Chapter 1: Broken Glass

A/N: For future reference, every chapter of my stories is kind of reverse-inspired by a song. By that I mean that I wrote the story first, and then found a song that paired well with it, and integrated the lyrics. I recommend any and all of the songs I use. I'm a very musical person… music and wrestling are my passions.

A/N: I'm brand spanking new at writing fanfic, this is my first. I've liked reading it for a while, but I'd been wanting to read a CM Punk torture fanfiction, like hardcore torture, not sexual. I don't know what my fascination with it is, but it didn't exist. So I wrote the fanfiction I wanted to read. Originally, it was just to be a scene or two, a one-shot, and I never meant for anyone else to read it. But it grew into so much more. After over a year of work, endless hours, meticulous editing, I have it finished. So I should be uploading the entire thing within the next few days. I'm very open to suggestions being a fanfiction virgin XD. Please leave reviews!

Ten of these ~ is a time change

Four of these • is a pov change

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the wrestlers mentioned in this story, or anything pertaining to WWE and TNA. I am well aware that the ages of the wrestlers in this fic don't match the time period of the fic. (I found it more sympathetic and believable for them to be younger, and that they'd garner more pity with a greater age difference.) I also moved AJ and Punk's marriage up a year. It was necessary to my story. Sue me. Violence, disturbing torture, blood, angst, language, slash, smut, non-con/rape (in later chapters).

SONG: BROKEN GLASS BY THREE DAYS GRACE

My name is Phillip Jack Brooks. Most of you know and love me (or hate me. Probably hate me.) as CM Punk. But for a week of my life, I wasn't treated like Phil Brooks, or CM Punk. I wasn't even treated like a human being. More like a toy. In wrestling, just like in life, some people just don't like you. It's nothing you did, they just don't like you. That's cool with me, I don't really like people anyway. Problem is, out of the many people who hate me, a couple of them are lunatics. Certifiable, belong in a straight jacket, crazies. Said lunatics took it about 37 steps too far, and I paid the price. My therapist keeps telling me I'm repressing my emotions. She suggested I try writing them out. I thought it was a shitty idea, but then again, for a long time I thought she was full of shit, and I thought Nemeth was full of shit for making me see her. But maybe she's right, she has been before. I wasn't exactly like, conscious for the whole thing, so I've gotten a couple of my friends (yes, some people still like me, hard to believe, I know) to fill in the blanks when it's necessary. I don't know if anyone will ever read this, but the nightmares haven't gone away and at this point, I'll try anything. They say the truth shall set you free… we'll see about that. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's telling it how it is. It's time for me to come clean, all the way, not like I did back last December. Maybe doing this will get the whole memory un-burned into my brain… can that happen? I don't know, I hope so. I'm blasting music to make this at least a little fun, so maybe I'll throw some lyrics in, who knows. Dr. Kwynn, if you're reading this and I'm still having nightmares after I'm done writing, you owe me a Pepsi. I'm not kidding. Take a breath, get a grip. Take a step into my mind, wipe your feet at the door. Welcome to hell. I've been expecting you.

We march the streets at night, looking for a thrill, looking for a fight. It was the first day of the rest of our lives.

Today was a long day. A really long day. Hardcore matches are never easy, and I got more beat up in this particular one than usual. The Best vs. the Beast was a match to remember, but at this point I want to forget that it had ever happened. As if the beatings I had sustained from Lesnar in the weeks leading up to the blowoff at Summerslam weren't bad enough, quite frankly I got my ass kicked in this match. It's not a comforting thought that it was a guaranteed five-star match, because I know I gotta go back at it next week and I am so frickin beat right now. I'm concerned that I might not be able to put out like I usually can with the state my body is in. But I'll figure it out in the morning. The problem is, Lesnar is notorious for being really stiff in the ring, so knees, elbows, fists, throws, a slice in my back, multiple chair shots and a F5 on a chair are coming back to haunt me as I trudge down the hallway to my hotel room in LA. Lesnar didn't mean to beat me up so bad, at least I don't think, but coming from UFC, Lesnar isn't programmed to be gentle… not that he was gentle before he went to UFC. Going into a match with an opponent as single-minded as Lesnar, especially one without rules, you know you're in for a beating. He really just cares about hurting the guy he's in the ring with. Doesn't care about making you look good, making himself look good, garnering interest for the match during the build up, none of that. Odd that he chose a profession in which that stuff is important, then. He gets Paul to do the "entertainment" part of sports entertainment for him. I've always kind of resented that about Brock, that he just doesn't care and yet he's got higher stock in the company than I do. The guy shows up three to four days a year. After the way he beat the shit out of me in our match today, I get the feeling he resents me too. It's no secret that Brock has almost 100 pounds on me and our styles can't be more different. He destroys and victimizes other wrestlers with his dominating strength, utilizing his weight advantage over most of his opponents. The man genuinely enjoys hurting people, and his passion resides in tearing his adversaries limb from limb. Nothing more. Usually it's hard for me to tell if he's in character or not. Personally, I think he's a borderline lunatic, but maybe he's just good at playing the part. Well, on the other hand, I use a quick, technically sound arsenal that incorporates jiu-jitsu and compensates for the constant weight differential I face every time I step into the ring. The Beast was a challenge, that's for sure. Paul had warned me that Brock wasn't going to go easy on me, which was fine because I didn't want him pulling punches anyways. He's a tough opponent, and I know it. That doesn't change the fact that I feel weak and sore now that it's over, though. I hurt. Plain and simple. I just want to get to my room, take some ibuprofen and call it a night.

