Post by mandi on Feb 25, 2017 2:23:17 GMT
The weather has been unseasonably warm, and that, more than anything has helped to make the insufferable city more bearable. She dislikes cities, all of them. Too crowded, too noisy. Too many people always pushing to invade your personal space. She longs for the quiet solitude of her home in Nevada, that glorious, sprawling single story with it’s floor to ceiling windows and nothing but open desert stretching around her as far as the eye can see. It’s quiet there. She can think there, not like here, with the constant screech of traffic, the cacophony of life in constant motion. The city, it never sleeps. And in that perhaps, she can find common ground with it. Still, there are certain things to appreciate, certain amenities, like the dozens of stores within walking distance from her Detroit home, instead of being forced to drive fifteen, twenty minutes every time she forgets something...which is more frequently than she would like these days. Keys jingle as she lets herself in, shifting the half full paper bag to her other arm.
”Seren, how do you feel about grilled scallops? They had an amaz-”
And then she sees it. An all too familiar manilla file folder, flipped open to spill its ugly contents across the coffee table. To the untrained eye, they mean nothing, colorful splotches that form the shape of the human brain. For her, they paint a very different picture, a visible reminder of what chasing the dream has cost her, what it could continue to cost her. With them, a note that reads simply, “Blondie, we need to talk. ~S”. The bag slips from her hand to thump to the floor, the keys soon join it with a clatter, freed hands lifting to rake back through her hair with a heavy sigh.
”Fuck me.”
”Not typically a request I have an issue with, but I think, presently, we have something more important that should be discussed.”
He speaks from the doorway to the living room, her brooding artist as she calls him. Anyone else would have gotten something thrown at him for sneaking up on her, but with him, she only sighs again, moving to gather the scans into a tidy little pile.
”So how bad is it really?”
”It’s...manageable.”
”Is it now?”
”It has to be Seren, because the alternative isn’t something I want to think about. This, this little spot right here. It’s scar tissue. They think it’s from a combination of the initial trauma from the fracture, and the hemorrhage after. Either way, it isn’t going to go away, or get better. I have some memory gaps, nothing major really, little things, since it’s mostly my short term memory affected. It’s the Aphasia, and the little slips in time that bother me the most. But it’s all manageable.”
Do your trainers know? Does Louis? Your employers?
She’s silent, refusing to meet his unwavering gaze. And the silence perhaps, says more than any words possibly could. It tells him everything he needs to know. He would be within his rights to be angry, and he should be. He should be furious. Or wounded. But that’s part of what makes them work, isn’t it? He’s always been understanding, trusting. She would prefer anger, instead, there is only a long stretch of silence.
Why?
One word, but the implication is clear. Why is he the only one who didn’t get full disclosure? Why didn’t she trust him? It’s a word that cuts her to the core and leaves her slumping down onto the couch, where he joins her a moment later, close, but not quite close enough to be touching.
To most of them, I’m not a person, not really. I’m an asset. I have to tell them everything, or the white coats pull my clearance. They might mouth the words of being concerned about my health, but the reality is...as long as I’m capable of putting asses in seats, they want me in the ring. I had to tell the trainers, because...well, full disclosure? Most of my time slips happen when I’m pushing too hard, which usually happens at the gym. But you....Seren, if anyone in my life is likely to look at these stupid colored blobs, see the problem for what it is, and encourage me to walk away...it would be you. Because to you I’m real. You see everything, my manic episodes, my desperation and my determination. You see the stress and the pressure. You see the me behind the mask. And the thing is...if you asked me to walk away, to close the book on this chapter...I don’t know if I could tell you no.
And there. There it is. The cold, naked truth. The admission that he means more to her, than the thing she’s shaped her life around, more than the only thing she’s ever wanted, the thing she’s fought tooth and nail for, been set on fire for, conquered her fears for, sacrificed her family for. And he means more. The admission is terrifying for her, because she’s come to depend on him, to rely on his rationality, his calm resolution, and things...well, they have a way of going south when she lets herself admit she’s become dependent. He understands that, he must. Because he drapes an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in close, and kisses the top of her head.
