Cobalt blue eyes burst open to the pitch black darkness encompassing the bedroom; voice heavy with fatigue as he begs to absent ears. The commentator's hands hastily search for the bedside lamp, relief escaping from pale, pastel pink lips, a bottle of prescription pills dumped into his palm and thrown down his own throat without question; washed down with whatever liquor of the day ended up at bedside. Unsteadily, he stands from the bed onto his feet, finding the previous day's pants and slipping them over his boxers and searching for any shoe in the nearby vicinity. Cole begs, his voice pained and stressed; turning to the dresser with pills and shaking his head with defeat; there was no cure for the pain.
With car keys swiped from the kitchen table, he steps into the 1:00am rain without cover as he walks briskly to his car, fumbling the keys over for the correct one to start the vehicle. He prays quietly, music drowning out the noises ringing endlessly in his ears. Cole's hands grip so tight to the steering wheel, knuckles white from the exerting pressure on them. The five minute drive feels mentally excruciating, had it not been for the lack of total awareness, careening off the road and into a tree would have been a very viable option; the wet roads and alcohol on his breath would have aided the idea that he had not committed suicide.
The rain pours around the journalist, droplets entering the car as he opens the drivers door, stepping out and leaving it as such, stepping out to the gate lit with the fading headlights of his car. Death was never so welcoming as it had been in recent months; the idea of ending every waking moment of humility and pain was rejoiced over; the fear preventing it was undeniable torment. He unlatches it, walking alongside the rusting, squeaking metal, guiding it just open enough for the silver car to fit through. Cole goes back to the car, the pinging sound so drowned out that it didn't transmit to him. The vehicle excels over the posted five mile an hour speed limit, speedily making it to the end of the eerie grounds; it slows to a stop, headlights and a cell phone illuminating the path, stepping through the mist and fog. The cries and screams grow louder as he approaches closer; finally dropping to his knees, cell phone toppling onto the muddied ground; light cascading across the black granite looming above. A cold hand reaches out, resting against the headstone; blue eyes lit from the phone's screen. Michael wanted so badly to be the one covered under the earth.
He begs and pleads for his love to stop crying, to stop screaming in the middle of the night, for his suffering voice and shrieking vocals to find rest beneath the dirt he himself longed to be under, had he only the courage to make happen. For the beautiful and once absolutely powerful Viper, he had no choice, his life cut short by the man Michael had promised to take him away from. Everything he had promised had been lies, Orton believed that he was to be saved, his faith rested in Cole who appeared to be so brave; he had faith every time the simple broadcaster wiped away his tears and tended to the wounds from his attacker. He had once put the same trust into Dave Batista; who had turned so violently against him. Orton found peace in going behind the Leviathan's back with the small announcer. Orton was Cole's home: the only thing he had. They were the same; frightened and worthless to anyone they deemed significant themselves until optics of both blue and silver met. With every visit to the grave, he begs for his Viper's rest, for the painful, frightened screams to stop; but it doesn't help.