Post by Tyler Scott on Feb 22, 2014 4:52:18 GMT -5
Tyler Scott sits at his bare kitchen table, only a bottle of vodka stands proud atop of it. He takes a large mouthful straight from the bottleneck before focusing his attention to the wrist of his right arm. He still sports the wounds from Hostile Takeover.
When Tyler peered into the eyes of Phinehas Grimm, he saw methodical but twisted rage. As he, Grimm and Michael Wryght battled it out in a cavernous crater, carved out in the middle of the ring by a deranged Grimm and his violent weapon choice, Tyler merely watched as Phinehas came menacingly forward. Sick enjoyment glistened in his eye as he wielded a rusty box cutter. His intentions, although shockingly heinous to the point of inconceivable for most people, were clearly apparent to Grimm's forthcoming victims.
Tyler, in a tug of war with Mr. Showtime over the International title, just looked on as Grimm progressively snapped the box cutter open and shut. Purely overcome by the thirst for gold, Scott held on. Even as Grimm opened the blades and enveloped his wrist with blunt metal, he was unable to let go, unable to accept defeat. His own safety came second to success - even where no success was to be found.
Tyler looks down at his wrist and runs his fingers across the stained and sticky dressing. This dressing was now 4 days old. Tyler had hardly showered in that time. The muck and grime had built up and turned the clean white dressing to a dirty grey. Finally the adhesive had begun to come loose and the corners curled up and over. It exposed a patch of paler skin to clearly contrast against the rest of his greasy unwashed arm. Scott pinches one of the corners and peels the dressing back to reveal a scabby mess - deprived of air and left to form an ugly wound. Tyler strips it back, waxing a few hairs in the process, and carelessly flings the redundant dressing to the floor.
He takes another nerve-steadying gulp of vodka before running his fingers across the stubby ends of stitches poking out if his scarred skin.
The common impulse that goes against human nature and self preservation - the urge to prod, jab and scratch at healing injuries - overcomes Tyler.
He presses his left index finger into the cut. The pain is harsh but satisfying. It temporary releases the itching and the hiving. But it comes back. The more he does it, the more it itches, the more it throbs, the more he enjoys it. He prods the cut again and again and again.
His fingernails, bitten down to sore stubs through a combination of anxiety and bad habit, pick awkwardly at the stitching. Struggling to grasp, he finally takes one between finger and thumb. With a pinch and a firm tug, Tyler begins ripping the thread from his scabbing wounds. The stitching catches where the tissue has healed around it but, with a stronger yank, Tyler dislodges it. As he does so, small openings appear where the deeper sections of the cut have yet to heal properly. The scabs crumble and flake from the skin. The larger pieces peel off, clinging stubbornly to hairs as they come. Orange brown puss and claret blood begin to ooze out of multiple small punctures.
As Scott continues to manually remove the stitches from his forearm, the cut pops open in parts. Stinging air floods into the wound. Tyler half grimaces and half chuckles as he reaches for the bottle of vodka again.
With blood spurting from the cut, Scott keeps his arm planted firmly to the kitchen worktop. Another mouthful of vodka and he is ready. He tips the bottle and splashes alcohol into the wound.
Tyler lets out a gasping pained laugh as the vodka soaks into the damaged tissue. Enjoying the pain he splashes again.
Like an exotic bird, held in lonesome captivity as a household pet, pulling out its feathers in self harming stress, Tyler hurts himself. His captivity is of his own making. His anguish is result of his own actions.
But is he doing it out of self sorrow or self indulgence?
Scott leans back in his chair, shuts his eyes and feels the burn of the alcohol seeping into the cut. He kicks off his shoes. He somehow relaxes throughout coursing agony.
Tyler settles into the pain. It becomes a comfort and subsequently loses its edge. He prods the the cut some more to try and stimulate himself but the initial adrenaline had dispersed. The same actions no longer brought the same levels of satisfaction. He has to keep going. He has to keep pushing the limits higher and higher.
As the pain wears off, Tyler looks around anxiously. In a typical kitchen, you would expect to have an abundance of utensils, instruments and potential weapons at your disposal. But Tyler did not have a block of knifes. Nor did he have forks. He ate everything with a solitary spoon or with his hands.
With the worktops base, Tyler gets to his feet and begins to frantically open drawers and cupboards. He desperately searches for something else to continue his harm. But he cannot find anything.
Tyler slams his fists down on the worktop angrily and then his head bounces of the wood. Again, he smashes his head against the wood in frustration but this time much harder. Tyler feels it and the impact leaves his dazed for a moment. He keeps his head on the worktop looking out to his left, under his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the vodka bottle.