I would never ask that. I know how much all of this means to you Blondie. Just...full disclosure from now on right? I can’t help, if I don’t know what’s going on.
Full disclosure. I promise.
He is her constant, her reassurance, the never changing factor in her life. In the face of the detractors, he’s there. When the nightmares wake her screaming in the dark of night. He’s there. When she pushes so hard her legs give out and the world spins, he’s there with the water, there to pick her up, to remind her to eat, to rest. When she struggles. He’s there. That she thought she could keep this from him is beyond reason, and having come clean, a weight has been pulled from her shoulders. He kisses the top of her head again which a chuckle.
Good. Now I’m going to go buy stock in Post-It notes and paper the house. We can’t have you doing something silly like forgetting my name. Or your opponents.
The response he gets is a hard elbow that makes him grunt, before laughing. But, order has been restored, and all is as it should be.
It never ceases to amaze me, how easily, how readily people will dismiss everything that you are, because it doesn’t conveniently fit into their tidy little box of how they view you. How people seldom expect you to be a real person, capable of change and evolution, still prone to flaws, weaknesses, faults, and shaken confidence, and instead, expect you to be some caricature of some common as sin archetype. And the moment, the very second that you break that, that you express anything truly and genuinely real, they pounce on you like vultures on road kill. Because if you show that you’re human, if you show any sign of self doubt, then you must be weak. And weakness cannot be tolerated. But is it genuinely a weakness to be capable of stepping back to evaluate yourself? I imagine it must be easier, simpler, to stomp about and place the blame on your shortcomings and failures on someone else, anyone else, to absolve yourself of guilt. To make a villain of everyone else you come across and blame society. You aren’t getting what you want, so it’s time to tantrum like a spoiled toddler. Or better yet, make a bunch of empty threats about how you can’t be stopped, how you’re invincible, untouchable, and every other cliched line of bullshit Because that, ultimately, is easier than accepting personal culpability.
The Armory, big A, is a place that she seldom allows the camera. Because this place is sacred, it’s quiet refuge against the crush of the city life. It’s where she comes for reflection, and for prayer. It’s where she turns when the pressure gets to be too much. But it’s where she appears now, seemingly completely at home in this room full of ancient weapons, sitting cross legged on the tone tiled floor, dressed in black from head to toe, blonde hair twisted into a simple, no nonsense braid. The halter top leaves her arms bare, lean and well toned, mapped with her ‘badges of honor’, scars acquired throughout the course of her career, tumultuous though it has been.
It’s frustrating, because I used to be that person. So desperate to make a name for myself, so certain that my training was enough, so certain that the years of extra training, and work would make up for the inexperience that every loss was met with a combination of anger and frustration. I couldn’t see them as the learning experience that they were. I looked for every possible excuse, blaming distractions, lack of focus, anything I possibly could...you have to understand that this is everything to me. I’ve shaped my entire life around it. Years of training, gymnastics, karate, ballet, throwing myself into the ring just as soon as I could. This is life. Without it, the world loses its color, food loses its taste, and there is nothing. Nothing but an ugly, gray void. I don’t expect you to understand what it is to pour everything that you are into what you do, to be so emotionally invested in each and every match that you walk away, head high, or hung low having left a piece of your very soul out there under the lights.
No. You wouldn’t know what that is. Because you’re too busy retweeting each and every time someone mentions you on Twitter. Aphrodite’s tits El, it’s a damned good thing I don’t base my judgment of someone off their social media interactions, or else you might come across as a little desperately needy for attention and approval. Or maybe just too desperate to make sure the world knows that you’re liked and popular. But we all know that’s not the case is it? You really aren’t that needy. Funny how that works right? And seriously? Seriously George Michael? That’s the best you can come up with? Because I absolutely, positively haven’t heard that bullshit about a million fucking times. Do you know what happens, when someone starts questioning themselves when it comes to something they really want Elena? They push harder. They take that doubt, and they turn it into the fuel for the fires of passion and dedication. Untested, we are nothing. It is our doubt that makes us stronger. A wise person would know that. Which is what I thought you were. I thought, there for awhile, that you were cut from a different cloth. That you understood what convictions were. That you understood the passion, the devotion that goes into courting this mad, beautiful beast we all strive to dance with.
