Disclaimer: I don't own any WWF personalities and the song All Mine was written by Portishead.
All Mine
I can see myself in the two-way mirror. When such a massive object like that takes up half of the room, it's hard not to stare. When such a mess of a girl is sitting so calmly in the reflection, it's hard to take my eyes away.
That girl in the reflection is not me. Surely it can't be me. Not my hands shaking and folded on the table, not my wrists bound by shining handcuffs. Those are not my wild, childish eyes with the makeup smeared all around them, or my swollen bottom lip.
And that is not my blood on my clothes.
I turn my head away from the reflection, let it hang down, stare at the blood on my shirt, long dried by now, and a rusty color, brown almost. I hate her, still. I can't hate her enough.
While I'm not sure about who is in the reflection- I'm positive that it isn't my blood. Because I want to kill her over and over again.
My hands fidget and clasp together, my eyes closing. I close them so that I won't start crying, because I can't just yet. I need to think first, really thing. I feel my shoulders beginning to shake, my face aching slightly from the way my mouth pulls into a frown… I can't cry yet, I won't. I can't.
The time I'm waiting seems to take forever. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for, I'm not sure why they brought me straight to an interrogation room instead of to a temporary holding cell. I'm not sure of anything right now, too many things have happened.
Beneath my closed eyelids I can only see his face. The look of anger he had, of hatred. It's inconceivable to me that someone I love so dearly could be that angry with me. It'll pass, I promise. Soon, once he's given the proper time to see the situation in its true nature, he'll understand, and he'll thank me. He'll love me. I'm sure of it.
.x.all the stars may shine bright
all the clouds may be white
but when you smile……
oh, how I feel so good
that I can hardy wait
to hold you, enfold you
never enough
render your heart to me… .x.
"Are you aware of the crimes that you have committed?"
The broad shouldered, somewhat melancholy detective leans his knuckles on the table and tries to look into my eyes. I've seen this same stereotype character in a million movies- a cop, shaken by his profession, so deranged and disturbed by the things he sees, yet so driven to it from his other problems that he takes in it a sick kind of sanctuary. His bangs fall across his eyes, his face covered in a stubble that he'll shave in the morning. I don't look at him, my gaze still trained on itself in the mirror, still entranced by it. I've never looked like this before. My eyes are not red like that, I do not cry. I never cry, I never do. Why am I crying?
His silently steps in front of me, obstructing my view of the mirror, and I shake my head to myself, seeing his arms, his watch fastened around his wrist and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My lip is trembling because I'm scared of him, and slowly I look up to meet his face, past his empty gun holsters on his shoulders, past his Adam's apple and chapped lips. His eyes are magnetic, empty.
They remind me of Kane's eyes. Kane's eyes while she scolded him and yelled. His eyes when he stared at me in those last few moments. My nose twitches, my eyes begin to burn.
Usually these interrogators treat their subjects like trash… maybe my frailty is giving him some gentleness, because he's strangely nice to me. His eyebrows come together slightly when he sees that I'm crying, and he pulls tissues out of his pocket, handing them to me. The chain on the handcuffs jingles when I take them from him, and dab at my eyes.
"Are you aware of the crimes that you have committed?" he asks again, practically whispering. He must pity me.
"I did it for him…" I answer, my voice broken. I sound like a child.
.x.from that cloud, number nine
danger starts the sharp incline
and such sad regret
oh, those starry skies
as they swiftly fall
make no mistake
you shan't escape
tethered and tied
there's nowhere to hide from me.x.
Am I aware of the crimes that I have committed? What about her? Was she aware of her crimes?
I committed no crimes. I am a vigilante. I act on love, not hatred. I hated her because of love, and the love I bore for him would not be adulterated by her filth.
Her face was hard and ugly when I approached her about it. I didn't plan these things, they just happened. I could've been fine just talking to her but things are never that simple with this woman. Never. She glared at me with that attitude of hers the second she saw me, when my intentions were pure. She glared at me and I couldn't take it anymore.
There were no words, we didn't need words. She knew fully what she'd done to him, she knew that she tortured him, that she flaunted herself, she knew that she was just fucking using him. It was all a big lie. I knew it. I knew it I knew it I knew and I wasn't going to let it go on any longer. I loved him too much.
It was not my hand that clenched into a fist, that swung at her and made contact against her cheekbone. Not my mouth that spit in her face. Not my lip that she struck, that became swollen within seconds. We were in the locker room, and I slammed the door closed before she could get to it. I shoved her on the floor to buy time, to get to that emergency case.
The axe inside was to be used during a fire, and was red in compliment, and metal. Yes, to be used in fire.
The fist that was not mine did not hurt when I broke the glass, when I took the weapon, when I stood over her again.
She screamed, and I smiled when I brought it down against her face. The blood sprayed against me and I knew he would thank me for it. He would, because in that instant I had fixed his problems.
I stared at her abdomen and felt the jealousy slowly build, and brought the axe there, too, to destroy it. I couldn't stand it and I wouldn't. I didn't want to see her ruin him. I didn't want to her see her hurt him again, it was all he could take. He would thank me and he would love me.
The large crack in face, left in the wake of my handiwork, gushed a deep red, flowing out and painting her features. She always looked so mad, so above everyone. Well… not anymore.
Partially because of the blood soaking my hands, partially because of my apathy, the weapon slipped from my hands, thudding against the floor. I didn't say anything when I sat down beside her, tracing the edges of the wound with my finger, the broken bone and the soft insides, the blood covering me.
