Post by mandi on Aug 22, 2017 19:51:57 GMT
The boot comes down hard against her ribs, leaving her breathless. Not the light, athletic boots typically worn as ring gear, but heavier, motorcycle boots and mentally she curses. Ribs are badly bruised, but not broken, or at least she hopes they're not broken. She's dimly aware of the sounds of the crowd, not a packed arena, but no less bloodthirsty. These are the bored wealthy, chasing excitement, reveling in the bloodsport. There were familiar faces when she took her place, shadows, echoes of a life she thought she walked away from. This was her world once. A place she turned to for refuge. Because here...here it didn't matter if she gave herself over to the consuming rage. Here, that was encouraged. It had won her a dedicated fanbase for awhile. And then...then she'd lost control. The Russian had happened. And she'd walked away. Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe this world, is just as much a part of who she is as the other. She doesn't like to admit it, but Masaru is right. Everytime he says that she's missing something, that she's diminished. He's right. But she knows what's missing. The monster. The rage. Oh she makes all the appropriate noises, and she goes through the motions, but she's falling short. And she can no longer afford to do so. She needs to reconnect, to find the lost pieces and bring them back together. This is the only way she knows how to do that.
'The Injury' changed...everything. It wasn't just bone Black Rose cracked back then, it was something more. She'd come face to face with mortality and discovered she didn't care for the taste. The road to recovery had been long, and was still, apparently, ongoing. She needs the monster. The part of her that took joy in the acts of violence, that encouraged them, goaded her. The part that doesn't just walk through the fire, but dances in it. And not just because of her upcoming match but because...for a moment. A second. At UtCL, she had felt powerless. Weak. Helpless. Forced into that chair, she'd seen the ghost of the girl who was. And that girl is dead. She has to be. She has to stay that way. It was only a moment, a heartbeat, two maybe. But it had been enough for panic to slide its icy fingers up her spine. Enough to bring the nightmares crashing back. Never again. Never. Again. She needs the monster. She's here. Somewhere. Waiting. Like Peter Pan and his shadow she needs something to make it stick.
Words. He's mocking her. Of course he is. They always do, these big men who think their size is everything. They taunt, they goad, they mock. And they...underestimate. The words aren't important, she can't really hear them anyway. Her ears are ringing from an earlier blow to her head, it's drowned out by the increased noise from the spectators. There's blood in the water, and they're ready for the kill. Everything hurts, she's going to be one gigantic bruise, assuming that she walks away. He's bent down, to grab a fistful of her hair to haul her upright again, and when he does, his face is close enough for her to hear him. Those words. Those damnable words. 'Little girl'. They've dogged her every step. As though nothing she ever accomplishes will be acknowledged as that, everything will always be chalked up to luck. Little Girl. They had always called her that. Never by name. No, giving her a name would have made her a person instead of an object for them to abuse. The floodgates open. She twists and he makes a confused noise. He thought she was done for, that it was just a matter of formality at this point. When she looks at him, it isn't the face of her opponent she sees, but her father, dead twelve years, her brother Richard, dead ten years, her brother Michael. The end comes, and it comes swiftly. A small fighter knows that it isn't how hard you hit, but where, and she knows all the right places. An elbow brought down into the extended arm of the hand that grips her hair makes him lose his hold. She loses time, not an uncommon thing for her really, even before the head trauma, but it's been worse since. When she comes back to herself two of the Italians have pulled her off her downed opponent, someone else is checking on him. His face...well, that's never going to be the same. Her knuckles don't just ache, they throb, her fingers refuse to uncurl completely from fists. Her nose might be broken, she's not a hundred percent sure about it, but the lower half of her face is a mask of drying blood, so it's possible. And she's...laughing. A second later her husband is there, worried and...irritated? Yes. Irritated. He won't express that irritation in public, but she's likely to catch hell as soon as they're away from prying eyes.
“Was this necessary?”
“Mmhmm. I needed to reconnect. Find the lost pieces of myself. Find my monster again.”
“Did you?”
She chuckles, reaching up to hook her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and then another, tasting her blood on his lips before releasing him and leaning against him for support.
“We're gonna find out. And we're going to hope so. Because if I haven't, Redemption might be the end. It takes a monster, to beat a monster. And that, is a monster who will be looking to send a message. The Phoenix. To Garcia. Makes him twice as dangerous. And I can't study this one Ser. I can't research and pick him apart. So we're going to have to hope, and pray to whoever might be out there listening, that my monster is big enough, and bad enough to bring me out of this still standing on my own feet.”
Age has made her cynical, or perhaps it's only life experiences. It's easy to forget sometimes that she's just twenty-one, she threw herself into the world so early as a means of escaping the past. He wraps an arm across her shoulders, no words necessary. She knows that he will always be there to help pick up the pieces, no matter how many pieces there may be. And that's all that really matters.
--------- ------------ --------- ----------
“One questions, how best to approach a foe such as the one I prepare to face now. He will not be moved to anger. There will be no goading him to rage, making him a blind bull, easy to predict, and so to manipulate. There will be no appealing to a greater sense of honor. I know this. I see this. I understand, perhaps, more than might be expected. And that...I think, makes this more difficult than it should be.”
