the window. She can't find it in herself to care about who might see her as she shoves it open and breathes deep of the midnight air, the blessed traces of moisture that seem to only come out at night a soothing balm to her troubled mind.
It's not until the sun starts peeking over the horizon that she withdraws back into her solitude, her mental armor repaired enough for her to go on.
Hello again, PCW.
Winning my first match is something I'm sure that many might consider to be the best case scenario for my debut--but in truth? It was bittersweet. The nature of a triple threat is innately more chaotic, to state the obvious, so for me to reach out and snatch the win out from my opponents when I got the chance to isn't something that I can necessarily be blamed for. Kent Paris talked a good game in his debut segment, but considering the fact that he was put on leave without any sort of injury report? That doesn't put much stock in me pinning his shoulders for the three count, if you think about it. The sum of an opponent's worth lies in how hard they fight when they are overcome, if you ask me... and the man that fought tooth and nail wasn't the one that I pinned to the mat. That's got to sting your pride, Camron, and it's got to sting it harder than you were hitting me at last Trauma. It's only going to be worse for me when the bell rings this time around considering what's on the line for the winner of The Icemann Invitational Tournament. A shot for any title? That's the stuff dreams are made of for people that are new to PCW, and I'm sure that you're looking at me as being an easy obstacle to overcome if one goes off of what happened the last time we were in the ring together.
After all, there's no cock-sure coward to get in your way this time.
I could scold you for falling for Kent Paul's... well, schtick is the first word that comes to mind, and I get the feeling that he's not going to be making a return anytime soon in order to correct me. Personally, I think he should lace that shoe up and wear it since it fits, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, there's no point in me mocking your temper getting the better of you because that would be like mocking a fish for flopping its way back into the water when a fisherman neglects to secure it properly-- it's just a part of your arrogance, of what you are and what you do just the same as the power you bring to bear. Should your experience have been enough to prevent it from happening? Maybe, but that's the thing about this business. No matter what people put down on paper, what statistics they track and what maps they draw of one's experiences and strengths and weaknesses? It's all liquid, ever-changing and ever-moving. There's no single factor that guarantees a single damn thing, no unassailable trait that never fails. And if Trauma didn't prove that to you, then I don't know what else I can tell you.
...well, beyond how I'm going to do everything I humanly can to fix what I think went wrong with my debut at Trauma 189.
Remember what I said about a win's worth being tied to the worth of one's opponent? You are the one that is worth vanquishing, even if it's just in a temporary sense. Kent was chump change, to put it lightly. You, on the other hand? Every accolade you've earned, every title you've won before you came here, every single war you've come out of the other side of as the victor in rings far away from here-- all of those things mean that I'm going to need to drag out every last trick I've got for someone that's so much larger than I am, to dig deep to endure every last bone-shaking suplex you hit me with so that I throw my shoulder up at the two instead of the three. Everything you've done makes you the kind of opponent that a girl can build a reputation off of even standing toe-to-toe with... and that says nothing about what happens if I shock you and come out the winner. Not only do I advance, but I become one of what I'm sure is a short list of people to beat you one on one. That's not going to be easy, but you know what?
I didn't come here for easy.
I didn't lace up my boots again to have a walk through the park anymore than I have ever spent hours upon hours of putting myself through Hell to get into ring shape just to go to a Macy's sale. The challenge is what makes all those voices in the back of my mind go silent, even if it's just a temporary reprieve like the eye of a hurricane. It's something primal, something far-flung from my ability to explain--something I'm sure she would roll her eyes at, but then again, it's her voice I'm looking to drown out amidst the blood, sweat, and tears that holds this business together. I don't know what drives you, Camron, what demons nip at your heels... but what I do know is that mine are going to push me to overcome you no matter what the odds might say.
Davida... that's what one of the commentators called me, if I remember right, when it was just you and me in the ring.
Mm.
That's not very creative, not horribly graceful to say or to read, but you know what?
Since I'm going up against a Goliath that won't rest until I'm ripped to shreds, I'll take every last good luck talisman I can get.
See you out there, Camron.
Jolting as if she was hit by a blast of icy water, there's a soft gasp that leaves her lips, her chest heaving as if surfacing from her dreams is a more literal thing. As her eyes force themselves open, her head turns toward the sound involuntarily. What she sees, though, is not the door and the dingy white walls surrounding it. Instead, her face winds up buried in patchouli-scented hair-- and since the rest of her body turned with her head, that means she's settling in against skin that is as pale as her own with slender, almost fragile hips that her own eclipse wholly. It takes her a moment to piece together what happened the night before when she went out to celebrate her first win in PCW, an almost alcohol-esque haze being shoved aside to find what she can recall... and what she can piece together has her groaning to herself. The woman sharing her bed called herself Memory when she introduced herself, saying about how 'You'll always think about me when you remember anything good,' or something like that. The exact details beyond how the suggestion of changing her name to Mediocrity would not go over well are lost to the dark-haired female as she turns her gaze to the ceiling anew, the sight of copper-colored curls no longer stirring anything within her. She just-- wanted her gone, wanted to have her bed to herself again. For whoever-the-Hell to stop banging at the door like it owed them money would be a bonus at this point.
