Saved from myself

Saved from myself Feb 17, 2021 13:04:51 GMT -6 Deana Barrows, Sins of the Fathers, and 1 more like this

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Post by outcast on Feb 17, 2021 13:04:51 GMT -6

“Hello, Mr. Cain?”

Yeah, who’s this?

“This is Detective Bohannan with the New Orleans police department. I’m calling because I regretfully have to inform you that Nicole Myers has been murdered.”

I’m in stunned silence. My ex-wife, the only woman I ever truly loved, a woman who’d never harm a fly…murdered. I could hear him on the line talking, but couldn’t process anything he was saying. The same goes for Deanna yapping at me in the background. I couldn’t think straight, I had to get some fresh air, I had to get to New Orleans.

Whatever the f**k Deana wanted could wait. I just left, and I headed straight for the airport.

Somebody save me, me from myself
I've spent so long living in Hell
They say my lifestyle is bad for my health
It's the only thing that seems to help

To say life was hard for me as a teenager would be quite the f**king understatement. Abusive, druggy parents who would spend all the money we had for their fix left me digging through the dumpster more than once for food. I didn’t sling dope or steal because I thought it was cool, I did it to survive. I wasn’t just bullied at school, I was mocked, spit on, and beaten. That is until I started fighting back.

1991, there was no such thing as an anti-bullying campaign, and no one gave a f**k about it. It was a bit encouraged, hazing as they called it. Said it built character. Well, I sure gave a f**k, and what a character it built for me. I couldn’t escape torture and harassment. Life was the drizzling shits, I hated life and I hated everyone. I had decided to end it and to take as many of these wretched motherf**kers with me as I could. Today was the day, I was going to end it all, for me and for as many of them as possible.

I had a sawed-off shotgun I had stolen from a neighbor down the hall when he was passed out after shooting up with my old man. I had the nine-millimeter I bought from my supplier. Those two with a box of shells and three loaded magazines were in my duffel-bag as I walked into school that rainy March day.

I entered into the lunchroom to have my last meal on Earth, a Super Donut and Cheerios, and as I walked past the table of jocks Brock Issacs the star quarterback made a joke about my Dad. Brock’s dad had fired my dad after only two days on the job for showing up drunk. He thought this was hilarious, and so did his table of friends. I looked at him and said nothing, and he, along with his friends, laughed right in my face.

F**k breakfast, I’d rather make sure he is the first person to feel the sting of lead. I sat the duffel down on an empty table and as my hand grasped the handle of the shotgun, I heard a sweet voice saying, “Brock you are such an asshole, leave him alone.”. This gave me a moment of hesitation and thought that maybe the whole world wasn’t pure shit.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked back and saw her, Nicole King. She was a beauty; I had thought so since I saw her the first day of middle school. A volleyball and softball player, she ran with the jocks, but only because of her older brother being the stereotypical jock/homecoming king. She was different though, she was kind, smart, and didn’t walk around with her head up her ass acting like her shit didn’t stink.

I’m sorry about Brock, he just has to try and act cool in front of everyone.

I didn’t know what to say, but I knew it wasn’t time to open the duffel. I pulled my hand out and zipped it up.

Yeah, he’s an ass.

Christian right?

I was surprised she knew my name. I had to try and play it cool, act like I didn’t know who she was, even though I had thought about her nearly daily for the last four years.

Yeah. You’re Nicole, right?

“Yeah”, she says with a smile. Then the smile turns to a look of intrigue.

Are you the guy that drew that picture hanging in Mr. Wheelers' class?

Mr. Wheeler was our art teacher, it was the only class I enjoyed and was the only class I did good in. I had drawn a picture, just a simple pencil drawing of the Grim Reaper pulling a child from his home. It signified that death is the only way out for some. Mr. Wheeler loved it and had submitted it for the state art contest, but they said it was “too graphic”. Nowadays it would have triggered all sorts of red flags and got CPS called, but in 1991, no one gave a f**k about a weird drawing from a weird kid.

Yeah, that was me.

It’s amazing, you have a gift for art. It gives me vibes of Jim Lee and Ron Lim.

You read comics?

Yeah, I love…I mean my little brother loves X-Men and has the whole Infinity Gauntlet series.

Oh shit, Nicole King is a nerd.

She giggles and lowered her head shaking it, and as she raised her head with a smile, I thought at that moment she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She looked over her shoulder at Brock and then back at me. Before I could say anything, the bell rang. It seemed to kill the little shred of confidence and momentum I had. I sighed and picked up the duffel bag, the thoughts of blowing a hole in Brock's chest had seemed to fade to the recesses of my brain.

Want to walk me to class? I don’t want Brock or any of his buddies to mess with me.

“Sure, but they might mess with you more with me around”, I said as I pulled the duffel up onto my shoulder.

She smiled a bit and said, “something tells me they wouldn’t mess with you one on one”.

We talked as I walked her to class, and with each word, I became more and more infatuated with her. She stopped in the doorway of the classroom and looks at me with a smile while clutching her books.