The desert again, beneath a glaring sun, but it is here she feels most comfortable, here she feels at home. This is safety and refuge. The bruises of her recent battle are fading, still visible of course, but more yellow and brown than black and blue. Old bruises. The rock formation she sits on is familiar, the same she almost always retreats to in order to film her addresses.
“There was a time, when I would have come out here, all fire and brimstone and seething rage. That was who I was, what I was. A creature of blind emotion. All fury. Everything enraged me. The reality of course, is that the rage was only a cover. It was a shield against the feelings of being helpless, powerless. A sword against having spent so much of my life being made a victim. Never again I vowed. Never...”
She trails off, staring at the distant horizon before shaking off whatever unpleasant memory had settled across her mind.
“Red, or Garcia, whichever one of you who decides to do the talking this time, do me a favor, or rather, do us ALL a favor. Let's refrain from pointing out my numerous shortcomings. I am very well aware of them. The world is very well aware of them. And quite frankly, it gets really bloody old having to sit through them being rattled off over and over and over again. You're better than that, or at least I would like to think that men of your caliber are better than just going after the low hanging fruit on the tree...though I suppose...I could be wrong...
I'm...in over my head. We all know it. My career hasn't been what it should be, not what I would want it to be. I've wavered and faltered, stumbled, and fallen a time or two. And every time I do, I tell myself, 'this is the last time'. But it never is. If I were just a little smarter, I'd recognize the signs, and find myself something else to do. It isn't like I haven't tried. I walk away, I tell myself “it's time.” And then the siren song gets inside my head and claws away until my feet lead me right back into the ring. It's stupid really. Three quarters of the people I face are roughly twice my size. Most of them are older. Stronger. Still...I endure. I get beaten down and rise again. It's never mattered to me. Even before I started competing professionally. I was that kid, who would walk up to someone three times her size and kick them in the shin. I was that kid who used everything she had to make a point. I remember biting someone once, because I didn't like the way he was treating my brother. I remember facing down giants. Monsters have never frightened me.
Because I am one.
Oh, not in the traditional sense. No one in their right mind is going to look at my little five foot two, blonde headed body and be intimidated. But not every monster is a hulking brute, and sometimes, the scariest ones, are the ones who look like everyone else. Because they...they're the ones that surprise you. I've denied it. I've run from it. My own capacity for violence frightens me sometimes. It's led me to distance myself from people, to be selective in who my friends are. It's the reason I surround myself only with people I'm confident can put my ass on the ground if it comes down to it. Because once the rage hits, I lose myself. Rationality goes flying out the window. And I fear what it is I'm capable of when I reach that point. Because the monster...she doesn't care who she hurts. She doesn't care how badly she hurts them. She revels in the feel of blood under her nails, in the throbbing ache of her knuckles and the popping snap of joints snapping under her blows...”
Another pause, accompanied by a wry chuckle.
“She. Her. Who am I kidding. She is me, I am her, we're one in the same. But you understand that, don't you Red? We are what we've been made.”
----- ------ ---- -------
Word Count: 1860
'The Injury' changed...everything. It wasn't just bone Black Rose cracked back then, it was something more. She'd come face to face with mortality and discovered she didn't care for the taste. The road to recovery had been long, and was still, apparently, ongoing. She needs the monster. The part of her that took joy in the acts of violence, that encouraged them, goaded her. The part that doesn't just walk through the fire, but dances in it. And not just because of her upcoming match but because...for a moment. A second. At UtCL, she had felt powerless. Weak. Helpless. Forced into that chair, she'd seen the ghost of the girl who was. And that girl is dead. She has to be. She has to stay that way. It was only a moment, a heartbeat, two maybe. But it had been enough for panic to slide its icy fingers up her spine. Enough to bring the nightmares crashing back. Never again. Never. Again. She needs the monster. She's here. Somewhere. Waiting. Like Peter Pan and his shadow she needs something to make it stick.
Words. He's mocking her. Of course he is. They always do, these big men who think their size is everything. They taunt, they goad, they mock. And they...underestimate. The words aren't important, she can't really hear them anyway. Her ears are ringing from an earlier blow to her head, it's drowned out by the increased noise from the spectators. There's blood in the water, and they're ready for the kill. Everything hurts, she's going to be one gigantic bruise, assuming that she walks away. He's bent down, to grab a fistful of her hair to haul her upright again, and when he does, his face is close enough for her to hear him. Those words. Those damnable words. 'Little girl'. They've dogged her every step. As though nothing she ever accomplishes will be acknowledged as that, everything will always be chalked up to luck. Little Girl. They had always called her that. Never by name. No, giving her a name would have made her a person instead of an object for them to abuse. The floodgates open. She twists and he makes a confused noise. He thought she was done for, that it was just a matter of formality at this point. When she looks at him, it isn't the face of her opponent she sees, but her father, dead twelve years, her brother Richard, dead ten years, her brother Michael. The end comes, and it comes swiftly. A small fighter knows that it isn't how hard you hit, but where, and she knows all the right places. An elbow brought down into the extended arm of the hand that grips her hair makes him lose his hold. She loses time, not an uncommon thing for her really, even before the head trauma, but it's been worse since. When she comes back to herself two of the Italians have pulled her off her downed opponent, someone else is checking on him. His face...well, that's never going to be the same. Her knuckles don't just ache, they throb, her fingers refuse to uncurl completely from fists. Her nose might be broken, she's not a hundred percent sure about it, but the lower half of her face is a mask of drying blood, so it's possible. And she's...laughing. A second later her husband is there, worried and...irritated? Yes. Irritated. He won't express that irritation in public, but she's likely to catch hell as soon as they're away from prying eyes.