"Go away." The grumbled complaint isn't remotely loud enough to reach the door, much less to stir the snoring (How had she missed that before?) monument to bad decisions beside her.
Figures.
Extracting herself from the slumbering female beside her, she swears she can feel some sort of suction trying to draw her back in... some small part of her wanting more of the physical contact and the emotional numbing that comes with it. Brenna can feel that familiar, unwelcome void within yawning open anew as she stands, hands moving to idly scratch an itch here, shift an unruly strand of hair there. The rhythm of that persistent knocking--joined by what she can only guess are curse-words slurred past cotton lips and a dry mouth-- serves as the beat which she dresses herself, a black miniskirt of questionable origin pulled over her hips while a Joy Division t-shirt with the arms and most of the sides cut out covers her upper body. Not paying any mind to how close her bust is to falling into the open air, a few strides carry her over to the door-- something she only opens a crack, just enough to give a death glare to whoever woke her.
"You fucking asshole, open up! I know my girlfriend's in there with yo-- oh, uh..." The clean-cut preppy that's been all but treating her door like he's bound to treat any Starbucks employee that doesn't remember his usual is suddenly growing some decorum when he finds himself meeting those bottomless eyes, straightening up a bit and trifling with his hair as if the whole Alpha Male shtick is worth a damn. "Is Sarah in there? I'm her boyfriend, and I haven't been able to reach her all night." A beat. "I didn't mean to wake you, if I did."
Sarah? It takes a minute to percolate, for bits and pieces to line up-- and to brush aside the question of 'Why would you call yourself something as cliche as Memory when Sarah's a perfectly fine name?' to get to where she can use this information. To say that things suddenly make sense isn't entirely accurate, though five seconds of being exposed to this modern-day John Smith does a rather thorough job of explaining why a petite redhead with slender hips and shoulder bones so like a bird's would approach her in a crowded bar. Brenna's smile is a faint thing when it finally comes forth, her tone pleasant enough... well, pleasant enough for her at least as she feels that faint twist of her mother's particular accent surfacing, equal parts amusement and beratement that she aims right at his heart. "If you didn't mean to wake me, you wouldn't have been having a tantrum at my door until someone answered."
"I, ah..." The blink of confusion at being called on his actions is oddly satisfying to her, something she takes a full visual sip of as he takes the smallest step back. Little John isn't accustomed to being questioned, it seems-- and that impression only gets stronger at the awkward laugh that leaves him, complete with that 'Aw, shucks!' grin that she knows how to see through. He pauses for a second or two longer than he ought before he's offering up what he thinks passes as an apology. "Okay, my bad on that one. But is she there? I really wanna talk to her."
And I really wanted to sleep until my alarm went off in a few hours, but you couldn't let that happen, now could you? Brenna lets her eyes roll like they want to, her smile growing and sharpening about the edges as she feels those old lessons of childhood clawing their way to the forefront. Her hand moves to grip the edge of the door, opening it just enough to offer a glimpse at the obviously naked redhead sprawled out in her bed before she's pulling it back close to herself so that he can't easily squeeze past her. "If she wants to return your calls, I'm sure she will when she wakes up. So how about you move along and go occupy yourself with something more your speed there, mm?" She cannot help the condescension that follows any more than she can help breathing, much less the snap in her words. "I think Sesame Street is on in a few minutes."
"Listen here, you bitch," comes the reply as that golly-gee-shucks facade crumbles in the face of him not getting his way, manicured fingers curling into fists. One has to wonder if perhaps this is the true face of Abercrombie, the crimson-splotched scowl of entitlement at being so utterly and calmly denied of what he wants. It's all too easy for her to imagine his voice raising a few octaves to match that 'I-want!' tone of the boys on the playground, enough so that his next words very nearly give her a chuckle. "Sarah is my girlfriend, and I want to talk to her. Right. Now. Now be a good little lesbo-whore and wake her up for me so I can take her home, okay?"
For a moment that stretches to uncomfortable lengths by intent, Brenna lets her eyes betray nothing as she seemingly weighs her options-- does she deny this pillar of masculinity, or does she give him what he wants? Her expression is as distant as the shores of her childhood even though she knows exactly what to do without having to think about it, so natural and easy is her response. While she might give herself the chance to second-guess herself in most things ingrained in her, this is the exception in her tired mind's eye... one that she won't regret for the time being.
