Post by The Country Doctor on Aug 10, 2021 13:53:52 GMT
Mayhem, August 9th, 2021, sometime after the International Title #1 Contender’s Match
The backstage area of the IIW arena is abuzz as countless people scurry from one spot to another, making sure every little detail of the Mayhem broadcast goes as smoothly as possible. It is a well-rehearsed orchestra, everyone so familiar with their own part in it that they are able to move almost without thinking - except for the new obstacle in their way. Sitting in the middle of the area on a wheeled crate, like a stone interrupting the flow of an otherwise tranquil stream, is an almost completely motionless Jack Hill.
Several times, members of the production team have started to walk over to him to ask him to move, only to feel the heavy aura coming off of him and decide to let someone else bite that particular bullet. So, he sits, hunched over, head supported by two balled up fists pressed into his forehead as this ballet continues all around him.
Jack’s soul is a muddled mess of transient emotions. Anger, of course, and disappointment, but he finds that as much as he tries to latch onto one of these for something concrete onto which he can build and plot out his next steps, he finds that the feelings falter. There is something else there, under the rage and shame of having let a literal golden opportunity slip through his fingers, and it keeps breaking through everything else. So, he continues to sit, even after the bell has rung on the final match of the evening, wrestling with his own mind and trying to figure out exactly where things went wrong. Anthony Phoenix? Really? After all the men here in IIW he had bested, it’s Anthony Phoenix that brings him down? Jack had been watching the roster for quite some time, and while he respected Phoenix’s ability to surprise people, there was a reason he routinely hovered in the middle of the men’s rankings. No, a healthy and focused Jack Hill wins that match 99 times out of 100. Sure, he had a few dings from his run-in with Scotty and Darius earlier in the evening, and things there were still unresolved, but it wasn’t like he was hobbled. So what the hell had made this that 1 time in 100?
The backstage area begins to empty out, people have long since shifted from keeping the show going to packing everything away for next Mayhem.
Next Mayhem… it was supposed to be his coronation. It was supposed to be the moment when he ripped that belt out of John Cavanagh’s hands and shoved it down the throats of all the ingrates watching, showing each and every one of them that he wasn’t just some hillbilly who’d gotten lucky a few times; he was the real deal, and he was going to cure IIW of the malignant ignorance that had consumed it. He sat with that image for a long time, letting it fade away until it had fully transitioned from the “it could be” to the “it could have been” section of his brain.
He finally raises his head up from his fists and looks around, finding that the arena is now empty, save for a small number of custodial workers sweeping up the last remaining signs of the night’s action from the building. He lets out a long, slow sigh, and finally rises to his feet, his back screaming in pain as he asks it to support his weight after having been slumped over for god knows how long. He barely registers the aching in his back, just as he barely registers the voice coming from behind him as he trudges down the hallway towards the nearest exit.
Voice: Mr. Hill? Mr. Hill!
The rhythmic squeaking of a wheel finally breaks Jack out of his own mind enough to turn around and see a young mail clerk pushing a cart to him as quickly as he can.
Clerk: I’ve been waiting around for you near the locker rooms all night!
Jack gives him a blank stare as the clerk closes the distance, reaching into his cart and pulling out a small box wrapped in featureless brown paper.
Clerk: This was delivered here to the arena for you. I know you don’t come by much, so wanted to make sure I got it to you before you left. Have a good evening!
And just as quickly as he came, the clerk flies off again with his cart, leaving Jack looking down at the small package in his hands. Sure enough, it’s addressed to “Jack Hill” care of the IIW Arena’s address. For a moment he wonders who would be sending him mail before he recognizes the handwriting on the front of the package. It was her. He felt his heart jump up into his throat, felt a surge of that feeling that was underneath all of his anger and sadness. He realized it had been with him since that night in Bash’s office, when he heard that damnable song playing over the radio.
Numbly, he tears off the brown paper, revealing a white envelope and a small cardboard box. The envelope has different handwriting, a sloppy scrawl he does not immediately recognize but whose owner he can intuit. He carefully opens the envelope, making sure not to tear into the front face that contains the envelope, and pulls out a single sheet of wide ruled paper with more of the uneven handwriting covering it.
Happy Birthday, Daddy! I hope you get this on your birthday and it doesn’t come to late. I love you and I miss you and I hope you can come home again really soon. Mommy says you are still not feeling good, but I hope you have a good birthday and like your present and it helps you feel better.
Love,
Will
The pit falls out of Jack’s stomach as he carefully folds the paper back up and places it back into the envelope. His vision blurring as the tears well up in his eyes, he turns his attention to the little box, popping off the tape holding it closed and turning it onto its side to spill out its contents.
The first thing to fall into his hand is a simply-braided, but garishly multicolored wristband. The second thing is a photograph. He holds it up and sees the face of a young boy - though not nearly as young as he remembers - braiding the very wristband he now holds in his hand.
Like a dam bursting, this feeling he had been pressing down with all of his might comes roaring forth, overwhelming him. He slumps against the nearby wall, sobbing, and slowly collapses into a heap on the floor.
This is the price for continuing his work, and it is a price he has paid every day for over 5 years. But as he lies there on the floor, unable to control the wailing cries that emanate from the deepest parts of his soul, he realizes that he can pay it no longer.
He frantically fishes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his contacts, and finds her number, listed simply under “home”. He presses the call button and does his best to muffle his panting breaths as it rings. After a few moments, he hears
...Jack?
