Post by Creed on Apr 24, 2016 18:08:03 GMT -5
Camron Creed sat nervously in the waiting room, his right leg pistoning up and down uncontrollably. He wasn't sure that this was a good idea; but recently those had been few and far between for him.
He allowed his eyes to scan the room before pulling his leather jacket open and delving a hand into the inside pocket. After a moment or two of routing around, he produced a silver hip flask. Unfastening the cap, Creed took a quick hit of the liquid within before slipping the flask back safely inside his jacket. He reached out and rested his right hand on top of an A4 manilla envelope on the seat next to him and let out a sigh of relief.
Finally the office door opened and a woman stepped into the room. Her eyes were red and puffy as though she had been crying. In the doorway behind her stood Dr. Bass he grimaced when his eyes met Creed's, but he maintained an air of professionalism as he said his farewell’s to the emotional woman.
“OK Daisy. That was a good session. I'd like you to remember what we talked about and I'll see you in a week.”
Daisy nodded her head, avoided eye contact with Creed and hurried across the room to the exit. The doctor leaned against the door frame, removed his glasses, produced a piece of cloth from a pocket and polished the lenses before looking across the room at Camron. Nervously, Creed laughed and jerked a thumb in the direction of the fleeing woman.
“Heh, what's wrong with her? She saw your bill and couldn’t handle it?”
The fixed, exasperated stare the Doctor flashed at Creed was all the indication needed to confirm he wasn't amused at the poor attempt of humor.
“I cant discuss a patient with you. It would be unethical. Is there something I can help you with today Mr. Creed?”
“Yeah I.. eh..” Creed scratched nervously at his head, unable to find the words he needed. “I wanted.. I mean.. That is to say... I had hoped we could have another ses... another chat. Like the other week. You know about.. stuff..”
“I see.” Dr. Bass placed his glasses back on his face, folded the square of cloth and looked again at Creed. “I hardly think that would be appropriate considering how our last meeting ended. If you head on out to the reception area, I am sure my Secretary would be able to provide you with the number of a colleague of mine who would be in a better position to help you.”
As the doctor gestured toward the exit, Creed jumped to his feet, picking up the envelope as he did.
“I really would feel more comfortable talking to you Doc. I don't trust easily and.. well, you seem like somebody I could trust.”
“That may be so, Mr. Creed. But after what transpired at our last meeting, I hardly think it would be appropriate to..”
“If it's about the.. the phone call...” Creed hesitated before holding the envelope out in front of him. “Here. This is everything they had on you.”
The doctor froze, hesitant at first before reaching out and taking the dossier. He pulled open the flap and peered inside.
“I didn't read it.” Creed offered the assurance in a weak, unconvincing tone. “And as far as I know, it's the only copy.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I..” Creed shrugged his shoulders. “I just need someone to talk too. That's all.”
“That may be so.” The Doctor said, his tone suggesting he was suddenly more comfortable and felt in control as he tucked the envelope under his arm. “But I'm afraid I have an appointment now so...”
“David Morgan, I know.” Creed nodded his head. “It's me. Sorry about the fake name. I... I didn't think you'd actually see me.”
“Very intuitive.” The Doctor said with a nod of his head before sighing and gesturing for Creed to enter his office.
Meekly Creed passed the Doctor and waited for him to enter the room. He passed Creed and gestured for him to take a seat before taking his own in the comfortable, worn, armchair beside the small round table that he had been sat in when last they met. He sat the envelope on the table, crossed one leg over the other and interlaced his fingers over his lap while waiting for Creed to get comfortable.
Camron hesitated after seeing all this. He again scratched at the back of his head and took the seat he had been in weeks before, this time sitting instead of laying down. He rested his elbows on his knees, forcing him to lean forward in an almost aggressive stance, and fixed the Doctor with a cold stare. They sat in silence for several moments before the doctor finally broke the tension.