Let him drown.
"I'll be sure to tell her you dropped by." The door slamming in his face is more satisfying than the sex from the night before, a few twists and clicks securing the way so that Hurricane Jack can huff and puff and blow all he wants without disturbing them further. Peeling that shirt off of her head, Brenna tosses it so it hangs off of the edge of the sailcloth canopy over her bed-- the skirt discarded as she climbs back beneath the covers. While she doesn't reclaim her position right at Sarah's side, she does roll onto her side to face the other woman, a hand reaching out to gently stroke along those copper curls. She's likely going to get slammed with more than a little bullshit once her partner for the previous night awakens, but she will deal with that when the issue arises. Until then, she's going to gradually tune out the entitlement that is slowly losing steam outside of her apartment, let it fade away from her awareness like the setting sun. As much as she is loathe to admit it, there is something... calming, comforting almost about the sound of a man being denied his way. Perhaps that's what her mother finds so soothing about the idea of falling asleep to the screams of ill-fated sailors, knowing that their protests mean nothing in the end if she does not allow them to.
Within her, something trembles in a way that's equal parts unsettling and comforting at taking that scant step closer to whence she came.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
CHAPTER TWO
i n ~ v e i n
------------------------------♒------------------------------
CHAPTER TWO
i n ~ v e i n
------------------------------♒------------------------------
She should have just left the mirror fogged up instead of swiping her hand across it. Maybe then she wouldn't feel like the walls are closing in.
The bathroom is all of ten feet by ten feet, the sort of set-up where she'd have to put her feet into the tub to sit down on it... but there is no tub, although there's a mismatched section of vinyl flooring where one used to live. A cramped shower stall of questionable origin resides in the corner in its stead, a college dorm shower curtain in lieu of a door left open to allow everything within it to dry. There's no potential for anything more than half an inch of water to accumulate, something that suits Brenna fine. For a moment, the memory of her landlord being surprised at her approval of such a thrown together set-up flashes before her eyes in a welcoming glimmer of warmth but, before she can take hold of it, the current of what she sees in the cheap plastic mirror over the sink that is probably older than she is drags her back under. The wet waves of her hair clinging to her cheeks and shoulders with black curls cresting almost like waves against the obstacle of her bust, the sallow pallor of her skin in the cheap unnatural light of the fixture above her head, the lines of her nose and cheekbones-- but it's her eyes that do her in, so like her mother's in that living room thousands of miles away and billions of seconds ago. They are so large, so darkly luminous... and worst of all? They appear pleased, satisfied like a cat that just wolfed the canary down in one bite. Unable to break eye contact with her reflection, her breaths come out in jagged little gasps--
"Aren't you pleased though, my little one? You're following in my footsteps."
--and the moment that voice reaches her mind's ear? There's a moment where Brenna swears that her heart stops beating right alongside of her lungs no longer drawing in a breath, the whole works only restarting with a quiver that almost makes the full transformation into a sob. Gone is her strength, the independence she has forced herself to create from nothing in the name of surviving the foster home shuffle-- it's like she's back on that stoop, trying to rationalize the first time that her mother used her charisma to wound instead of to soothe. "N-No--" Her attempt to speak wavers, cut off by another sharp intake of breath, a swallow that does nothing to bring moisture back to her mouth and vocal chords. "I'm not--"
"Don't delude yourself, my sweet child. The girl at the bar, the veritable parade of people that you're lining up--"
"Stop," she replies in a weak croak, her attempt to rediscover the strength that has enabled her to all but bold-faced laugh in the face of any that would try to subjugate her failing her as that internal voice grows all the louder. Her attempt to speak doesn't so much as interrupt it, as a matter of fact.
"--and using before you're throwing them aside. That's how it is meant to be for us Gordons, Brenna. We are more than them, the common sheep...and the day you stop trying to deny that is the day you'll become divine. Just."
"Stop it." Desperation claws its way to the front of her awareness, the rhythm of her breathing coming treacherously close to hyperventilating as her body trembles anew, hands balling themselves up into fists as the air around her grows all the more arid to her senses. It's as if every ounce of moisture within her, that large percentage of water that makes up every last human being, is being sucked out of her with every word. "Stop it--"
"Like."
"Stop it, no--"
"Me."
"I said no!" Her hand lashes out at her reflection, curling into a fist at the last possible moment.