It was nice talking to you Christian, hopefully, we can talk more. Maybe Saturday night?

We shared a smile as I said, “I’d like that.”. She took my hand in hers, pulled out a pen, and wrote her number on my palm. I walked to my locker and shoved the duffel-bag into it and locked my cache up. I stared down at my palm and her number. On this day, no one would die by hands. Because in my hands was the key to unlocked the best part of my life.

But today, I want to die by my own hands. I sit on the edge of my hotel bed and stare at my palm and wish I could go back to that moment nearly thirty years ago. The day that Nicole saved Brock, and so many other students at George Washington high… the day that she saved me from myself.

What the f**k am I supposed to do now?

I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I sit up straight trying to shove my sadness behind the wall I hide so much of my pain behind, but like me, it is a lost cause. I fall onto the bed, and double over in pain, holding my stomach as I cry myself to sleep.

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I’m at mercy’s end. I’m at the edge of my seat. The rope I held so tightly, now dangles out of reach. I question who I am. I question who I was. I find that my search for peace ends not with love.

I know I'm supposed to be excited right now. I know I'm about to step into the ring with two of the greatest in the sport today, and maybe of all time, and Betsy will be there too. I know the biggest match I've had in nearly twenty years is less than a week away. I know that victory guarantees me a shot at the championship I have pined over for nearly two decades. But forgive me when I say I'm feeling quite indifferent about it. I apologize that I'm not exactly, how do I put this? Not exactly... IN THE RIGHT F**KING FRAME OF MIND!

At my fingertips is the prize I have coveted for almost half my life. A prize that I haven’t had an opportunity at in almost two decades. A prize that I lost the anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee trying to capture. I've had many a sleepless night thinking about that championship. I downed many a bottle of Jägermeister and Jack over that championship. I've given my flesh and blood to try and win that championship. Then, after all this time, after getting clean, and after besting every single obstacle put in my way... there just has to be one more hurdle.

But I wouldn't exactly call it a hurdle, it's more like a f**king mountain.

I have to face a hall of famer, the current North American champion, and the Righteous Rumble, winner. Oh, and I have to do it one week exactly after finding out the love of my life was murdered along with her family. Well, f**k, if it isn't as hard as it can be, don't f**king sign me up.

You wanna try telling me Legacy isn’t going to work together to make sure one of them doesn't get ANOTHER title shot? I believe that about as much as I believe Deana isn't just pissed at Raven because he dropped her for his old gash.

Speaking of Legacy, let me ask Shawn Warstein this, what will be your legacy? Are you going to be known as James Raven's lackey, or are you going to step out of his shadow? Because I'll be honest with you, as good as you are and as much as you have done your rep among the boys is as James Raven's bitch. I know you all are on some Three Musketeers all for one and one for all shit, but you going to tell me you are ok helping everyone else be world champion while you get to play second fiddle? I ain’t f**ken buying it.

The truth is Shawn, you remind me of myself a little. We're both recovering addicts with a history of mental illness. We're both current champions, and we both hate that f**king asshole TLS. TLS... that still eats you doesn't it? The one blemish on your otherwise perfect GCWA record, the one who got away. I bet your longing for revenge keeps you up at night, I bet it eats at you, and claws at your heart and soul. Well, I got my revenge on TLS, not only did I get my revenge, but I retired his f**king ass. I made it so that you can never get that which you long for so badly...revenge.

I got my revenge on TLS, but there is still a need for revenge that claws and eats at me. Revenge on Legacy. Revenge for what you did to me in the Righteous Rumble.

I got my revenge on Jackson Hart. I buried that motherf**ker under a pile of steel chairs and now it's your turn. Shawn. I can think of nothing better than personally taking your shot at the championship and putting that second blemish on your record. I know how much you love your rap music, so let me leave you with a Tu-Pac quote. "Revenge is the sweetest joy next to getting pussy". Well, I'm all out of rubbers, so I guess you'll be my bitch for the night, and I’ll make sure you get f**ked like you never have before.

Speaking of getting f**ked, let’s talk about who benefited from my getting f**ked in the rumble.

Betsy, let's be honest you neither deserve to be or belong in this match. You had your shot at the championship, and you did exactly what you do to all the dudes in Legacy, blew it. I know this is all part of some Legacy plan, either that or it's not just James Raven that is giving the dog a bone. First, they help you win the rumble, and now James Raven gives you his spot as some bullshit Valentine's gift. You forget to buy flowers or something James?

At the end of the day though, it doesn't matter how you got in this match, or if you deserve to be here. Myself and others can cry foul all we want, but the dotted line has been signed. And if I'm being honest, I'm glad you're in there, because I f**ken owe you.

I owe you for the rumble. I owe you for blowing an opportunity that should have been mine. I owe you for trying to take another opportunity from me. You want James's spot, fine by me, you can have his spot as the person who I drop on their head and pin in the middle of the ring. I'd give you the spot of being the person whose chest I stomp in, but that is reserved for Warstein.