“Camron, I assume it is you paying for my time now, not PCW. As such, I suggest we skip the formalities and the awkward silences and get down to business. Why don't you tell me why you're here and how exactly you feel I can help you.”
Camron sat back slightly. His face was fixed in an uncomfortable grimace and he couldn't keep eye contact with the Doctor- though not for a lack of trying.
“Well.. it's just...” Creed hesitated, hung his head and stared at his feet. “After I saw you the other week, I felt great. Lighter. I mean, sure, the whole bribery thing got to me but, for the most part.. I felt better. Then I picked up two losses on the bounce. My private life went to hell. And I..”
Creed's words trailed and died. He couldn't say what he needed too. Instead he pushed a hand inside his jacket, pulled out the flask and set it down on the low coffee table in front of him. The doctor nodded his head in acknowledgment.
“You're drinking again.” the Doctor said, with not an ounce of surprise in his voice.
“I wasn't.” Creed's voice filled with desperation. “I was trying... Really I was... Went two and a half weeks. But, after that second loss.. I just couldn't take it any more. I needed a drink.. and one led to two and two led to a bottle and before I knew it...” Creed gestured silently at the flask.
“So you're here for your drinking problems?”
“No. I mean, yeah, but.... no. That's just part of it. Everything is a shambles Doc. My Career is circling the drain. I'm sleeping with the wife of my manager and best... only... friend. My life... it's in tatters. I just don’t know what to do.”
“I see.” The Doctor sat for a moment in quiet contemplation. Finally he led with “Let's start with the drink. How often do you partake?”
“Pretty much every day. I mean.. It's not like I drink the moment I wake up.. not all the time anyway. Normally I don’t start until something happens.”
“And when you start?”
“I...” Creed hangs his head in shame. “I don't normally stop. It's like flipping a switch and not knowing how to turn it off again.”
“And this was brought on by losing a second match?”
“That and the thing with Jackie.. That's Joey's wife by the way.”
“And Joey is.. your friend?”
“And manager. Mainly that, I guess.”
“And this, Mr. Creed, is why I advised you to take a prolonged break from the business. The added mental and physical strain of the wrestling industry is, in my opinion, far too great for you at present.”
“And as I said before..” Creed's tone becomes suddenly harder. “That is not an option. I wont throw all that hard work away. I just need your help to pull myself back together.”
“Very well.” The Doctor sits in silence for several moments before continuing on regardless. “In that case, tell me about your upcoming match.”
Creed sighs and shakes his head.
“There really isn't a lot to tell.. don't think I'm being awkward here, Doc.. there really isn't. It's an unknown quantity. A battle royal offering another chance into the Icemann invitational. Frankly, I don't even know who's going to be in it. They have announced Mr. Showtime, Q, Tyrone Smith and Brochamp... but there could be any number of mystery competitors.. Anyone else at all. Hell, for all I know you're one of my opponents. How the hell am I supposed to prepare for that?”
“I see, and how does that make you feel?”
“How does that make me feel?” Creed laughs and leans back in the chair while shaking his head. “It makes me feel like I need one hell of a drink.”
“and when you drink... that makes it better?”
Creed stares at the flask in silence for several moments before lifting his line of sight to meet the Doctor's gaze.
“No. Not really. I think about it just as much. Maybe even more. Fact is, I don't even know if I want to be in this tournament. It's prestigious and it means a lot in the wrestling world but... it just isn't me. Don't get me wrong, I'd be psyched to win and everything.. but the fast track to the top? The potential flash in the pan success and fade story so many are known for?” Creed sighs and shakes his head. “I just... I just don’t want another loss.”
“So you're telling me that you are driven more by a fear of failure than by a desire to win?”
“I'm not sure I'd put it like that Doc. I said I wasn't overly concerned about winning a tournament.. not that I don't want to win in general. I mean, think about it.. What if I lose again and Buck Brochamp wins the damned match! How the hell would I show my face in that locker room ever again?!”
“Surely everyone in the match is in a similar situation?”