A momentary flash of sadistic brilliance strikes. Tyler grabs the bottle, downs the rest of the alcohol and goes across to the kitchen sink. Raising the bottle up by the neck, he brings it down across the corner of the sink, smashing the glass into dozens of pieces. Half the bottle remains in his hand, shattered at the end. He drops it into the sink in favor of a smaller, sharper shard.
Tyler looks down at the scarred tissue on his right hand, created by Phinehas Grimm.
He looks across to his left arm. Smooth untainted skin. In the eyes of Tyler, it is a uneven balance in need of addressing.
Taking the shard of glass, he runs it up and down his arm, feeling it cut the hairs on his arms like a razor.
Even though Tyler is staggeringly intoxicated, he is still methodical and mathematical as he calmly mirrors the exact location of the wound onto his left arm.
When he is happy with the position, he makes the first incision. The glass slices through his flesh like butter. Blood seeps out immediately and covers his arm but it doesn't phase Tyler as he concentrates on replicating the wound to the exact millimeter.
Blood drips into sink at an increasing rate. Tyler keeps cutting until he happy that the cut is equal in length to that of his existing wound. He pulls the shard cleanly from his skin and lets out a satisfied groan.
Tyler stares into the broken curved shards of Vodka bottle, splattered with droplets of alcohol and blood. The lighting in the kitchen is set just right that, with a slight adjustment of his head, Scott can see his warped fish-eye reflection.
Hunched over the kitchen sink, with blood pouring from his left arm, Tyler begins to talk to Phinehas Grimm through his own likeness.
Anything you can do to me Phinehas, I can do to myself. You are not the greatest threat to me. You don't even come close. I am my own worst enemy. And that is what makes me even more dangerous than you.
You have made a career out of hurting and destroying people. But I will not be another name on your long list of victims. If anyone is going to to destroy Tyler Scott, it's me.
Phinehas you are not a major threat to me.
You are merely my itch.
You are only my scab.
I will keep picking and prodding at you. Even though you may beat me in the ring, I will keep coming back again and again. Because even though a fight with you is painful, I don't want the wound to go away. It is far too enjoyable being hurt by you. It's far too enjoyable to inflict pain on you too.
Whatever the result at Trauma 149, both of us will damaged
It is just a question of who will be damaged the most.
When Tyler peered into the eyes of Phinehas Grimm, he saw methodical but twisted rage. As he, Grimm and Michael Wryght battled it out in a cavernous crater, carved out in the middle of the ring by a deranged Grimm and his violent weapon choice, Tyler merely watched as Phinehas came menacingly forward. Sick enjoyment glistened in his eye as he wielded a rusty box cutter. His intentions, although shockingly heinous to the point of inconceivable for most people, were clearly apparent to Grimm's forthcoming victims.
Tyler, in a tug of war with Mr. Showtime over the International title, just looked on as Grimm progressively snapped the box cutter open and shut. Purely overcome by the thirst for gold, Scott held on. Even as Grimm opened the blades and enveloped his wrist with blunt metal, he was unable to let go, unable to accept defeat. His own safety came second to success - even where no success was to be found.
Tyler looks down at his wrist and runs his fingers across the stained and sticky dressing. This dressing was now 4 days old. Tyler had hardly showered in that time. The muck and grime had built up and turned the clean white dressing to a dirty grey. Finally the adhesive had begun to come loose and the corners curled up and over. It exposed a patch of paler skin to clearly contrast against the rest of his greasy unwashed arm. Scott pinches one of the corners and peels the dressing back to reveal a scabby mess - deprived of air and left to form an ugly wound. Tyler strips it back, waxing a few hairs in the process, and carelessly flings the redundant dressing to the floor.
He takes another nerve-steadying gulp of vodka before running his fingers across the stubby ends of stitches poking out if his scarred skin.
The common impulse that goes against human nature and self preservation - the urge to prod, jab and scratch at healing injuries - overcomes Tyler.
He presses his left index finger into the cut. The pain is harsh but satisfying. It temporary releases the itching and the hiving. But it comes back. The more he does it, the more it itches, the more it throbs, the more he enjoys it. He prods the cut again and again and again.
