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Why
Topic Started: Jan 10 2011, 10:21 PM (48 Views)
BBD
"Beautiful"
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Why?

That one word, that one question, has been plaguing me for days upon days. I can’t help but relive that horrible, excruciating scene over and over. Lying in this hospital bed, IVs plugged into me, pumping me so full of morphine that I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to see the lack of “Get Well” flowers that should be sitting at my bed side.

Once again, I find myself walking as if in a trance down the hall. The whistling haunts me, even days after that horrible event. It’s a queer little tune, filled with merriment and joy but whistled by one that is not merry, one that finds no joy in the tune, but he whistles it nonetheless.

I spy him leaning casually up against the wall, ignoring me as I continue to walk, approaching closer to him. Finally when I’m a few steps away I see his beady little eyes look my way, his lips pursed together whistling continuously. The whistling stops momentarily as a malicious smile slowly spreads across his face. I can already tell, this one was a fucking nut job!

I’m not one to jump to conclusions based on appearances… Okay, maybe that’s an exaggerated lie, for I do jump to conclusions solely based on appearances. Seeing this guy, dressed in black, his pale white face made even whiter with a bit of face paint, his lips an unnatural deep crimson in color, his eyes, a weird dual color where as one was emerald green the other simply white, were boring through me as he smiles that smile of his. As I stroll past him up, his whistling tune begins anew. Being the master of the smile, I’m a bit confused by his as it’s one that promises mirth and menace, but I cannot tell which is stronger.

Suddenly I feel a searing heat burn across my face. I don’t know what it is, but I quickly sense something is amiss as some sort of liquid heat begins to pour down my face. Looking down, I notice this liquid beginning to stain my baby blue robe red. Then the pain kicks in.

I’ve been in countless hardcore matches, which I despise with a passion. I’ve been hit with barbed wire baseball bats, dropped on thumbtacks, thrown through panes of glass, suplexed over a cacti, stapled, weed whacked, cheese grated, dropped through table after table after table from the top of a ladder. I’ve put my body through only God knows how much punishment, but none of that compares to the searing pain I felt the moment this sicko took the serrated edge of his blade and drug it across my face!

Falling to my knees I reach up and clutch my torn and tattered face, feeling a bit of skin hanging loose across my cheek. Days later, an EMT would inform me that you could see right through to the bone!

And all I can do is ask why? Why did this man, unknown to me, do this heinous act? Sure I’m an arrogant prick, sure I’ve crossed many people in my life from all across the globe, leaving a trail of burnt bridges in my wake, but never in my life would I even imagine a person going so far!

My walk down memory lane is over as a nurse wakes me, informing me that I’ve got guests. Opening my weary eyes I see the familiar faces of Jeremiah Sloan and Roscoe Shame entering the room. Immediately I see the look of aghast upon their faces as their eyes go straight to this sicko’s calling card. Even with the hundreds of stitches and staples it took to seal the cut, the thing looked grotesque. At least, that’s what I told myself, not having enough courage to take a look at it just yet myself.

“Hey buddy.” Jeremiah Sloan says in a light, friendly tone. “How’re you holding up?”

I was in no mood for games or revelry. I wanted answers and so far I’ve had none. So with my temper rising, the pain in my cheek and face throbbing, I cut to the chase and asked, “Who?”

Jeremiah and Roscoe shared a look. As if asking one another if they should say anything or just play dumb. They both knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t let something like this slide. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, blood for blood, and I wanted my blood!

“We don’t know…” Roscoe claims in all honesty. “It’s like he doesn’t exist, no one saw the guy the entire night, based on your description. Security doesn’t remember letting anyone in, and none of the boys in the back were anywhere close to where you were found. EMT’s say they saw a figure walking away and some people claim to have heard some sort of whistling throughout the night but no one saw a thing.”

Jay interrupts as he chimes in, steering the conversation to something else, “But enough about this guy, we’ve got other thing to discuss. I’ve heard from the Vegas PD, they found that hooker that clocked you last week. Johnny “Cinnamon” Riggs, a pre-opt tranny. She, or should I say he? He was caught in some tranny hooker sting, or at least that’s what the PD are saying. So no more worries about that guy, or is it girl?”

I close my eyes as well as my mind to Jay’s ramblings and focus on my thoughts. “No one saw anything, huh?” I ask myself. Once again my mind takes me back to that ominous hall and that haunting whistle but the replay of events is shattered before they can even take off as Roscoe’s voice comes through the fog.

“Anderson’s got you booked.” Roscoe calls out, probably not for the first time by the tone of his voice. “Jay and I fought for you to get the next few week off but he says he doesn’t care about your face, and that he expects you in the ring this weekend or you forfeit your rematch clause.”

I shake my head in complete submission; once again the weight of the world has come crashing down upon my shoulders. With my eyes closed, the morphine pumping through my veins and the urge to sleep overwhelming me, I begin to doze off leaving Jay and Roscoe back in the real world as I once again take that walk down memory lane.

As awful as it is to relive that moment, over and over and over, I’d much rather do that than face the reality. And the reality will soon be staring me right in the eyes as I find myself standing in front of a mirror. My eyes closed tight, I stand there in the darkness, the only light provided by the moon creeping through the blinds. With my hands clutching the sink in front of me, I slowly begin to pry open my eyes.

I see me, but at the same time, it’s not me. Even though the thing is healing it’s still covering half my fucking face! From just above my left eyebrow down across my cheek on down to my jaw this thing has marred what many would consider my “money maker”. A lone tear rolls down my check as I simply stand there looking into the eyes of hate and loathing.

I’m speechless as the smile, cocky and arrogant, is gone, replaced by a tight grimace. A look that promises redemption and eyes that burn with a fire I have not seen in years. I will find out who did this to me, my match with Ethan Rider be damned!

Disgusted by what I see, my arm lashes out, punching my fist right into my reflection. Cracking the mirror, I look as the cracks form a spider web from the point of impact. My reflection is jaded and marred, fitting considering that’s exactly how my face feels, jaded and marred.
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