The cheap plastic is surprisingly resilient in not so much as cracking with the force of her blow, driven by a mixture of anger and desperation and very real fear that is running through her veins--though the cheap adhesive holding it to the wall gives out without much hesitation at all. Her sides heave as the spell of the moment is broken, relief crashing over her in a wave as she doubles over. Splayed fingers push against the edge of the sink as she struggles to regain control, to draw everything back into her grasp... to feel like herself again, a free-standing person instead of a cheap copy of a woman that has long since gone mad. Brenna swallows hard as she forces herself upright, hurried steps carrying her into the other room of her apartment before her hands take hold of the sailcloth covering the window. She can't find it in herself to care about who might see her as she shoves it open and breathes deep of the midnight air, the blessed traces of moisture that seem to only come out at night a soothing balm to her troubled mind.
It's not until the sun starts peeking over the horizon that she withdraws back into her solitude, her mental armor repaired enough for her to go on.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
[Excerpt posted from bornofmyth.blogspot.com
Dated: April 10th, 2016]
Dated: April 10th, 2016]
Hello again, PCW.
Winning my first match is something I'm sure that many might consider to be the best case scenario for my debut--but in truth? It was bittersweet. The nature of a triple threat is innately more chaotic, to state the obvious, so for me to reach out and snatch the win out from my opponents when I got the chance to isn't something that I can necessarily be blamed for. Kent Paris talked a good game in his debut segment, but considering the fact that he was put on leave without any sort of injury report? That doesn't put much stock in me pinning his shoulders for the three count, if you think about it. The sum of an opponent's worth lies in how hard they fight when they are overcome, if you ask me... and the man that fought tooth and nail wasn't the one that I pinned to the mat. That's got to sting your pride, Camron, and it's got to sting it harder than you were hitting me at last Trauma. It's only going to be worse for me when the bell rings this time around considering what's on the line for the winner of The Icemann Invitational Tournament. A shot for any title? That's the stuff dreams are made of for people that are new to PCW, and I'm sure that you're looking at me as being an easy obstacle to overcome if one goes off of what happened the last time we were in the ring together.
After all, there's no cock-sure coward to get in your way this time.
I could scold you for falling for Kent Paul's... well, schtick is the first word that comes to mind, and I get the feeling that he's not going to be making a return anytime soon in order to correct me. Personally, I think he should lace that shoe up and wear it since it fits, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, there's no point in me mocking your temper getting the better of you because that would be like mocking a fish for flopping its way back into the water when a fisherman neglects to secure it properly-- it's just a part of your arrogance, of what you are and what you do just the same as the power you bring to bear. Should your experience have been enough to prevent it from happening? Maybe, but that's the thing about this business. No matter what people put down on paper, what statistics they track and what maps they draw of one's experiences and strengths and weaknesses? It's all liquid, ever-changing and ever-moving. There's no single factor that guarantees a single damn thing, no unassailable trait that never fails. And if Trauma didn't prove that to you, then I don't know what else I can tell you.
...well, beyond how I'm going to do everything I humanly can to fix what I think went wrong with my debut at Trauma 189.
Remember what I said about a win's worth being tied to the worth of one's opponent? You are the one that is worth vanquishing, even if it's just in a temporary sense. Kent was chump change, to put it lightly. You, on the other hand? Every accolade you've earned, every title you've won before you came here, every single war you've come out of the other side of as the victor in rings far away from here-- all of those things mean that I'm going to need to drag out every last trick I've got for someone that's so much larger than I am, to dig deep to endure every last bone-shaking suplex you hit me with so that I throw my shoulder up at the two instead of the three. Everything you've done makes you the kind of opponent that a girl can build a reputation off of even standing toe-to-toe with... and that says nothing about what happens if I shock you and come out the winner. Not only do I advance, but I become one of what I'm sure is a short list of people to beat you one on one. That's not going to be easy, but you know what?
I didn't come here for easy.
I didn't lace up my boots again to have a walk through the park anymore than I have ever spent hours upon hours of putting myself through Hell to get into ring shape just to go to a Macy's sale. The challenge is what makes all those voices in the back of my mind go silent, even if it's just a temporary reprieve like the eye of a hurricane. It's something primal, something far-flung from my ability to explain--something I'm sure she would roll her eyes at, but then again, it's her voice I'm looking to drown out amidst the blood, sweat, and tears that holds this business together. I don't know what drives you, Camron, what demons nip at your heels... but what I do know is that mine are going to push me to overcome you no matter what the odds might say.
Davida... that's what one of the commentators called me, if I remember right, when it was just you and me in the ring.
Mm.
That's not very creative, not horribly graceful to say or to read, but you know what?
Since I'm going up against a Goliath that won't rest until I'm ripped to shreds, I'll take every last good luck talisman I can get.
See you out there, Camron.