It was warm, she was so warm. Was this what he saw in her? I could've been the same way… he just never gave me the chance to be.
Well, now he'd see me. He'd love me.
The blood was thick and smelled that way, rising slowly like vapor to my nostrils, and I inhaled it deeply. I brought my fingers to my mouth to taste it.
The detective looks hard into my face. "Why did you do this? Why did you murder Amy Dumas?"
My lip trembles uncontrollably, and the tears finally fall. "Who's Amy Dumas?"
.x.so don't resist
we shall exist
until the day…
until the day I die.x.
The knock at the door pulled me from my reverie, and I dropped her hair that I'd been playing with, wondering if it was her hair that he loved so much.
"Hey, can I come in?" he called gently. I recognized his voice in a second. I didn't need to see him, I knew it was him, I could feel it. I looked from the door to the corpse before me and knew that my moment was about to come. I cleared my throat and called for him to come in. Perhaps through the door he could not hear the differences in our voices.
He stepped into the room, wearing the pants he wore in the ring, a loose t-shirt on top of them. I stared in admiration and he pulled fuzz out of the Velcro on his glove, not looking at us just yet. "Listen, I have an idea for that segment tonight," he said, his voice gentle and kind, the way it had been before she'd ruined him.
I said nothing and just stared, waiting for him to see me. See me, Kane. Love me.
When he lifted his eyes he froze and said nothing. He just stared, focused on that gash in the middle of her face, the mess of her stomach that I'd created. He looked from the ruin of her body to me, sitting there beside it, covered in her blood. It was not my blood that covered me, and he knew it. That was why he didn't ask if I was okay, he knew that I was fine. And he didn't need to worry.
"Uhh…" his voice was tight and frightened, and he staggered backward. He stared at me, at my mouth. The blood on my mouth was not mine, it was hers. He must've been scared that I was hurt.
"My lip is fine," I told him, to make him relax. "I'm fine, really, Kane. I promise. She hit me, and it's a little swollen, but it isn't my blood, it's hers."
His mouth twitched and pressed closed. He was so scared for me, and so shocked that I would do this. I stood up, reaching my hands out to make him stop fretting. "Listen, I know that you thought she was having your baby, but-"
"What?" he asked, on the verge of tears. I didn't want him to cry, that was the last of my intentions.
"She was lying to you, she wasn't even pregnant! I swear that she wasn't! She was just trying to use you, Kane," I told him, my voice on a slow, frustrated rise. At full volume I began to shriek. "I couldn't let her do that to you, Kane! You've suffered enough! I don't want you to hurt anymore!"
He dropped his glove and backed away from me, covered his mouth with his hand. "What have you done?" he mumbled. "What did you fucking do?" he said, more to himself than to me. I tried to approach him, embrace him, comfort him, but he backed away further. "Don't come any closer," he shouted at me, his hand off of his mouth and pointing at me. He was shaking.
"But Kane…"
"Stay the fuck away from me, stay where you are!" he screamed, his eyes going past me and onto Lita's body.
My eye twitched. "But…" my voice buckled, even I could hear how fragile it was. "I did this for you…" I whispered.
"What's all this screaming?" I could tell it was Matt by his drawl, I could hear it from in the hallway. Kane's eyes widened and he spun around, turning his back to me, darting to the door. I saw him lift his hands to press against Matt's chest.
"Don't," he begged. "Don't go in there, Matt," he said. I frowned, I didn't know why he was being so nice.
"What?" Matt's eyebrows came together. "What's wrong? What happened?" his voice was full of worry. "Let me through, what happened?" he sounded frantic.
I glared into Kane's back. I couldn't help it. I glared at him, angry with him for not thanking me, for not showering me with his love. He should have, I was supposed to be with him. He was mine, he was all mine.
Lita's dead eyes were glazed over with film but still locked on me. I stared down at her, and kicked her, and screamed, still hating her. I took the axe again, and marched over to Kane. I didn't want to kill him, I just wanted to make him understand. I didn't plan on hurting him permanently. I swung the axe like a bat, hitting him in the side of the head with the handle.
When he fell to his knees I knew that we would be together forever. When I saw the look of horror on Matt's face, and the instant tears gushing from his eyes, I started to laugh.
"Ms. Greenwald, why did you commit this crime?" the detective asks me. I shake my head in frustration.
"My name is Holly. Molly Holly! I don't know who you're talking about!" my hands, still cuffed together, reach up to hold my head, grabbing and pulling at my short hair. The world is insane, and I'm not. I don't understand, and I cry harder. "I did it for him," I cry out.
"For who?" he asks me patiently.
"For KANE," I cry out. "SHE WAS HURTING HIM! I JUST WANTED TO MAKE IT RIGHT AGAIN!!!"
He looks as confused as I feel. "Do you mean Mr. Jacobs?"
"WHO?!" I slam my fists against the table, feeling the pain in my wrists.
"Mr. Jacobs, one of your co-workers. Glenn Jacobs, you assaulted him at the crime scene. Ms. Greenwald, I need you to calm down and cooperate with me."
I scream.
When I close my eyes I see his face. He will love me, he will help me out of this. All mine, you have to be. All mine, you have to be.
"Nora Greenwald, why did you murder Amy Dumas?"
He guided my hands. They were not mine.
I did not do this.
That is not my name.