His fingernails, bitten down to sore stubs through a combination of anxiety and bad habit, pick awkwardly at the stitching. Struggling to grasp, he finally takes one between finger and thumb. With a pinch and a firm tug, Tyler begins ripping the thread from his scabbing wounds. The stitching catches where the tissue has healed around it but, with a stronger yank, Tyler dislodges it. As he does so, small openings appear where the deeper sections of the cut have yet to heal properly. The scabs crumble and flake from the skin. The larger pieces peel off, clinging stubbornly to hairs as they come. Orange brown puss and claret blood begin to ooze out of multiple small punctures.
As Scott continues to manually remove the stitches from his forearm, the cut pops open in parts. Stinging air floods into the wound. Tyler half grimaces and half chuckles as he reaches for the bottle of vodka again.
With blood spurting from the cut, Scott keeps his arm planted firmly to the kitchen worktop. Another mouthful of vodka and he is ready. He tips the bottle and splashes alcohol into the wound.
Tyler lets out a gasping pained laugh as the vodka soaks into the damaged tissue. Enjoying the pain he splashes again.
Like an exotic bird, held in lonesome captivity as a household pet, pulling out its feathers in self harming stress, Tyler hurts himself. His captivity is of his own making. His anguish is result of his own actions.
But is he doing it out of self sorrow or self indulgence?
Scott leans back in his chair, shuts his eyes and feels the burn of the alcohol seeping into the cut. He kicks off his shoes. He somehow relaxes throughout coursing agony.
Tyler settles into the pain. It becomes a comfort and subsequently loses its edge. He prods the the cut some more to try and stimulate himself but the initial adrenaline had dispersed. The same actions no longer brought the same levels of satisfaction. He has to keep going. He has to keep pushing the limits higher and higher.
As the pain wears off, Tyler looks around anxiously. In a typical kitchen, you would expect to have an abundance of utensils, instruments and potential weapons at your disposal. But Tyler did not have a block of knifes. Nor did he have forks. He ate everything with a solitary spoon or with his hands.
With the worktops base, Tyler gets to his feet and begins to frantically open drawers and cupboards. He desperately searches for something else to continue his harm. But he cannot find anything.
Tyler slams his fists down on the worktop angrily and then his head bounces of the wood. Again, he smashes his head against the wood in frustration but this time much harder. Tyler feels it and the impact leaves his dazed for a moment. He keeps his head on the worktop looking out to his left, under his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the vodka bottle.
A momentary flash of sadistic brilliance strikes. Tyler grabs the bottle, downs the rest of the alcohol and goes across to the kitchen sink. Raising the bottle up by the neck, he brings it down across the corner of the sink, smashing the glass into dozens of pieces. Half the bottle remains in his hand, shattered at the end. He drops it into the sink in favor of a smaller, sharper shard.
Tyler looks down at the scarred tissue on his right hand, created by Phinehas Grimm.
He looks across to his left arm. Smooth untainted skin. In the eyes of Tyler, it is a uneven balance in need of addressing.
Taking the shard of glass, he runs it up and down his arm, feeling it cut the hairs on his arms like a razor.
Even though Tyler is staggeringly intoxicated, he is still methodical and mathematical as he calmly mirrors the exact location of the wound onto his left arm.
When he is happy with the position, he makes the first incision. The glass slices through his flesh like butter. Blood seeps out immediately and covers his arm but it doesn't phase Tyler as he concentrates on replicating the wound to the exact millimeter.
Blood drips into sink at an increasing rate. Tyler keeps cutting until he happy that the cut is equal in length to that of his existing wound. He pulls the shard cleanly from his skin and lets out a satisfied groan.
Tyler stares into the broken curved shards of Vodka bottle, splattered with droplets of alcohol and blood. The lighting in the kitchen is set just right that, with a slight adjustment of his head, Scott can see his warped fish-eye reflection.
Hunched over the kitchen sink, with blood pouring from his left arm, Tyler begins to talk to Phinehas Grimm through his own likeness.
Anything you can do to me Phinehas, I can do to myself. You are not the greatest threat to me. You don't even come close. I am my own worst enemy. And that is what makes me even more dangerous than you.
You have made a career out of hurting and destroying people. But I will not be another name on your long list of victims. If anyone is going to to destroy Tyler Scott, it's me.
Phinehas you are not a major threat to me.
You are merely my itch.
You are only my scab.
I will keep picking and prodding at you. Even though you may beat me in the ring, I will keep coming back again and again. Because even though a fight with you is painful, I don't want the wound to go away. It is far too enjoyable being hurt by you. It's far too enjoyable to inflict pain on you too.
Whatever the result at Trauma 149, both of us will damaged
It is just a question of who will be damaged the most.