Disclaimer: I would never wish these events on Ric Flair - EVER. I wrote
this from what I feel.
--
As Ric Flair taped his index finger, he smiled at the thought of the audience, waiting for him. He was already in full uniform and was ready to go. He'd stay in his locker room until he was set to head to the stage. A tear escaped his eye as he envisioned the standing ovation they'd give him. He appreciated it all the time. He loved wrestling, just as much as he loved the fans.
He wished they could say the same thing.
He glanced at the clock. He still had 10 minutes until he had to go. He went into the bathroom and shut the door, locking it. He leaned against the sink, his hands grasping the edge and he glared at his reflection. He felt like punching the mirror, to shatter it into a million pieces. Then he could see himself for what he truly was.
A part of him hated the fans. They spoke of him as if he, himself, didn't know he wasn't in his prime anymore. It was obvious that he wasn't but he still had it. Maybe not even 'it', but he had something and he wanted to use it.
When Ric grew up, he was taught to use what you have while you have it. He'd been following that advice all his life. 30 years of giving the audience his all and now, they no longer appreciated it.
Ric picked up a small razor he had sitting on the sink. He stared at it, glimmer in the light. He contemplated what to do with it. It was like a foreign object to him, really. He was aware that people would use it for cutting themselves, but he'd never done it. Now, he felt, it was time to change that.
A tear ran down his cheek and he watched it fall into the drain. He held the razor, tightly, between his fingers and stared at it.
He wished the fans appreciated him more. He knew they were entitled to their opinion, but they didn't have to be so vulgar; so harsh. They wanted him to retire. Then die. He couldn't believe it when he heard of it.
Had he not given them enough? Was 30 years of entertaining nothing to them? Did he do a bad job? Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't give them what they wanted to see.
He brought his other arm up and stared at his wrist. It was clean of any scars, and the only thing there was his vein. He wondered if he should do it fast, so the pain wouldn't get to him. Or maybe slow, so he could feel it sink in, and drown himself in agony.
Maybe if he did it now, he could die later, and the fans wouldn't care. Maybe they'd be happy that they wouldn't have to see him on television anymore. 'Ric Flair Commits Suicide', the headlines will read, and people will look at it and say, "It's about time."
He brought the razor to his wrist and froze. Fast? Slow? Now, it didn't matter. He pressed the sharp edge against his skin, slowly moving it along his wrist. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as the pain grew down the cut path of his arm.
'They aren't going to care,' he thought to himself. After reaching the other end, he threw the razor down to the floor, as if the feel of it in his hand burned him. He watched the crimson substance seep out of the cut and the drops of blood plunged into the sink. The leak became more rapid, more intense. He watched it, in awe, almost unable to believe what he was doing to himself.
He thought of Beth. She was 30,000 miles away from him right now. The kids, too. He'd probably never see them again. He'd never see her smile at him when he'd walk into the door of their house. He'd never see David make it into the WWE and win a championship. He'd never see Reed make it to high school.
He meant what he said when he told the fans they were his family. If they didn't care, his real family wouldn't either.
Ric leaned against the locked door and slid down to sit as the blood dripped onto his 'Nature Boy' outfit.
He felt himself grow delicate and weaker. It was a rush to him. Almost exciting. The pain was much better than his emotional pain. He wondered why he didn't do this sooner.
His eyelids grew heavier as the drops of blood dripped at a faster pace. He weakened completely and let loose, his arms falling to the ground. He closed his eyes and he began to breathe harder.
The fans didn't care about Ric Flair anymore. And now, neither did he.
--
--
As Ric Flair taped his index finger, he smiled at the thought of the audience, waiting for him. He was already in full uniform and was ready to go. He'd stay in his locker room until he was set to head to the stage. A tear escaped his eye as he envisioned the standing ovation they'd give him. He appreciated it all the time. He loved wrestling, just as much as he loved the fans.
He wished they could say the same thing.
He glanced at the clock. He still had 10 minutes until he had to go. He went into the bathroom and shut the door, locking it. He leaned against the sink, his hands grasping the edge and he glared at his reflection. He felt like punching the mirror, to shatter it into a million pieces. Then he could see himself for what he truly was.
A part of him hated the fans. They spoke of him as if he, himself, didn't know he wasn't in his prime anymore. It was obvious that he wasn't but he still had it. Maybe not even 'it', but he had something and he wanted to use it.
When Ric grew up, he was taught to use what you have while you have it. He'd been following that advice all his life. 30 years of giving the audience his all and now, they no longer appreciated it.
Ric picked up a small razor he had sitting on the sink. He stared at it, glimmer in the light. He contemplated what to do with it. It was like a foreign object to him, really. He was aware that people would use it for cutting themselves, but he'd never done it. Now, he felt, it was time to change that.
A tear ran down his cheek and he watched it fall into the drain. He held the razor, tightly, between his fingers and stared at it.
He wished the fans appreciated him more. He knew they were entitled to their opinion, but they didn't have to be so vulgar; so harsh. They wanted him to retire. Then die. He couldn't believe it when he heard of it.
Had he not given them enough? Was 30 years of entertaining nothing to them? Did he do a bad job? Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't give them what they wanted to see.
He brought his other arm up and stared at his wrist. It was clean of any scars, and the only thing there was his vein. He wondered if he should do it fast, so the pain wouldn't get to him. Or maybe slow, so he could feel it sink in, and drown himself in agony.
Maybe if he did it now, he could die later, and the fans wouldn't care. Maybe they'd be happy that they wouldn't have to see him on television anymore. 'Ric Flair Commits Suicide', the headlines will read, and people will look at it and say, "It's about time."
He brought the razor to his wrist and froze. Fast? Slow? Now, it didn't matter. He pressed the sharp edge against his skin, slowly moving it along his wrist. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as the pain grew down the cut path of his arm.
'They aren't going to care,' he thought to himself. After reaching the other end, he threw the razor down to the floor, as if the feel of it in his hand burned him. He watched the crimson substance seep out of the cut and the drops of blood plunged into the sink. The leak became more rapid, more intense. He watched it, in awe, almost unable to believe what he was doing to himself.
He thought of Beth. She was 30,000 miles away from him right now. The kids, too. He'd probably never see them again. He'd never see her smile at him when he'd walk into the door of their house. He'd never see David make it into the WWE and win a championship. He'd never see Reed make it to high school.
He meant what he said when he told the fans they were his family. If they didn't care, his real family wouldn't either.
Ric leaned against the locked door and slid down to sit as the blood dripped onto his 'Nature Boy' outfit.
He felt himself grow delicate and weaker. It was a rush to him. Almost exciting. The pain was much better than his emotional pain. He wondered why he didn't do this sooner.
His eyelids grew heavier as the drops of blood dripped at a faster pace. He weakened completely and let loose, his arms falling to the ground. He closed his eyes and he began to breathe harder.
The fans didn't care about Ric Flair anymore. And now, neither did he.
--