Burgeoning obsession

[Karl Storm]

Part I

The bass line pounds through my body and I close my eyes tightly, willing my mind to wash away on the tide of music that laps around me. I just want everything to go away. I just want to be able to open my eyes and have everything be like it was last week. To open my eyes and have everything be like they were six months ago. Slowly I let my eyes crack open, the pang of misery stabs at my heart as I see the same scene as before I closed them. People dance and cavort and enjoy themselves as if everything were right with the world, they parade around having a good time as if everything were normal and not about to crumble down like rotted plaster board.
How can everybody do this to me? How can they be so oblivious? How can they hate me so fucking much?
I turn back to the bar and raise the glass to my lips, draining the vodka in two quick swallows, focusing all of my being on the burning sensation of the spirit easing its way down my throat only to be devoured by the ice that dwells in the pit of my stomach.

If it's any consolation, you did the right thing.

If it's any consolation,

you did the right thing.

The words creep insidiously around my brain like spiders scuttling over a carcass, searching for a way to burrow inside to nest and feast. Is it any consolation? Does it matter? Did I really do the right thing after all? I showed pity, that much is certain. I showed compassion, that much is undeniable. Do the wrong reasons invalidate the right thing? Does a twisted motivation corrupt the purity of a decent action?
Do I even need to ask that question?
I turn my gaze once more to the people around, letting my eyes wander to a clutch of women nearby. One of them meets my stare, gains the attention of first one then all of her friends and I watch them smile and giggle. I see those false, plastered smiles stretching out their mouthes and I feel the ice in my gut knot and twist before growing a little more. I feel my own lips contort into a tight grimace and I turn my attention away quickly.
How can they try and trick me like that? I see through their facade to the cold sneer that the mask tries to hide, and how can I blame them for that? Nobody has time for losers, not really, not even if that loser was just doing the right thing. Do they?
I let out a gentle sigh and motion to try and attract the attention of the bar tender. Eventually the alcohol will catch up with the confusion that wracks me, eventually it will overtake it, eventually I'll be locked in a place of numb bliss where none of this matters. At least that's the plan, it hasn't worked so far but I've still got a good two hours to make it right.
Sitting alone in a capering, disgusting press of humanity trying to drown my sorrows. How did it all come down to this, really? And not for the first time I have to ask myself.

Why do I do this?

[Karl Storm]

Part II

My eyes flick from the television screen to the clock hanging on the wall above. Five in the morning, plan A has failed me and now where do I find myself? Back at home, sat in front of the plasma watching a half dead man kick my consciousness clean away from me like leaves caught upon a gust of autumn breeze. I feel like I should be blaming somebody, anybody.
The referee? He could have stopped everything before it got too far. Robin? He could have decided not to take advantage of my compassion. Kennedy? He could have booked a different match and not put me in that position to begin with.
The referee? He could have not counted that pin fall, he could've hesitated longer or even extended the count to give me a chance to regain my bearings. Robin? He could have stayed his hand, not thrown that kick which ruined everything, could've just walked away and nobody would've thought less of him. Kennedy? He could've shown the compassion that I was forced to exhibit, he could've forced Robin to walk away when everybody saw how devastated he was, he could've made everything right.
All of them?
Or more likely, myself? Does every portion of blame lay squarely at my feet? Am I forced to accept my own responsibility for the first time? Can I accept responsibility? So many things I could have done differently that, most likely, wouldn't see me trapped in this purgatory of my own making right now. So many things that, had I just made a different choice about, would most likely mean not being confronted by the possibility of discovering that I've been lying to myself all along.
It takes every ounce of my will to reach for the remote control and flick the television off. It takes every ounce of self control I posses to not be overcome by an avalanche of panic once the light from the screen extinguishes. I breath deeply a few times, screwing my eyes closed and clenching my hands into fists. Not for the first time since Friday every fibre of my being is screaming at me, a discordant cacophony of internal wailing that begs me to run, just run. Flee somewhere, anywhere, pick up that God forsaken belt pack my bags and run. Anything to stop me from peering too deeply at myself, my motivations and especially my flaws. Eventually the panic passes and I open my eyes as I raise up out of the chair to pick my way slowly towards the bedroom. Inside I sit down the unmade bed and reach unsteadily for the phone, my hands tremble and twitch as I tap out a number so familiar that I don't need even a sliver of light to dial it correctly. It rings and rings and rings for so long that I consider just putting the receiver down and collapsing onto the bed, however just the thought of that causes my grip to tighten uncontrollably on the hand set. It keeps ringing and with each ring my heart sinks a little further until, finally, I hear her voice.

Hello, Vance residence?

Mum? It's me I--I need somebody to talk to.