Instead...instead you reveal the truth. Peel away the veneer and you are no different than the caricatures that plague us. You, and your partner. Screaming and railing about being overlooked. Being treated as inconsequential. Screaming about opportunities you were denied, chances ripped from your fingertips. Railing about how every other company has denied your ability to work together, how together you are a force unstoppable. It is, in fact, the exact same line of bullshit that every single carbon copy wannabe hardass has spewed since the beginning. And the exact same line they will continue to spew for generations to come. In short, Elena. You have rendered yourself as nothing. Another pretender.
And Mr. Whelan.
Here, she pauses, to draw in a deep breath before slowly releasing it, shaking her head as she pushes herself back to her feet.
To be perfectly honest, you’re just as bad. So much anger over perceived slights. The only thing that really accomplishes is making you look like a fool. No one’s underestimating you. No one’s counting you out. You’re projecting your subconscious doubts onto your peers and preemptively raging at them. I should know, it’s exactly the same thing I used to do. And still do. Occasionally, when I forget myself. Which is disturbingly frequent, but unlike some people, I am, actually attempting to better myself instead of continuing to behave like a petulant child. I-
She stops herself short, a faint smile darting across her lips as she shakes her head again.
No. No I will not be that person. I will not give into the cliche and spend this time tearing down my opponents. It’s unnecessary, and only puts me down on their level and I will not be that person. I don’t need to be.
Because I know myself. I know what I’m capable of. I know that, despite having been a lone wolf for so long, I am one of the most adaptive, quick thinking competitors in the industry today. I know what I’m capable of. It should be Leo walking into this match with me, he’s the one that got me here. But I was a shit partner and I ignored his concerns about his shoulder, and now he’s on the shelf. Chris, you’ve got some tough shoes to fill, it’s not often I work with someone I mesh so well with so quickly.
This match is about more than just the championships. It’s about more than the shiny gold star. It’s about more than validation and personal vindication. I have long maintained that a Championship is more than just an accolade, but a responsibility. A Champion, leads. A Champion sees something outside of themselves, and understands that they have an obligation to elevate not just the championship they hold, but the company they hold it in. I recognize this. I accept it as truth, but I do not believe that is something that could be said of any of my competitors.
Calm, rational, a year ago she would have come out of the gate screaming at the top of her lungs, full of seething rage and anger. But now she sees the words for what they are. Words. Empty wind against the mountain and little more.
”Seren, how do you feel about grilled scallops? They had an amaz-”
And then she sees it. An all too familiar manilla file folder, flipped open to spill its ugly contents across the coffee table. To the untrained eye, they mean nothing, colorful splotches that form the shape of the human brain. For her, they paint a very different picture, a visible reminder of what chasing the dream has cost her, what it could continue to cost her. With them, a note that reads simply, “Blondie, we need to talk. ~S”. The bag slips from her hand to thump to the floor, the keys soon join it with a clatter, freed hands lifting to rake back through her hair with a heavy sigh.
”Fuck me.”
”Not typically a request I have an issue with, but I think, presently, we have something more important that should be discussed.”
He speaks from the doorway to the living room, her brooding artist as she calls him. Anyone else would have gotten something thrown at him for sneaking up on her, but with him, she only sighs again, moving to gather the scans into a tidy little pile.
”So how bad is it really?”
”It’s...manageable.”
”Is it now?”
”It has to be Seren, because the alternative isn’t something I want to think about. This, this little spot right here. It’s scar tissue. They think it’s from a combination of the initial trauma from the fracture, and the hemorrhage after. Either way, it isn’t going to go away, or get better. I have some memory gaps, nothing major really, little things, since it’s mostly my short term memory affected. It’s the Aphasia, and the little slips in time that bother me the most. But it’s all manageable.”
Do your trainers know? Does Louis? Your employers?
She’s silent, refusing to meet his unwavering gaze. And the silence perhaps, says more than any words possibly could. It tells him everything he needs to know. He would be within his rights to be angry, and he should be. He should be furious. Or wounded. But that’s part of what makes them work, isn’t it? He’s always been understanding, trusting. She would prefer anger, instead, there is only a long stretch of silence.
