Summary: This was written as an English essay, on the subject of how a memory can affect a person's life. Any odd phrasing or shortness is only to fit the essay guidelines. For the purpose of reality, although the story is in kayfabe only wrestlers' real names will be used.
Glen stared into the darkness; the darkness that had for so long been his shelter; his only solace, even now which he lived his life in. But even his oldest companion could not protect him from the piercing gaze of his eyes.
"You can't keep treating her like this, Glen," he said slowly, cautiously. Although he came unarmed in words or weapons, dealing only in love towards his kin, it still hit Glen as a thousand steely knives to his heart, always so ravaged, never fully healed even after all these years.
In their childhood together Mark was always an icon, a prodigy, a gleaming beacon of light towards which all those who met him gravitated. Glen's was an endless abyss of blackness and despair.
The gaping distances between their two lives left them with an enmity, and Glen with a hatred, that went beyond any means of human comprehension.
For a moment Glen dropped his guard, lifted his eyes. Blue met green. With fury, loathing consuming him, a venom filling him, dripping from his voice he said, "Stay out of it, Mark. What I do with Amy is none of your damn business."
The pain was evident in his voice. It still stung Mark yet long ago he became accustomed, it now reduced to merely a dull throbbing in the back of his head, becoming discernable only in the may nights he awoke screaming.
He laughed softly to himself, saying, "Don't you think I've been there? You don't think I've felt the pleasure of dealing pain as a means of escape? No matter what you do, Glen, you can never change, never recant what took place. Nor can you atone for it by repeating your history with Amy. You do not have to exist in pain."
"Pain IS my existence!" Glen spat, the tears on his face left unwiped for fear of acknowledging their presence.
Mark shook his head, walked out slowly, feeling only pity and love for his little brother, left in a fervor of denial and self-hatred.
Glen himself did not understand how he could hurt his wife, one he claimed to hold so dear.
Her beauty was breathtaking; crimson hair, dark full lips. A voice woven of poetry of the great scholars. How she was made for him; soft skin made more delicate under his rough hands; her screams a symphony rich to his ears.
His need to cause pain stemmed back to a time of horror and pain that even in his darkest dreams he could not repress.
The thought of his first darling love, her golden hair and brazen beauty seemed to him at the time the very presence of angels.
Yet he was young, uncultured in love, and still fresh from the pain of his childhood. He first discovered from her many practices he perfected on his current wife.
Her betrayal should've come as no surprise, yet still seeing her in the arms of another man, on the bed with which he dealt his punishments no less, pushed him to fly into a rage with which no mortal man could contend.
He knew now that what caused his treatment of Amy was not what he did to Tori; but rather, her betrayal.
He hated himself for not suspecting it sooner, after all, "ALL WOMEN ARE THE SAME!" he yelled, as he began systematically destroying everything in his sight. He hardy noticed, however, as these rages were so recently common they were virtually autonomous.
No, it was not the way in which he dealt with her that haunted him to this day; the secret of which only Mark knew. It was her betrayal. He actually enjoyed the way the blood burned across her face, eyes dazzling in their intensity. Although he hated how it was besmirched by the many feet of dirty now covering her; beauty like that should be displayed, not wasted. That "beauty" would surely be reclaimed in the vestige of his new wife. Crimson was always her favorite color, after all.