There isn't even a pause, it's so soon after I finish talking that the quavering echo of my voice still hangs in the air. Then it's replaced by a soft click and the harsh noise of a dial tone screeching in my ear. I close my eyes tightly and drop the phone to clatter on the floor as I fall back onto the bed. My stomach roils and I want to be sick, I want to weep and wail but I don't do anything. I just lay there and consider how everything has come down to this. I'm almost on my own now, there's really only one option left open to me and all I have to do is seize it. All I have to do is admit how wrong I've been and grab it, yet still I just lay upon the bed. It's funny how having all of your options narrowed down doesn't necessarily make it any easier to choose.

Why do I do this?

[Karl Storm]

Part III

I fidget slightly with the collar of my salmon pink shirt for a moment before I give undue attention to the black varnish on my fingernails, blowing a few imagined impurities from them until I can't really ignore the camera any longer. Eventually I turn my attention to it, trying to picture how terrible I must look right now. No amount of eyeliner can disguise the effects of sleep deprivation from the last few days and my hair is a slap dash imitation of its usual pompous finery. I don't want to be here, not today and most likely not ever again, I don't want to be paraded around for the amusement of people who couldn't possibly understand what is going on under the surface right now. However the camera is in place, and a good marionette must dance when it feels its strings being pulled taught, and if I can still do anything with any degree of reliability right now then that is be a good little marionette.
I plaster a fake, easy smile across my lips and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table I sit at and steeple my fingers in front of my face, taping them against my lips lightly for a few seconds before starting to speak.

So here we are, just one day away from my main event debut here in FCW. I suppose I should be excited, I should be tingling with anticipation at the opportunity to mix it on the bigger stage.
The truth is though, the truth is that I don't care. This could be the first match of the night or the main event of the evening. It could be happening at a house show in the middle of the smallest town in the country and I wouldn't care about that. The fact of the matter is that I only care about the second chance it provides me with. I don't even care about the six man and all of the different variables that a match like this always presents, because to me there are really only two people in this match. The other four? The other four are just props littering the stage upon which Robin and I will play out our next encounter.
I don't mean to disparage the others, each of them are great wrestlers and deserving of respect in their own way--but they simply don't mean anything to me right now. They all have their own concerns and their own goals right now, and as far as I am aware none of those involve me so they are meaningless.

I lean back in my seat and let my hands drop to the tabletop, placing palms down flat upon the surface. I chew lightly on my lip for a moment and then flash another fake smile.

This Friday night on Anarchy I am only concerned with one thing. My only interest in this match, my only reason for participating and the only thing I really even care about getting into the ring for, is a chance to test myself against Robin again. So I hope he is better this week. I hope he is closer to recovery than we saw last time because I can't. I can't. I can't. I can not do what I did last time. I just can't.

The smile falters and, try as I might, I can't find it again so I just lick my lips slowly and try to press on. My throat is suddenly quite dry and I feel my hands starting to ball up into fists but I have to try to press on. I have to say my piece.

I hope you can be better this week Robin, I really do for both our sakes. You see despite all of the potential distractions and irritations that there are alongside us both in this match, I have only one focus. I have only one goal.

I feel a smile creep unbidden to twist my lips, less fake than before but still not entirely genuine or possessed of any real mirth. I raise one hand up to my face and tug gently at the corner of my right eye with my index finger as I lean in towards the camera.

This Friday I only have eyes for you, and I will be collecting what you owe me come hell or high water.

As soon as the words are past my lips I slump back in the chair and wave dismissively to signal the end of the promo. As I vaguely listen to the sounds of the camera being packed away and the small production crew scurrying to leave me in peace I drift back into my solitary considerations. There is only one question I have and the answer for it eludes me at every turn. Why can I not just let go? It should be the easiest thing in the world to just accept what happened and move on with my life. To treat this match as a chance to get back to winning ways, maybe even as a way to force myself into the main event and title chase pictures as a permanent fixture. However none of it matters, none it even really registers as an option in the face of getting that second opportunity. The gnawing chill in the pit of my stomach grows with each passing moment, looming large inside me as I get closer and closer to Friday night and nothing I do can quell it. Nothing I do can steer my mind away from its pointless focus. This isn't me, I keep telling myself that but it never seems to make a difference. This may not be me, however right now it certainly seems to control me and is there any real difference?
I reach up and cup my face in my hands, rubbing gently before standing up and brushing my shirt down. This Friday I know that, no matter what, only one thing is going to matter to me. For better or for worse, right or wrong, Friday should at least illuminate wether or not I'm the worst kind of liar.


End scene.

[Randy Orton]

Very nice. I enjoyed reading this.

[Blade LaVigne]

Same here, great job

[Jason Evans]

Wow, amazing...great RP Karl.