“Was this necessary?”
“Mmhmm. I needed to reconnect. Find the lost pieces of myself. Find my monster again.”
“Did you?”
She chuckles, reaching up to hook her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and then another, tasting her blood on his lips before releasing him and leaning against him for support.
“We're gonna find out. And we're going to hope so. Because if I haven't, Redemption might be the end. It takes a monster, to beat a monster. And that, is a monster who will be looking to send a message. The Phoenix. To Garcia. Makes him twice as dangerous. And I can't study this one Ser. I can't research and pick him apart. So we're going to have to hope, and pray to whoever might be out there listening, that my monster is big enough, and bad enough to bring me out of this still standing on my own feet.”
Age has made her cynical, or perhaps it's only life experiences. It's easy to forget sometimes that she's just twenty-one, she threw herself into the world so early as a means of escaping the past. He wraps an arm across her shoulders, no words necessary. She knows that he will always be there to help pick up the pieces, no matter how many pieces there may be. And that's all that really matters.
--------- ------------ --------- ----------
“One questions, how best to approach a foe such as the one I prepare to face now. He will not be moved to anger. There will be no goading him to rage, making him a blind bull, easy to predict, and so to manipulate. There will be no appealing to a greater sense of honor. I know this. I see this. I understand, perhaps, more than might be expected. And that...I think, makes this more difficult than it should be.”
The desert again, beneath a glaring sun, but it is here she feels most comfortable, here she feels at home. This is safety and refuge. The bruises of her recent battle are fading, still visible of course, but more yellow and brown than black and blue. Old bruises. The rock formation she sits on is familiar, the same she almost always retreats to in order to film her addresses.
“There was a time, when I would have come out here, all fire and brimstone and seething rage. That was who I was, what I was. A creature of blind emotion. All fury. Everything enraged me. The reality of course, is that the rage was only a cover. It was a shield against the feelings of being helpless, powerless. A sword against having spent so much of my life being made a victim. Never again I vowed. Never...”
She trails off, staring at the distant horizon before shaking off whatever unpleasant memory had settled across her mind.
“Red, or Garcia, whichever one of you who decides to do the talking this time, do me a favor, or rather, do us ALL a favor. Let's refrain from pointing out my numerous shortcomings. I am very well aware of them. The world is very well aware of them. And quite frankly, it gets really bloody old having to sit through them being rattled off over and over and over again. You're better than that, or at least I would like to think that men of your caliber are better than just going after the low hanging fruit on the tree...though I suppose...I could be wrong...
I'm...in over my head. We all know it. My career hasn't been what it should be, not what I would want it to be. I've wavered and faltered, stumbled, and fallen a time or two. And every time I do, I tell myself, 'this is the last time'. But it never is. If I were just a little smarter, I'd recognize the signs, and find myself something else to do. It isn't like I haven't tried. I walk away, I tell myself “it's time.” And then the siren song gets inside my head and claws away until my feet lead me right back into the ring. It's stupid really. Three quarters of the people I face are roughly twice my size. Most of them are older. Stronger. Still...I endure. I get beaten down and rise again. It's never mattered to me. Even before I started competing professionally. I was that kid, who would walk up to someone three times her size and kick them in the shin. I was that kid who used everything she had to make a point. I remember biting someone once, because I didn't like the way he was treating my brother. I remember facing down giants. Monsters have never frightened me.
Because I am one.
Oh, not in the traditional sense. No one in their right mind is going to look at my little five foot two, blonde headed body and be intimidated. But not every monster is a hulking brute, and sometimes, the scariest ones, are the ones who look like everyone else. Because they...they're the ones that surprise you. I've denied it. I've run from it. My own capacity for violence frightens me sometimes. It's led me to distance myself from people, to be selective in who my friends are. It's the reason I surround myself only with people I'm confident can put my ass on the ground if it comes down to it. Because once the rage hits, I lose myself. Rationality goes flying out the window. And I fear what it is I'm capable of when I reach that point. Because the monster...she doesn't care who she hurts. She doesn't care how badly she hurts them. She revels in the feel of blood under her nails, in the throbbing ache of her knuckles and the popping snap of joints snapping under her blows...”
Another pause, accompanied by a wry chuckle.
“She. Her. Who am I kidding. She is me, I am her, we're one in the same. But you understand that, don't you Red? We are what we've been made.”
----- ------ ---- -------
Word Count: 1860
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