Your Own Medicine

Seth knew it was coming. He saw Hunter running down the entrance ramp, and knew that it was time. He knew what he had to do, and he did it flawlessly. No one suspected that Triple H, his mentor and friend of over two years, would betray him. Not even Kevin Owens, which made Seth hate what he had to do even more. He wanted that title. He had worked for it, not Owens, who wouldn't even appreciate what Seth had done for him. He had clawed his way to the top, betraying those who trusted him most to get there. Now, laying there, Seth knew exactly what that betrayal had felt like.

When he got backstage, it was silent. He could feel all everyone's eyes on him, studying him, trying to figure out what he was thinking. Seth didn't give them an answer. He quietly walked into his private dressing room, and shut the door. He put on music, something very loud so that the others couldn't hear what he was about to do. He stood in front of the only mirror in the room, a tall, thin one hanging on the wall. He stared at himself, and suddenly slammed his fist into the mirror at full force, shattering it and slicing his hand open in the process. He barely felt it. Instead, he felt the anger welling up inside of him. He turned and began laying waste to the room, breaking everything he could, and at least denting everything he couldn't completely destroy. Everywhere Seth looked he saw red. He saw that belt. He saw Owens. By the time he was done, there was debris and blood all over the room. Once he had calmed down enough, he began to clean himself up; he bandaged his hand and changed out of his ring gear, putting on some jeans and an old band shirt he had. The blood was already starting to soak through the bandages, so he changed them one more time before finally leaving the room. He didn't bother to look at the carnage he had left behind. He didn't care. As he walked to the parking lot in the back of the arena, everyone avoided him. They could feel the anger emanating off of him like a radiator giving off pure fury. He could feel the blood start to seep through the bandages again, but he kept walking, determined to get out of that place. He had finally made it to his personal bus when he heard a voice directly behind him, soft and kind.

"Seth." He recognized it instantly. "What are you doing here Sasha," he replied, not so much a question as a demand. He turned and looked at the woman. She had a look of concern in her eyes, not one of pity like the rest of the locker room, which only served to make irritate Seth even further. Why is she here? I do not need this right now, he thought, and was about to tell her when she wrapped her arms around him. He was surprised, to say the least. She was surprisingly strong for her size, and though she held onto him tightly, it felt warm. Comforting as opposed to constricting. Much to both of their surprise, he hugged her back. She smelled like the mat, like flowers, and something...something else. Seth couldn't quite put his finger on it, and was about to ask her about it when she pulled away. When she let go, she looked him in the eyes and took his face in her hands. "I know this sucks. Trust me I do. But you can't let this control you. Be safe okay? And get that hand looked at." She talked to him like she would to a child, not condescendingly, but soothingly. She pulled his face down towards her, kissed his forehead, and walked away, leaving him standing there, feeling confused but surprisingly better. As he got on his bus, he wondered at why Sasha of all people would be the one to come comfort him. Why would she care? Why would anyone? He was Seth Rollins, the backstabbing bastard who had finally gotten his comeuppance. He was a liar, a traitor, and a cheater. Most of the locker room would be celebrating, but, for some strange reason, not Sasha. He laid down and felt the bus jerk to a start, getting ready to head to the next town. He closed his eyes, and, for the first time in the whole night, he relaxed. The last thing that crossed Seth's mind before he fell asleep was the feeling of her hands on his face and her lips on his forehead. Maybe they don't all hate me, he thought. Maybe I'm not that bad.