The Next Monday

Phil's sudden, and somewhat uncalled for, alliance with Paul Heyman had done more than turned a few heads. The other stars in the locker room seemed to look at him differently, even treat him differently – and the way that they treated him, well, it certainly wasn't respectful. Actually, it was more like he was trash. Trash that was unworthy to be beneath their feet. But Phil knew better. All of the others, they were only jealous.

He sat on the bench in the locker room and cuddled his WWE Title belt to his chest. However, for some reason, it didn't have the same warm, comforting effect that it normally did. In fact, it almost made him feel hollow. The title that he had worked so hard to defend had reverted back to what it actually was, a leather belt with gold plating. It wasn't his baby. His baby was dead. His stomach turned and he had to set the belt down and turn away.

That was when John Cena wandered over to him. The two had just finished their brutal tag team match and John Cena had come out as the victor, albeit a cheap victory. Phil had to commend him. That was one dedicated ref and one star (who, ironically, normally preached on and on about doing the right thing) who would walk away with any win that he could hold in his hands. It didn't matter how he earned it.

"Are you okay there, Phil?" John asked. He slid onto the bench beside Phil and turned to face the smaller man. "You look like the world is about to end."

Phil looked at him solemnly. "I just… I lost something very important to me and I can't seem to get it back." Phil confessed. He didn't venture into further detail, but John had a hunch.

"Are you still upset over the fact that you lost the match? Listen, Phil. It was a bad call by the ref. It's no reason to get your panties in a knot." John told him.

Phil stared into his eyes for a few seconds, before he looked away. "It's not about the match, John. It's about me not managing to be able to do anything right. I can't even carry…" here, he trailed off.

"Carry, what?" John pushed him to continue, but Phil just shook his head and stared down at his feet. "Phil."

"What?" Phil didn't look at him, but John could hear his voice start to tremble.

John smacked a hand onto the raven's shoulder in a show of silent support. "I just wanted to let you know that I'll be here for you when you're ready to talk. Don't ever feel like you have to hold it all inside, okay?"

Phil hesitated for a moment, before he nodded slowly. "Okay."

It was only after John had finally walked away from him that Phil allowed the tears to fall. What he had said was entirely true. He felt like such a failure. His entire life was unraveling before his eyes and he honestly had no idea what to do about it. First, Chris left. Then, Dolph started to abuse him, all the while threatening to tell Vince of his mental instability. And now, he couldn't even win a match.

But before he could further dwell on his own shortcomings, Paul Heyman made his way over to him, briefcase in hand. That could only mean one thing. Paul had taken into account the ref's blatant lack of respect for the champ and had found a way to sue WWE for the wrongful loss, which would cost Phil money. But, surprisingly, Phil had absolutely no interest in a law suit. All he wanted to do was climb into bed and sleep for a year.

"Great news, Punk. Great news. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line to receive your rematch – it will have a new ref and a no disqualification stipulation. What do you say?" Paul smiled his slimy smile.

Phil knew that that was an offer he just couldn't turn down. "I say… okay."

Phil made his way to his hotel room feeling more alone than ever. He didn't even have the comfort of Baby to calm him anymore. With a sigh, he opened the door and pushed it open to a seething Dolph. He quickly backtracked the past few hours in his mind to find a reason Dolph would be so pissed at him. He couldn't find one.

"What's wrong?" he asked weakly.

Dolph slapped him across the face hard. He stumbled back from the pain and clutched his face in his hands.

"I saw you talking to John Cena after your match," he hissed. "You let him put his filthy hands on you. I don't like him, Phil. I don't want you seeing him."

The pain made him woozy. "I'm a grown man, Dolph; the WWE Champion, no less. You can't tell me what to do."

Another blow from Dolph followed suit. This time it was a punch to the temple. Phil's knees buckled underneath him and he collapsed on the floor messily.

"I don't want you seeing him!" Dolph shouted at him. Tears formed at the corners of Phil's eyes.

"Please stop hitting me," he begged. "I won't see him again, Dolph, just please stop hitting me!"

Dolph grunted and took a step back. "Good. I'm going to the bar now. If you're not here when I get back, I'll tell Vince about that night you threw your knife at me and you'll lose your job like that."

Phil watched through blurry vision as Dolph slammed the door shut behind him. Once the door was shut, he allowed himself to cry pitifully. Too weak to walk, he crawled over to his bag and took out his knife. He propped himself up against the bed and stared at the knife in his hands while he continued crying. He didn't know what to do. His life just continued to unravel at the seams. How much longer could he take this?

He wiped his eyes with his fists and, teeth clenched, he sliced a large cut in his upper thigh. The blood spurted out of him, bright red, at a sickeningly quick rate.

"Shit," he grumbled to himself. He tried sopping up the blood with the tape on his wrists to no avail. Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and quickly dialed John.

"Hey, Phil, what's up?" John answered.

"John, can you come get 'e?" he slurred into the phone. "I'm gonna bleed out…"

"I'll be right there, Phil," John responded. He sounded worried for the younger man. Phil dropped the phone and stared at the door, praying John would get there soon. After a couple minutes, John appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry, I had to go down and get a key- holy shit, Phil, what have you done?!" John was at his side in moments calling an ambulance. Phil felt his eyes shut. He couldn't get them to open back up.

"I cut," he murmured quietly. His lungs were screaming for air, but he couldn't get enough, no matter how deeply he breathed. He felt John tie what felt like a belt right near his groin and pull tight. The blood stopped pulsing bright red spurts out of him. While the belt was still pulled tight, he felt a cotton-y material push down on his wound hard. The pain ultimately made him pass out.

"So, they don't know how, but you got a nice concussion to go along with the wound that severed your femoral artery," John explained to Phil, who had just woken up in the hospital. "Don't worry yourself, either; after the paramedics took you here, I went and found Ziggles, who thankfully wasn't too plastered to understand what was going on, and now he's just worried about you. I figured you'd want me to do that."

Phil nodded quickly. This made his stomach flip immediately. "Bucket!" he called to John desperately. He handed over the pink basin just in time for Phil to empty his stomach into it. He laid back, dizzy, and looked over at John again. "Thank you. Thank you for everything, John. I'd be dead right now if it weren't for you."

"What made you try to kill yourself?" John asked slowly. Phil felt his head spin aside from the concussion. Should he tell John? He didn't know if he was ready. But, come to think of it, would he ever be "ready"?

"A lot," Phil admitted quietly. His throat closed up before he could confess to John about the miscarriage. "Just, a lot, John. Sorry you had to see me like that."

Maybe another day…

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