A little over two years ago I used to write under the alias regrettable riot. After a decent hiatus, I find myself back here to hopefully shed some light on my favourite wrestlers as I imagine them to be in various situations.
I own none of the characters nor the music or names you may recognise in this one shot. Melina and John Hennigan/Nitro/Morrison belong to themselves.
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Strains of 'Paparazzi" rang through the arena, incomprehensible, drowned out by the screams and jeers of thousands of fans in the American Airlines Arena in Dallas. Rubbish litters the ring and children scream for attention as a cacophony of light streams from the Titantron.
Melina dutifully follows Johnny Nitro out from the Gorilla position, willing herself to smile.
The cracks in their relationship are obvious. Their carefully crafted façade has been a front for too long.
The way he dips her is careful, practiced.
There is no kiss where there once was. She touches his face gingerly, feeling regret and disgust radiate from within him. Their arms are entwined as they travel down the ramp. He looks at his belt,. at the roof, at the fans; at anyone and everyone but her. She swallows heavily, fluffing her hair, playing her part. He leads her up the stairs to the ring, holds her hand, accepts her blown kiss.
He doesn't smile.
She slides into a split.
He grits his teeth behind pursed lips.
He enters the ring, she saunters around him, resisting the urge to dig her nails into his chest as she trails her hand over his abdomen. He flinches, shrugging off his ring jacket. He's detached.
She can't touch him anymore. Can't reach inside the headspace he is in.
She had her chance.
On the opposite turnbuckle she poses. Poised. Preparing.
Nothing could have prepared her for this.
Their opponents enter, the match begins. She is tagged in but has no awareness of where she is or what she is doing. Her body goes through the familiar motions before he takes control, entering himself into the match with a sneer.
He is still angry.
Last night flashes through her mind.
She knew that Dave Batista would tower over her physically. She had no idea he would have the same power over her emotions. A twisted tangle of sheets is what she remembers. The anguish written across John's face as he opened the door. They hadn't been intimate for months yet she knew he still had hope they could reignite their spark.
He loved her.
The sound of a slap startles her from her revelry. Her eyes meet his for the first time since then. They're cold, black. His broken expression tugs at her heartstrings.
"My heart feels like it's on fire. One second it's in my throat, the next it's at the bottom of my stomach."
Sweat pores off his forehead underneath the bright lights. His hair, colours identical to hers, is matted. It lies damp upon his shoulders, obscuring his cheekbones, the scar beneath his left ear.
"I want to throw up."
Black smudges under his eyes show he hasn't slept. The irony of the situation is that after so long of dressing alike, they've never appeared as similar as they do now.
"I want to cry."
Mascara and eyeliner blend into a dirty river as they smudge her cheeks, now laced with tears. She blinks, wishing, praying, that if she closes her eyes this will all disappear.
It doesn't.
"I am crying."
His tears are intermingled with sweat as he breaks lose of a chokehold and turns his back to her, both figuratively and emotionally. She will never forget the look on his face. It haunts her.
"More than anything I want him to hold me in his arms like he did then. To let me cling to him and not let go. I've never wanted anything more than this."
A flash of a smirk to the crowd reminds her of everything she knew, knows, about him. His innocence, his strength, his compassion. His cutting wit. His physicality. His desire. She can no longer quantify these qualities in herself. Next to him, she is dirty. Beaten. Broken.
She loves him.
"The thought of him with someone else makes my stomach turn. To think of him looking at someone else the way he once looked at me makes my skin crawl."
He knocks her off the apron. Is this karma? Does it equal redemption?
No, of course not.
She is not so naïve to think a bruise would level the playing ground.
'
He looks concerned. Is concerned. Has to be concerned.
He is acting now. Just as she is.
She realises something. She wants him. Needs him.
He is vital to her survival, a light in the distance as she hopelessly claws her way through black oblivion.
She wants another chance.
"I can't promise it would be perfect. It wouldn't even be close."
The bell rings. They have lost.
He hesitates beside her. He should help her to her feet.
He can read her like a book. She wants forgiveness. She is sorry.
A single thought rattles through his head.
"I can do better."
Even now, they think in stereo.
"I wish I could treat him the way he deserves."
In sync.
"But I don't think she-"
"-he sees me like that. He-"
Gone is his lifeline. His better half, his other half. In her place is deceit, despair. Slowly, awkwardly, he offers her his hand. She looks on in wonder, but doesn't accept it.
She is surprised. Shocked. She stalls.
He takes this as a sign.
His hand retreats warily. His face falls.
She has made her choice.
He is rejected.
Their opponents have long since gone.
The crowd dissipates, few lingering to watch the downfall of World Wrestling Entertainment's Red Carpet Darlings.
They stand in unison.
Leave separately.
They are together. Together alone.
"-she doesn't want me. I wonder if she-"
"'-he ever did."
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