Tears. She remembered tears. Lots of them, falling down her face to pool in a puddle on the floor. Then she remembered the feeling as her whole body went numb with shock, the feeling of really realizing they were gone. Then came the steady flow of blood from her wrists, and the feeling that life was worth nothing.
Harley had only been 15 then, with a steady flow of indignation running through her blood until her father had been killed by a drunk driver. She'd been the beauty, the one who got straight a's and had the perfect boyfriend. The perky raven hired girl that was full of life, especially when she played with her baby brother on the floor. It all ended when she'd gotten that call from the coroner's office, asking her to identify two bodies… baby Erich's mangled body and her father's prone form. It had all ended that day.
She outgrew that pain. By the time Harley was 25 she'd dyed her hair all colours of the rainbow. She had a three year old girl who loved her father John more than life itself. She was still the tall, lanky girl who everyone loved, though. Deep under, you could catch a glance of the shining blue in her eyes. John knew that.
John had met her when he'd gone to a bar in order to sort everything out with Trish. Trish'd left him at the alter twice by then, the first time because she'd fallen in love with him and it scared her, and the second time because she had been back with Chris the whole time.
Harley had been his bartender, a beauty with copper-coloured hair streaked neon green. He remembered how she'd been wearing the tight and clingy black leather pants low on her waist, showing off her naturally thin body and the all-around tattoo that bedecked her narrow waist.
He'd sat there for all of an hour, staring at the thing, barbed wire tattoo that had the names "Erich Garrison" and "Alan Garrison" stuck in the barbs, like tattered leaves. She'd noticed, but had welcomed the stare of the cute guy with the muscles like Adonis. She needed someone to look at her like that again. He'd ordered twelve drinks, not noticing that after his second she'd started making them virgin. He'd come here to find his girl, but had instead found the girl of his dreams.
John Cena came back every night after that, watching the girl who without words had captured his heart. He learned her name was Harley Garrison from the older guy who worked with her, and that the tattoo was in dedication to her father and baby brother who had died in a car accident years ago. She'd grown up in Kankakee, Illinois, where she'd gone to the local high school, then two years of the junior college there. She'd dropped out after that, opting for a life of adventurous fun. Fun was what she called going out and just messing around, watching a movie or throwing popcorn at people. After almost a month of watching her, she finally asked him out.
They began seriously dating, even with their first date ending in the disastrous event of him finding her scars, well hidden behind arm-bands that reached her elbows. He'd slid them down when he'd tried to hold her hand during the movie (Blade: Trinity), and his ring had gotten caught on the thin material, and when he'd tried to slide his hand away, the material had come too. He'd seen the discoloured skin that meant scar tissue, and hadn't rejected her. She'd loved him for that.
She followed him from gig to gig, quickly becoming friends with all of his friends, and even some of his enemies. Harley loved every fiber of his being, and didn't just like him for his fame. Hell, she didn't even know who he was until she seen him on a rerun. She didn't care.
When he had proposed, on the sandy and rocky beach of Lake Michigan, she'd been too shocked for words, merely nodding. They got married on the exact spot, barely two months later. After another year, he was in the hospital with her, holding his daughter Ericha Alana Cena. Now, three years after even that, he was laying in bed, with his arms wrapped around the delicate waist of his wife.
Harley was laying with her back to him, her face a picture of serenity. Her black hair was streaked honey, with the rebellious curls often falling into her eyes. She'd changed, for the better, changing her wardrobe, which had previously been full of leather pants, clingy tank-tops, and bad-mouthed shirts to a selection of brightly coloured tops, humorous tees, and jeans.
John looked up as he heard a murmur from the doorway.
"Daddy, can I sweep wif you?" an angelic voice asked, and John nodded, lifting the blanket to allow his little girl entrance to his side of the bed. She snuggled into his side, creating a Cena sandwich between his wife and child.
It had to have been a picture to behold, big strong John Cena lying in a bed with a tiny little girl on his right, her black hair messy from sleep, and a gorgeous beauty with black and blonde hair on his left. He didn't care what anyone else thought. He had a perfect family. He was happy. And so were his girls.