“Sure. Except the others have proven success, title reigns and match victories in their favor. I lose again this week and it means I've done nothing substantial on US soil in over four years...” Creeds hand starts to visibly shake and he swipes it over his face in an attempt to hide his eyes as they drift to the cold steel hip flask on the table before him. “How am I supposed to cope with that stress?”
“Mr. Creed, I'm forced to wonder why the wrestling industry appeals so greatly to you. Clearly you crave stability, structure and routine.. I honestly believe the chaotic nature of the wrestling industry is what strains you mentally.” The Doctor holds up a hand, stalling Creed before he has the chance to respond. “Before you again start shouting that quitting isn't an option, I want to remind you that you came here today to hear my opinion in full knowledge that I believe you at the very least require a prolonged break from the ring. Is it not possible, Mr. Creed, that you subconsciously know what I say is correct and therefore came here today to hear that opinion voiced?”
“I..” Creed hesitates and stares blankly at the Doctor. “..God. What if you're right? How messed up would that be?! I.. I want to quit. That's what you're telling me?”
“Not at all. I'm simply posing a question. You yourself said the tournament means very little to you. Perhaps on a subconscious level you know you need to at least take a break from the ring; to allow yourself to mentally recover if nothing else.”
“Maybe.” Creed utters the word in disbelief. “Maybe you're right. Maybe, on some level.. I know that I don’t belong here.”
“The human mind is very complex Mr. Creed. It could well be that the drink, the illegal painkillers, the questionable personal and professional choices, are all an elaborate means to derail your own career. Perhaps on some level, you are doing this to help yourself.”
“Christ. So.. What? If I lose I should call it a day? Walk away? Go 'find my smile'? Is that what you're telling me, Doc?”
“That is something you have to decide for yourself. And now Mr. Creed I must ask you to leave..” The Doctor reaches out and pats the dossier on the table beside him. “... I have some reading to do.”
Reluctantly Creed nods his head and pulls himself to his feet somewhat dazed. He turns and walks toward the office door, not even pausing to say goodbye. His mind is buzzing with thoughts and, suddenly, the Last Chance Battle Royal has a much more literal meaning.
He allowed his eyes to scan the room before pulling his leather jacket open and delving a hand into the inside pocket. After a moment or two of routing around, he produced a silver hip flask. Unfastening the cap, Creed took a quick hit of the liquid within before slipping the flask back safely inside his jacket. He reached out and rested his right hand on top of an A4 manilla envelope on the seat next to him and let out a sigh of relief.
Finally the office door opened and a woman stepped into the room. Her eyes were red and puffy as though she had been crying. In the doorway behind her stood Dr. Bass he grimaced when his eyes met Creed's, but he maintained an air of professionalism as he said his farewell’s to the emotional woman.
“OK Daisy. That was a good session. I'd like you to remember what we talked about and I'll see you in a week.”
Daisy nodded her head, avoided eye contact with Creed and hurried across the room to the exit. The doctor leaned against the door frame, removed his glasses, produced a piece of cloth from a pocket and polished the lenses before looking across the room at Camron. Nervously, Creed laughed and jerked a thumb in the direction of the fleeing woman.
“Heh, what's wrong with her? She saw your bill and couldn’t handle it?”
The fixed, exasperated stare the Doctor flashed at Creed was all the indication needed to confirm he wasn't amused at the poor attempt of humor.
“I cant discuss a patient with you. It would be unethical. Is there something I can help you with today Mr. Creed?”
“Yeah I.. eh..” Creed scratched nervously at his head, unable to find the words he needed. “I wanted.. I mean.. That is to say... I had hoped we could have another ses... another chat. Like the other week. You know about.. stuff..”
“I see.” Dr. Bass placed his glasses back on his face, folded the square of cloth and looked again at Creed. “I hardly think that would be appropriate considering how our last meeting ended. If you head on out to the reception area, I am sure my Secretary would be able to provide you with the number of a colleague of mine who would be in a better position to help you.”