He sniffles a bit, the sound of her voice alone threatening to break him anew.
Jack: I think I’m ready t’come home now.
The backstage area of the IIW arena is abuzz as countless people scurry from one spot to another, making sure every little detail of the Mayhem broadcast goes as smoothly as possible. It is a well-rehearsed orchestra, everyone so familiar with their own part in it that they are able to move almost without thinking - except for the new obstacle in their way. Sitting in the middle of the area on a wheeled crate, like a stone interrupting the flow of an otherwise tranquil stream, is an almost completely motionless Jack Hill.
Several times, members of the production team have started to walk over to him to ask him to move, only to feel the heavy aura coming off of him and decide to let someone else bite that particular bullet. So, he sits, hunched over, head supported by two balled up fists pressed into his forehead as this ballet continues all around him.
Jack’s soul is a muddled mess of transient emotions. Anger, of course, and disappointment, but he finds that as much as he tries to latch onto one of these for something concrete onto which he can build and plot out his next steps, he finds that the feelings falter. There is something else there, under the rage and shame of having let a literal golden opportunity slip through his fingers, and it keeps breaking through everything else. So, he continues to sit, even after the bell has rung on the final match of the evening, wrestling with his own mind and trying to figure out exactly where things went wrong. Anthony Phoenix? Really? After all the men here in IIW he had bested, it’s Anthony Phoenix that brings him down? Jack had been watching the roster for quite some time, and while he respected Phoenix’s ability to surprise people, there was a reason he routinely hovered in the middle of the men’s rankings. No, a healthy and focused Jack Hill wins that match 99 times out of 100. Sure, he had a few dings from his run-in with Scotty and Darius earlier in the evening, and things there were still unresolved, but it wasn’t like he was hobbled. So what the hell had made this that 1 time in 100?
The backstage area begins to empty out, people have long since shifted from keeping the show going to packing everything away for next Mayhem.
Next Mayhem… it was supposed to be his coronation. It was supposed to be the moment when he ripped that belt out of John Cavanagh’s hands and shoved it down the throats of all the ingrates watching, showing each and every one of them that he wasn’t just some hillbilly who’d gotten lucky a few times; he was the real deal, and he was going to cure IIW of the malignant ignorance that had consumed it. He sat with that image for a long time, letting it fade away until it had fully transitioned from the “it could be” to the “it could have been” section of his brain.
He finally raises his head up from his fists and looks around, finding that the arena is now empty, save for a small number of custodial workers sweeping up the last remaining signs of the night’s action from the building. He lets out a long, slow sigh, and finally rises to his feet, his back screaming in pain as he asks it to support his weight after having been slumped over for god knows how long. He barely registers the aching in his back, just as he barely registers the voice coming from behind him as he trudges down the hallway towards the nearest exit.
Voice: Mr. Hill? Mr. Hill!
The rhythmic squeaking of a wheel finally breaks Jack out of his own mind enough to turn around and see a young mail clerk pushing a cart to him as quickly as he can.
Clerk: I’ve been waiting around for you near the locker rooms all night!
Jack gives him a blank stare as the clerk closes the distance, reaching into his cart and pulling out a small box wrapped in featureless brown paper.
Clerk: This was delivered here to the arena for you. I know you don’t come by much, so wanted to make sure I got it to you before you left. Have a good evening!
And just as quickly as he came, the clerk flies off again with his cart, leaving Jack looking down at the small package in his hands. Sure enough, it’s addressed to “Jack Hill” care of the IIW Arena’s address. For a moment he wonders who would be sending him mail before he recognizes the handwriting on the front of the package. It was her. He felt his heart jump up into his throat, felt a surge of that feeling that was underneath all of his anger and sadness. He realized it had been with him since that night in Bash’s office, when he heard that damnable song playing over the radio.
Numbly, he tears off the brown paper, revealing a white envelope and a small cardboard box. The envelope has different handwriting, a sloppy scrawl he does not immediately recognize but whose owner he can intuit. He carefully opens the envelope, making sure not to tear into the front face that contains the envelope, and pulls out a single sheet of wide ruled paper with more of the uneven handwriting covering it.
Happy Birthday, Daddy! I hope you get this on your birthday and it doesn’t come to late. I love you and I miss you and I hope you can come home again really soon. Mommy says you are still not feeling good, but I hope you have a good birthday and like your present and it helps you feel better.
Love,
Will
The pit falls out of Jack’s stomach as he carefully folds the paper back up and places it back into the envelope. His vision blurring as the tears well up in his eyes, he turns his attention to the little box, popping off the tape holding it closed and turning it onto its side to spill out its contents.
The first thing to fall into his hand is a simply-braided, but garishly multicolored wristband. The second thing is a photograph. He holds it up and sees the face of a young boy - though not nearly as young as he remembers - braiding the very wristband he now holds in his hand.
Like a dam bursting, this feeling he had been pressing down with all of his might comes roaring forth, overwhelming him. He slumps against the nearby wall, sobbing, and slowly collapses into a heap on the floor.
This is the price for continuing his work, and it is a price he has paid every day for over 5 years. But as he lies there on the floor, unable to control the wailing cries that emanate from the deepest parts of his soul, he realizes that he can pay it no longer.
He frantically fishes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his contacts, and finds her number, listed simply under “home”. He presses the call button and does his best to muffle his panting breaths as it rings. After a few moments, he hears
...Jack?
He sniffles a bit, the sound of her voice alone threatening to break him anew.
Jack: I think I’m ready t’come home now.