Why?
One word, but the implication is clear. Why is he the only one who didn’t get full disclosure? Why didn’t she trust him? It’s a word that cuts her to the core and leaves her slumping down onto the couch, where he joins her a moment later, close, but not quite close enough to be touching.
To most of them, I’m not a person, not really. I’m an asset. I have to tell them everything, or the white coats pull my clearance. They might mouth the words of being concerned about my health, but the reality is...as long as I’m capable of putting asses in seats, they want me in the ring. I had to tell the trainers, because...well, full disclosure? Most of my time slips happen when I’m pushing too hard, which usually happens at the gym. But you....Seren, if anyone in my life is likely to look at these stupid colored blobs, see the problem for what it is, and encourage me to walk away...it would be you. Because to you I’m real. You see everything, my manic episodes, my desperation and my determination. You see the stress and the pressure. You see the me behind the mask. And the thing is...if you asked me to walk away, to close the book on this chapter...I don’t know if I could tell you no.
And there. There it is. The cold, naked truth. The admission that he means more to her, than the thing she’s shaped her life around, more than the only thing she’s ever wanted, the thing she’s fought tooth and nail for, been set on fire for, conquered her fears for, sacrificed her family for. And he means more. The admission is terrifying for her, because she’s come to depend on him, to rely on his rationality, his calm resolution, and things...well, they have a way of going south when she lets herself admit she’s become dependent. He understands that, he must. Because he drapes an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in close, and kisses the top of her head.
I would never ask that. I know how much all of this means to you Blondie. Just...full disclosure from now on right? I can’t help, if I don’t know what’s going on.
Full disclosure. I promise.
He is her constant, her reassurance, the never changing factor in her life. In the face of the detractors, he’s there. When the nightmares wake her screaming in the dark of night. He’s there. When she pushes so hard her legs give out and the world spins, he’s there with the water, there to pick her up, to remind her to eat, to rest. When she struggles. He’s there. That she thought she could keep this from him is beyond reason, and having come clean, a weight has been pulled from her shoulders. He kisses the top of her head again which a chuckle.
Good. Now I’m going to go buy stock in Post-It notes and paper the house. We can’t have you doing something silly like forgetting my name. Or your opponents.
The response he gets is a hard elbow that makes him grunt, before laughing. But, order has been restored, and all is as it should be.
--- --- --- --- ---
It never ceases to amaze me, how easily, how readily people will dismiss everything that you are, because it doesn’t conveniently fit into their tidy little box of how they view you. How people seldom expect you to be a real person, capable of change and evolution, still prone to flaws, weaknesses, faults, and shaken confidence, and instead, expect you to be some caricature of some common as sin archetype. And the moment, the very second that you break that, that you express anything truly and genuinely real, they pounce on you like vultures on road kill. Because if you show that you’re human, if you show any sign of self doubt, then you must be weak. And weakness cannot be tolerated. But is it genuinely a weakness to be capable of stepping back to evaluate yourself? I imagine it must be easier, simpler, to stomp about and place the blame on your shortcomings and failures on someone else, anyone else, to absolve yourself of guilt. To make a villain of everyone else you come across and blame society. You aren’t getting what you want, so it’s time to tantrum like a spoiled toddler. Or better yet, make a bunch of empty threats about how you can’t be stopped, how you’re invincible, untouchable, and every other cliched line of bullshit Because that, ultimately, is easier than accepting personal culpability.
The Armory, big A, is a place that she seldom allows the camera. Because this place is sacred, it’s quiet refuge against the crush of the city life. It’s where she comes for reflection, and for prayer. It’s where she turns when the pressure gets to be too much. But it’s where she appears now, seemingly completely at home in this room full of ancient weapons, sitting cross legged on the tone tiled floor, dressed in black from head to toe, blonde hair twisted into a simple, no nonsense braid. The halter top leaves her arms bare, lean and well toned, mapped with her ‘badges of honor’, scars acquired throughout the course of her career, tumultuous though it has been.
