If Corey Graves was capable of being perfectly honest for just once in his entire life, he would admit that he didn't know why he loathed Elias Samson. Sure, he had a plethora of excuses at his disposal, everything from how he hated his music to how he had caught wind of certain rumors, but at the core of it, Samson had never actually done anything to earn Graves' ire. All that said, when Corey looked at Elias, he felt an underlying vulnerability that he couldn't put his finger on. Maybe it's because they were from the same city and thus there was the potential that something from a lifetime ago could come back and bite him on the ass, but Corey was slick and silver-tongued and could realistically get himself out of any hairy situation, should one arise. It was something else. It was the same uncomfortable prickling sensation, like when a vice was confronted. Like when Corey used to get tattoos but then couldn't afford to eat afterwards. It was something akin to guilt, but Corey couldn't figure out why.
When Corey looked at Elias, he was reminded of vile scents, like tobacco smoke and patchouli, and for some inexplicable reason it made him want a cigarette. But Corey couldn't recall if he had ever been a smoker, confused by the impulse because the smell of smoke made him nauseous, and every time he had asked his parents if he used to smoke, he couldn't remember their answer. It was frustrating that his concussions had robbed him of so much, but left a weird mish-mash of memories to attempt to sort through, like a box full of random puzzle pieces that didn't fit together to form a unified image. Elias' presence shook the metaphorical box further, and it agitated Corey to no end. It reminded him that he was broken.
Sometimes, when Elias gave his opponents a wild-eyed glare, it sent Corey back to a bar that he knew existed, but didn't know if he had ever actually stepped foot inside of. It reminded him of the taste of Yuengling and Jack Daniels. It made the commentator's booth stifling hot. Suffocating, even. It made him sneer and it made him hate calling Samson's matches even more than he already did. Occasionally, when Elias sauntered to the ring, Corey felt like there was a joke somewhere in the back of his brain that he couldn't access, but could hear faint laughter that was gravelly and hit him in the gut. Then suddenly the taste of salt would linger in his mouth, his pulse would quicken, and his knees felt weak. These phantom sensations would be the death of him.
Lately Corey had started to reconnect with old friends in Pittsburgh to try to figure out what Elias was, partly because every week Tom would harass him for information, and partly because he was curious about whatever the deal was with this good-for-nothing drifter. They'd share anecdotes, a lot of which seemed outlandish, but after every single one the same thing would be said with a mix of amusement and pity: "You really don't remember that?"
Every story seemed familiar and brought about deja vu, but there was nothing concrete to jog his memory; to make matters worse, it seemed like they were hiding something from him, which he didn't appreciate. He booked an impromptu trip back home, and tried to follow along with all of the locations that had been disclosed in the stories that his friends told. Every one of those places were real, and he even remembered going to them, but he couldn't remember Elias. As he walked over the Hot Metal Bridge, he thought about all the times that he had skipped classes in high school to hang out with his friends and smoke pot by the banks of the river below while they discussed their plans for the future. It was nice that he could vividly remember times before he had started wrestling, to have any bit of normalcy when it came to recalling the past. Still, he couldn't remember Samson, despite that he had also allegedly hung out there as well. When he got to the middle of the bridge, Corey did remember long strands of dark hair and long eyelashes, remembered climbing up and perching along the railing. He smelled smoke, but there was none. His lips hurt, and he traced them with a finger to make certain that they weren't bleeding.
His trip proved fruitless and just provided more vague uneasiness, so he returned to Florida and tried to push it all out of his mind. There was nothing there for him to remember, nothing that his brain would let him have. He went back to work, he called matches, he mocked Tom Phillips. Elias would have a match, and Corey would progressively get more venomous towards him, his only defense against this drifter, someone that lived up to their nickname and had clearly drifted out of consciousness and existed solely in the subconsciousness. It was obnoxious. Elias Samson wasn't important, couldn't be important. Corey would have remembered him. His mind might have taken a beating from all of his concussions, but someone that actually mattered at some point in his life would have stuck around in his brain, would have been processed at least in some capacity by his memory bank.
But then Elias would look over at the commentator booth, and he'd look Corey dead in the eyes with a knowing expression and a nod, something that was warm and sad. For a moment, Corey thought that he felt his brain start to clear up and somehow knew that he had seen that very look before. His mouth opened to say something, but before the words could come out, it was gone, and all of the familiar sensations were replaced by a cluster headache near his eye left eye. When he went to look back up at Samson, desperate to try to regain anything, the match was over and Elias was gone.
There was nothing for Corey to remember.