We work fast, never gonna die, riding up the highway, forty-five. We didn't know it couldn't go on forever.

As I search for my room number on each door, I feel like something isn't quite right. My senses say I'm being followed. I swear I hear footsteps behind me. "It's a hotel, and you're a famous wrestler," I half-heartedly rationalize with myself, but I don't believe a word I'm saying."They probably just want an autograph or a picture or something." Now I'm a highly trained professional athlete, but when people come to jump you, they have something extra in store. Always. A weapon, a way to drug you, another person or any means to stop you from fighting back. Physical conditioning doesn't make a difference then. I'm a veteran of the Chicago streets and I wasn't well-liked as a kid, so I know how these things work. Thing is, I thought that when I left the Chicago streets, I wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit anymore. Guess I was mistaken.

All we are is broken glass, thrown to the floor, we were never meant to last, and all we are are empty shelves, try to pick us up, you're gonna cut yourself.

As the footsteps get louder, it starts to sound like two people. It's definitely not in my head. I turn around to address who I hope are fans, and I'm met with a fist connecting with my jaw. My head snaps to the side, my knees give way and I fall to the ground, groaning, as the man who slugged me kicks my hand away from my bag. So much for calling for help. Someone's foot slides my duffel farther out of my reach as my assailant squats down to my level. My chin recently healed from a slash that needed 4 stitches, and I think it just opened up. As blood drips from my wound onto the carpet, the blue subtly polka-dotted wallpaper starts to swim before my eyes.

We fought to rule the world, not knowing just how fragile we really were. Like it was the first day of the rest of our lives.

Whoever it is takes a hold of what little hair he can grab and angrily bangs my head against the wall. I try to get up and fight back but he's forced one of his knees into my spine, giving me no other choice than to stay down. He's stronger than me, heavier too. The rotten son of a bitch just keeps slamming my head into the wall until my vision blurs at the edges and I feel blood drip down my forehead. From what I can tell, he split my head open, which means I need staples, but I doubt I'll be getting those anytime soon. A needle is slid into my neck and I lose consciousness, slowly, my senses failing one after another, my hearing going last. A a loud, gleeful cackle echoes down the hall as I pass out.

Then the bricks began to fall, and we can see the cracks along the wall. We didn't know it couldn't go on forever…

••••

"Well done." A round figure steps out of the shadows to congratulate the attacker, laughing. The thickly muscled man gives a cocky smile in reply and picks Punk up easily over his shoulder. Picking up the dropped gym bag, he motions for the attacker to follow him to a black pickup truck parked outside the hotel lobby. No one is at the reception desk, as it was very late by the time Punk had arrived and no one is on duty any longer. The assailant throws Punk unceremoniously into the bed of the pickup, and gets in after him. He proceeds to handcuff Punk's arms behind his back and tie his feet together. "We gave him enough sedative that he'll be out cold until at least tomorrow afternoon, but just in case," explains the round man as the muscular man ties their victim up. Hopping out of the bed, the attacker comes around to the passenger seat. In the meantime, the round man gets into the drivers seat to drive the attacker home. After he's finished with that he plans on picking up another guy to help him deal with Punk, and then bring them to a neutral location, where they were going to fix a problem that Punk has. "You see," the round man explains, "this is the beginning of his own private hell, and we run the joint."

All we are is broken glass, thrown to the floor, we were never meant to last, and all we are are empty shelves, try to pick us up, you're gonna cut yourself.