The Rest Will Follow

A/N: My biggest source of inspiration in writing has always come from music. And I can't really pin point all of the songs that went into inspiring this one (like Nothing Compares, it has it's own soundtrack), but it kinda came out of nowhere. And I like it. So we'll see what y'all think.


Prologue

February 1, 2006

I'll never be accused of being the brightest crayon in the box, and I know that. It's not like I haven't earned the perception or anything. If anything, I'm an idealist. I like to think that the world is just as I see it, and I guess that's a little bit naive. Stupid, if you wanna put it that way. Some people say that it's a catalyst for change, seeing the world as you think it should be and then working toward making it that way. Others say it's turning a blind eye to reality and living in a dream world. Honestly, I don't know which is which any more.

I think I can finally admit that I don't know much of anything. I've really never thought of myself as complex. I've always kinda been a 'what you see is what you get' guy. Arrogant. Cocky. Asshole. Yeah, I'm those things. I call bull shit for what it is, and I'd rather let my actions, no matter how despicable you might find them, speak for me. I really don't like to talk that much, but I'm not hard to figure out. You do some shit to piss me off, I blow up. You say something that I think is funny, I laugh. There's never been a big secret to unlocking Randy Orton. Just pay attention, you'll figure it out.

I don't wanna sound like a cliche, but come on now. That's what I am, isn't it? I'm a clean cut guy who looks good in a suit, but I've got enough tattoos to keep me from being too All-American. I can charm the pants off your mother, your sister, and your girlfriend. Hell, let's get it all out there, I could probably charm your boyfriend outta his skivvies, too, if I wanted to. But there's enough cocky bastard in my smirk to keep me from being boring. I play the company card when I have to, throw my arm around my dad and rave about family tradition, but I'll stomp a hole in your head if you fuck with me. I am the stereotypical, priviledged frat boy.

So why should it be any surprise that my disillusionment, the crumbling of everything I thought I knew, centers around a woman? A femme fatale who I should have known better than to get involved with in the first place. Tale as old as time, right? Boy meets girl, falls madly in love, and the world falls apart. It's really not original.

When John started dating Maria, and Maria decided that I should start dating her friend Tatum, it was kind of cute. I mean, Maria's adorable, let's be honest, and it's hard to tell her 'no' when she looks at you with those big, brown eyes and smiles that innocent grin. And in the interest of full disclosure, I have to confess I hoped that her friend would pretty much be her long-lost twin sister.

She wasn't. But she was better.

Tatum isn't legs and boobs and hair. In fact, she's kinda short, with a short, messy mop, and little rack to speak of. But she's got something. Something undeniably sexy. Maybe it's her walk, the way she rolls her hips when she moves and the way her pants always sit just a little too low to be coincidental. Maybe it's the intensity of her dark eyes, staring into you like she could see your bull shit if you ever decide to try some on her. Maybe it's the way she sinks back into a chair and dares you to challenge whatever she's just said or done.

I don't know what it is, exactly, but I know that I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Still do. Can't stop falling for it, if I'm honest. She's far from perfect, but dammit if I can ever remember that when she's wide awake and staring at me with those eyes, nibbling on her bottom lip, and giving the me 'you know you can't stay mad at me' face.

I can't. And that's why I have to leave. Because no matter how stupid I can be, I'm smart enough to know that this shit isn't going to get better as long as I stay. As long as I am here, with her, neither of us is ever going to get better. She's never going to get better. And one of these days, I'm not going to come home to find her passed out. I'm going to find her dead. I can't do that. I just can't.

I guess I should be proud of the fact that I, the guy who never hides anything and just is who he is, has kept this mess a secret for so long. Maybe I should pat myself on the back for never letting on, never even telling John and Maria how bad it's gotten. On some level, I think I should probably hold my head high because nobody knows that my girlfriend is an alcoholic junkie.

But it's never been shame that weighs me down when it comes to Tatum. It's always been fear. Fear that I can't save her, that I'm not enough for her, that she'll never be able to survive without me. She tells me that all the time, that she needs me and that she would die without me. Not in a melodramatic way. In the way that an addict who's on the brink of an OD tells the only person there to clean up the mess. In the most honest and vulnerable times, when the alcohol and the drugs have numbed the lying part of her brain, she desparately needs me.

Maybe it's wrong that it took something like this weekend to finally make me see that it's a lie. It was just the Royal Rumble, I guess. I mean, I wasn't in a championship match, and I knew I wasn't going to win the thing. But she promised that she would be there. Again. And she wasn't. Again. She left three messages on my phone to let me know that she hadn't meant to miss the flight, but she had a headache the morning of and just couldn't make it to the airport. She was hungover, but we don't use that word. Makes it seem like she has a problem.

When I got home last night, she was lying on the couch, one arm falling limply over the edge as she stared at the television. I'm not sure what she took, how she got like this, but the liquor and pill bottles on the coffee table, and littering the floor around it, tell me it was probably a nice, big combo platter. She's beyond the point of picking a favorite now. She uses whatever she has, and if it doesn't work, she adds a dash of this and a pinch of that until she's floating beyond this plane of existence.

She opened her eyes when I lifted her from the couch, but even when her eyes met mine, I could tell she wasn't seeing me. She wasn't looking through me like she used to when she was sober. When her mouth opened, I thought for a second that she might be ready to thank me for saving her again, that she was going to tell me how she couldn't live without me. And then she licked her lips and rolled her head against my chest, heaving an exhausted sigh without words.

And that's when I knew that it was over. It had to be over. I told myself to sleep on it, that it might look different in the morning, but who am I kidding? I knew I wasn't going to sleep. I've just been sitting here, in a chair next to the bed, watching her face as she sleeps. The dark circles that extend to her cheekbones, the way her eyes seem so far-set in her head now. The gaunt way that her skin stretches over the skeletal structure of her face. Her shaggy hair, once so meticulously sculpted to look haphazard, now juts out across the pillow carelessly. Her collarbone protrudes dangerously from her body, and I'm almost surprised that it hasn't poked through her translucent skin.

She is a zombie. My beautiful Tatum is the walking dead. Staying isn't going to bring her back to life. It can't. It only provides shelter from the cold reality of her problems. It's me telling myself that it's not that bad, that we can make it better together. It's her telling herself that she doesn't have to fix the problem if I'm there to do it for her.

She needs me, I tell myself. She couldn't survive without me? Who am I? Yeah, in the ring, I'm the Legend Killer, but here? In this room with her? I'm just a guy. A guy in love with a junkie. A junkie who has equal need for me and the crank that she smokes from a piece of foil in the kitchen. She's lost herself in us, the drugs and our relationship. I'm about to lose myself in the desparation and helplessness that I feel for her.

Standing from the bed, I run my fingers over the soft skin of her face, dragging a dark strand of her short hair behind her ear. I can't help smiling just slightly at the velvet touch. But it's not a smile of joy or pure desire, not like I used to feel. It's the smile of someone who can't afford to break down now, who can't let the real emotions surface for fear of pulling her to my chest and never letting go.

With one final sniffle, I pull the covers a little higher on her chest and check the bedside table. There's water waiting, for when she wakes from the crash, dehydrated and aching. And there is a note. Cowardly, I know, but I can't do it if she looks me in the eye. And I have to do it. I have to walk away. Now.