As the doctor gestured toward the exit, Creed jumped to his feet, picking up the envelope as he did.
“I really would feel more comfortable talking to you Doc. I don't trust easily and.. well, you seem like somebody I could trust.”
“That may be so, Mr. Creed. But after what transpired at our last meeting, I hardly think it would be appropriate to..”
“If it's about the.. the phone call...” Creed hesitated before holding the envelope out in front of him. “Here. This is everything they had on you.”
The doctor froze, hesitant at first before reaching out and taking the dossier. He pulled open the flap and peered inside.
“I didn't read it.” Creed offered the assurance in a weak, unconvincing tone. “And as far as I know, it's the only copy.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I..” Creed shrugged his shoulders. “I just need someone to talk too. That's all.”
“That may be so.” The Doctor said, his tone suggesting he was suddenly more comfortable and felt in control as he tucked the envelope under his arm. “But I'm afraid I have an appointment now so...”
“David Morgan, I know.” Creed nodded his head. “It's me. Sorry about the fake name. I... I didn't think you'd actually see me.”
“Very intuitive.” The Doctor said with a nod of his head before sighing and gesturing for Creed to enter his office.
Meekly Creed passed the Doctor and waited for him to enter the room. He passed Creed and gestured for him to take a seat before taking his own in the comfortable, worn, armchair beside the small round table that he had been sat in when last they met. He sat the envelope on the table, crossed one leg over the other and interlaced his fingers over his lap while waiting for Creed to get comfortable.
Camron hesitated after seeing all this. He again scratched at the back of his head and took the seat he had been in weeks before, this time sitting instead of laying down. He rested his elbows on his knees, forcing him to lean forward in an almost aggressive stance, and fixed the Doctor with a cold stare. They sat in silence for several moments before the doctor finally broke the tension.
“Camron, I assume it is you paying for my time now, not PCW. As such, I suggest we skip the formalities and the awkward silences and get down to business. Why don't you tell me why you're here and how exactly you feel I can help you.”
Camron sat back slightly. His face was fixed in an uncomfortable grimace and he couldn't keep eye contact with the Doctor- though not for a lack of trying.
“Well.. it's just...” Creed hesitated, hung his head and stared at his feet. “After I saw you the other week, I felt great. Lighter. I mean, sure, the whole bribery thing got to me but, for the most part.. I felt better. Then I picked up two losses on the bounce. My private life went to hell. And I..”
Creed's words trailed and died. He couldn't say what he needed too. Instead he pushed a hand inside his jacket, pulled out the flask and set it down on the low coffee table in front of him. The doctor nodded his head in acknowledgment.
“You're drinking again.” the Doctor said, with not an ounce of surprise in his voice.
“I wasn't.” Creed's voice filled with desperation. “I was trying... Really I was... Went two and a half weeks. But, after that second loss.. I just couldn't take it any more. I needed a drink.. and one led to two and two led to a bottle and before I knew it...” Creed gestured silently at the flask.
“So you're here for your drinking problems?”
“No. I mean, yeah, but.... no. That's just part of it. Everything is a shambles Doc. My Career is circling the drain. I'm sleeping with the wife of my manager and best... only... friend. My life... it's in tatters. I just don’t know what to do.”
“I see.” The Doctor sat for a moment in quiet contemplation. Finally he led with “Let's start with the drink. How often do you partake?”
“Pretty much every day. I mean.. It's not like I drink the moment I wake up.. not all the time anyway. Normally I don’t start until something happens.”
“And when you start?”
“I...” Creed hangs his head in shame. “I don't normally stop. It's like flipping a switch and not knowing how to turn it off again.”
“And this was brought on by losing a second match?”
“That and the thing with Jackie.. That's Joey's wife by the way.”
“And Joey is.. your friend?”
“And manager. Mainly that, I guess.”
“And this, Mr. Creed, is why I advised you to take a prolonged break from the business. The added mental and physical strain of the wrestling industry is, in my opinion, far too great for you at present.”
