Author's note: This story uses a lot of sentence fragments, it's for imagery, no- I'm not that stupid lol. Annnnd I don't own any of these people and the song Mind is by System of a Down.
Mind
Plane tickets.
Bar codes.
Photo ID required.
Altitude rising.
Stewardesses with pinned up blonde hair offering tiny bags of Snyder's pretzels.
Stifling sounds from the engine.
Half sleep with a headache and no aspirin, a cramp but nowhere to stretch, tiny bottles of alcohol until the husband says it's been enough.
Curl against his bicep to try to get some sleep though it'll never come, his hand rubbing her shoulders.
Altitude dropping.
Adjust the clothes to fit whatever climate is waiting. Grab the bags and try to rush a cigarette while waiting for the valet, and hear him scolding because it's so unhealthy. Cars. Freeways. Hotel check-in and room service. The same pattern that every hotel has in the country. Floral bedspread, air-conditioning that will always be too cold, huge black impersonal televisions with channels who's numbers she doesn't know. Shower curtains that will never be dirty. Paintings which will be gazed upon.
Submit to his kisses upon her neck, convincing her that they have a little bit of time, and that it's enough, and should they do it in the shower.
See her apathy.
See her numbness.
See his sensation in a reflection on her eyes.
Fake it to get it over with. He's not bad, she just can't feel it anyway.
Come close to me, come close to me, let me love you. Baby come close to me, come close to me, let me feel you…
Look at his boyish eyes and cute smile, his masculine gold stubble and rough hands, smooth skin with hard muscles just beneath, pretty blonde hair and the tenderness in his voice when he talks to her. When she looks at him she knows that she can't say no, and that if she did she would be lost, that he is the last thread to her life that she has anymore.
A luxury rental car with leather interior, roads drawn out in a paper map in the glove box, a long purple fingernail traces over the route and tells him which ways to turn, even though he gets impatient and asks her to let him do it half the time.
The arenas and the kids that always stand outside, waiting to see someone, anyone, just to scream and mark about it. Turn out the window and smile to them, try to wave like a delicate monarch while he just ignores them to drive into the garage. Get itineraries, boss people around, let him do what he wants and don't ask questions, feel dead as her father speaks down to her the way he always does.
Figure out what to do when someone is injured or too cocky to deal with an angle. Stay off the camera because she's not wanted.
Lights.
Camera.
Collapse.
And when she closes her eyes she can only think of a time when she was alive.
Look at each other, look at each other, look at each other, look at each other.
Go away, go away, go away, go away.
Mutually, mentally molested children of a Mother.
Mutually, mentally molested children of Sin.
The ever so popular beating that took you under, the ever so popular beating that broke your skin.
Sometimes the eyes close and she just sees green ones. Sometimes waking up in the middle of the night she sees dark hair and a crown goatee rather than her beloved Hunter.
The grace in darkness swells, the sound fades to nothing, the nightmare's pulse quickens and hardens and she can only gasp, no words will come.
Hunter protects her from nothing except imagination.
Unspeakable things swim in and out of the mind, and giggle when nothing can swat them away like the pests that they are.
Free thinkers are dangerous.
Blame.
Hate.
For Fate's Seed.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
Go. Away.
They go out, not away, spread out and cover more distance in the depths of her mind, fingers groping every possible aspect, locking her away from herself, locking her out, locking her in something different.
Once she'd been different.
Bright blue eyes and straight brown hair.
No makeup and a cute smile.
Not breast implants but a stolen teddy bear set aflame.
Innocent and timid. Innocent and girly. Innocent and lovely.
Innocent and naïve.
The father that talked down to her was the one who set her up. A man that did not appreciate his children. Threw his daughter away for a useless reward, had his son on the ledge of death to prove himself. Eyes already shining with silver coins, no need to wait till his time would come.
Hers already had but she missed it in a heartbeat.
Seen it but not grabbed on.
A taste without nourishment.
All of them stood around her laughing, all of them had their own thing to do, when he wasn't around, and when he showed up…they would stop. When she cried he would punish them, when she screamed he would wait silently until she was done. He would hold her gently while chanting in some other language, take her hand in his while he knew he scared her.
Plane tickets.
Bar codes.
Boredom.
For something so horrifying it was perhaps the most alive she'd ever felt, even though the life was draining out of her.
Need the one you love and love the ones you need.
Need the one you love and love the ones you bleed.
Lives rearranged and lives in my range can you breath?
Lives rearranged and lives in my range can you see?
Free thinkers are dangerous.
The hurt.
The hate.
The pain.
The…freedom.
Being a prisoner is more freedom than what she had.
Deal with the egos, deal with the booking, deal with the men who tried to hit on her to get pushes. That's where he came in, that's when the camera pans out and everyone thinks she's so high and mighty.
Why.
Why.
Why.
Why?
And it's all his fault. Not Hunter's. Not gold eyes but emerald ones. Not blonde curls but a fountain of dyed black. Not a provocative smile, but a devil's leer. Not the love. Not the hate. Not the pain she'd endured. Not the love that covered it up. Not the life that was so sheltered. Not the mother who was so nice that it filled her with guilt. Not the father that wished she would find herself some dishes to scrub. Not a brother who's mind had been abused beyond repair. But…his.
The Undertaker.
A slow smile, lips pulling back to reveal lined white teeth, curling up to form a crease in his face. Eyes lined in black crayon makeup, shining out from shadows created by a black hood. Huge hands that, despite his ways, were so soft and gentle when they touched her.
Hunter would be gentle in any other way.
Gonna let you motherfuckers die.
The Lord of Darkness.
Gave her a breath of life outside her own. Her stereotyped thoughts filed and stored away to make labels for everything. Traveling. Rushing. Airports. Cars. Hotels. Sex. Hunter. Muscles. Pain. Numb. Death. Let her taste and not have, hold but not keep.
She hated him for what he'd done to her, but hated that he hadn't finished the job even more.
Gonna let you motherfuckers die.
Out of breath from running away from Hunter. He wasn't hurt her but she needed to find the one who'd done this. Feet hurting from the pressing heels, blood rushing to her face because of it, hands shaking from everything. He'd killed her, honestly killed her, yet didn't have the corpse to show for it, only the pale, hollow eyes he'd left behind.
Gonna let you motherfuckers die.
The height was so much taller but she could stand on her toes in her little painful heels to rake him across the eyes, to take him by surprise. To grab at the knife she'd kept hidden on her person since the night it had happened, the night he'd scratched that symbol into her head and done those things to her. The night that Ken Shamrock covered her in blood that wasn't his own trying to help her.
She'd known she was going to do it since the night Steve Austin saved her for himself, just to hate the Undertaker, just to glare with his Texas blue eyes. The night she tried to hug him while he didn't hug her back. The night she trusted the bastard of her father.
Red that pours out of the wound in his chest, around the blade.
Green that crackles into his eyes as he gasps.
Purple that covers a broken fingernail on her pinky, cut down short so that it looks like that of a baby's.
Blue that rushes into her irises again.
Life that leaves him, that comes back to her.
Gonna let you motherfuckers die.
Why?
The body thuds against the floor as she lets go, stares and knows she'll never be reprimanding. What he did to her was so much worse.
Plane tickets. Bar codes. A cheap car that she's always wanted to have. Low profile driving from one end of the country to the other. Wind in her hair. Sunglasses masking her blue eyes. Headed for Texas.
Look at each other, look at each other.