It’s frustrating, because I used to be that person. So desperate to make a name for myself, so certain that my training was enough, so certain that the years of extra training, and work would make up for the inexperience that every loss was met with a combination of anger and frustration. I couldn’t see them as the learning experience that they were. I looked for every possible excuse, blaming distractions, lack of focus, anything I possibly could...you have to understand that this is everything to me. I’ve shaped my entire life around it. Years of training, gymnastics, karate, ballet, throwing myself into the ring just as soon as I could. This is life. Without it, the world loses its color, food loses its taste, and there is nothing. Nothing but an ugly, gray void. I don’t expect you to understand what it is to pour everything that you are into what you do, to be so emotionally invested in each and every match that you walk away, head high, or hung low having left a piece of your very soul out there under the lights.
No. You wouldn’t know what that is. Because you’re too busy retweeting each and every time someone mentions you on Twitter. Aphrodite’s tits El, it’s a damned good thing I don’t base my judgment of someone off their social media interactions, or else you might come across as a little desperately needy for attention and approval. Or maybe just too desperate to make sure the world knows that you’re liked and popular. But we all know that’s not the case is it? You really aren’t that needy. Funny how that works right? And seriously? Seriously George Michael? That’s the best you can come up with? Because I absolutely, positively haven’t heard that bullshit about a million fucking times. Do you know what happens, when someone starts questioning themselves when it comes to something they really want Elena? They push harder. They take that doubt, and they turn it into the fuel for the fires of passion and dedication. Untested, we are nothing. It is our doubt that makes us stronger. A wise person would know that. Which is what I thought you were. I thought, there for awhile, that you were cut from a different cloth. That you understood what convictions were. That you understood the passion, the devotion that goes into courting this mad, beautiful beast we all strive to dance with.
Instead...instead you reveal the truth. Peel away the veneer and you are no different than the caricatures that plague us. You, and your partner. Screaming and railing about being overlooked. Being treated as inconsequential. Screaming about opportunities you were denied, chances ripped from your fingertips. Railing about how every other company has denied your ability to work together, how together you are a force unstoppable. It is, in fact, the exact same line of bullshit that every single carbon copy wannabe hardass has spewed since the beginning. And the exact same line they will continue to spew for generations to come. In short, Elena. You have rendered yourself as nothing. Another pretender.
And Mr. Whelan.
Here, she pauses, to draw in a deep breath before slowly releasing it, shaking her head as she pushes herself back to her feet.
To be perfectly honest, you’re just as bad. So much anger over perceived slights. The only thing that really accomplishes is making you look like a fool. No one’s underestimating you. No one’s counting you out. You’re projecting your subconscious doubts onto your peers and preemptively raging at them. I should know, it’s exactly the same thing I used to do. And still do. Occasionally, when I forget myself. Which is disturbingly frequent, but unlike some people, I am, actually attempting to better myself instead of continuing to behave like a petulant child. I-
She stops herself short, a faint smile darting across her lips as she shakes her head again.
No. No I will not be that person. I will not give into the cliche and spend this time tearing down my opponents. It’s unnecessary, and only puts me down on their level and I will not be that person. I don’t need to be.
Because I know myself. I know what I’m capable of. I know that, despite having been a lone wolf for so long, I am one of the most adaptive, quick thinking competitors in the industry today. I know what I’m capable of. It should be Leo walking into this match with me, he’s the one that got me here. But I was a shit partner and I ignored his concerns about his shoulder, and now he’s on the shelf. Chris, you’ve got some tough shoes to fill, it’s not often I work with someone I mesh so well with so quickly.
This match is about more than just the championships. It’s about more than the shiny gold star. It’s about more than validation and personal vindication. I have long maintained that a Championship is more than just an accolade, but a responsibility. A Champion, leads. A Champion sees something outside of themselves, and understands that they have an obligation to elevate not just the championship they hold, but the company they hold it in. I recognize this. I accept it as truth, but I do not believe that is something that could be said of any of my competitors.
Calm, rational, a year ago she would have come out of the gate screaming at the top of her lungs, full of seething rage and anger. But now she sees the words for what they are. Words. Empty wind against the mountain and little more.
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