“And as I said before..” Creed's tone becomes suddenly harder. “That is not an option. I wont throw all that hard work away. I just need your help to pull myself back together.”
“Very well.” The Doctor sits in silence for several moments before continuing on regardless. “In that case, tell me about your upcoming match.”
Creed sighs and shakes his head.
“There really isn't a lot to tell.. don't think I'm being awkward here, Doc.. there really isn't. It's an unknown quantity. A battle royal offering another chance into the Icemann invitational. Frankly, I don't even know who's going to be in it. They have announced Mr. Showtime, Q, Tyrone Smith and Brochamp... but there could be any number of mystery competitors.. Anyone else at all. Hell, for all I know you're one of my opponents. How the hell am I supposed to prepare for that?”
“I see, and how does that make you feel?”
“How does that make me feel?” Creed laughs and leans back in the chair while shaking his head. “It makes me feel like I need one hell of a drink.”
“and when you drink... that makes it better?”
Creed stares at the flask in silence for several moments before lifting his line of sight to meet the Doctor's gaze.
“No. Not really. I think about it just as much. Maybe even more. Fact is, I don't even know if I want to be in this tournament. It's prestigious and it means a lot in the wrestling world but... it just isn't me. Don't get me wrong, I'd be psyched to win and everything.. but the fast track to the top? The potential flash in the pan success and fade story so many are known for?” Creed sighs and shakes his head. “I just... I just don’t want another loss.”
“So you're telling me that you are driven more by a fear of failure than by a desire to win?”
“I'm not sure I'd put it like that Doc. I said I wasn't overly concerned about winning a tournament.. not that I don't want to win in general. I mean, think about it.. What if I lose again and Buck Brochamp wins the damned match! How the hell would I show my face in that locker room ever again?!”
“Surely everyone in the match is in a similar situation?”
“Sure. Except the others have proven success, title reigns and match victories in their favor. I lose again this week and it means I've done nothing substantial on US soil in over four years...” Creeds hand starts to visibly shake and he swipes it over his face in an attempt to hide his eyes as they drift to the cold steel hip flask on the table before him. “How am I supposed to cope with that stress?”
“Mr. Creed, I'm forced to wonder why the wrestling industry appeals so greatly to you. Clearly you crave stability, structure and routine.. I honestly believe the chaotic nature of the wrestling industry is what strains you mentally.” The Doctor holds up a hand, stalling Creed before he has the chance to respond. “Before you again start shouting that quitting isn't an option, I want to remind you that you came here today to hear my opinion in full knowledge that I believe you at the very least require a prolonged break from the ring. Is it not possible, Mr. Creed, that you subconsciously know what I say is correct and therefore came here today to hear that opinion voiced?”
“I..” Creed hesitates and stares blankly at the Doctor. “..God. What if you're right? How messed up would that be?! I.. I want to quit. That's what you're telling me?”
“Not at all. I'm simply posing a question. You yourself said the tournament means very little to you. Perhaps on a subconscious level you know you need to at least take a break from the ring; to allow yourself to mentally recover if nothing else.”
“Maybe.” Creed utters the word in disbelief. “Maybe you're right. Maybe, on some level.. I know that I don’t belong here.”
“The human mind is very complex Mr. Creed. It could well be that the drink, the illegal painkillers, the questionable personal and professional choices, are all an elaborate means to derail your own career. Perhaps on some level, you are doing this to help yourself.”
“Christ. So.. What? If I lose I should call it a day? Walk away? Go 'find my smile'? Is that what you're telling me, Doc?”
“That is something you have to decide for yourself. And now Mr. Creed I must ask you to leave..” The Doctor reaches out and pats the dossier on the table beside him. “... I have some reading to do.”
Reluctantly Creed nods his head and pulls himself to his feet somewhat dazed. He turns and walks toward the office door, not even pausing to say goodbye. His mind is buzzing with thoughts and, suddenly, the Last Chance Battle Royal has a much more literal meaning.
