Pairings thus far: Minor mentionings of reluctant (ended) Miz/OCs(f), a one time consensual (ended) Miz/OC(m), Miz is growing more attached to Morrison, Shannon Moore has a girlfriend, one really small mention of (ended) Matt/Lita, Morrison/Melina, abusive yet questionable between both of Miz's personas, and faux Miz/Maryse
Another update for you guys! I actually intended for this chapter to have a bit more in it, but decided to not make it too long and save the rest for the next chapter. Plus it's like three in the morning here, so I'm sort of tired as well. :P I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing; four years of not writing is a long time and I need to shake some of this rustiness off! Anyway, thanks to everyone who's been reading and I hope you guys enjoy this latest installment!
Michael's fever ran cold. He, too, felt like a corpse when it came to his realization that this man's life ended at his own hands. Well, Miz's own hands. Who was this man, even? The man tied to his bedpost was chubby, pale, blond and burly, looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple of weeks. There were six stab wounds on his chest: one on each shoulder, one through his heart, one through his stomach, one crushing through the right side of his ribcage, and one more through his throat. Michael didn't recognize this man from backstage or anywhere in his neighborhood. Where did he even come from?
"Well, if you must know-"
"SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. I don't want to fucking know! Do you have ANY idea what you've done, Miz? Do you even care about our career?!"
"First of all…"
Intense, sudden pain exploded in Michael's head. He slapped his hands against his head as he fell over on his side away from the pile of puke he created just moments earlier. He released anguished cries of pain, falling only on deaf ears.
"Don't you EVER talk to me like that again, you hear me?! Or else I'll bring even MORE dead bodies for you to lose your lunch over!"
Tears quickly began to escape the professional wrestler's eye sockets the more the pain worsened. He loudly wept, praying for some sort of end to Miz's torture. Thinking became impossible for Michael at this point and his internal thoughts instead came out as painful screams. "Jesus, God, SOMEBODY! PLEASE!"
"Now now Mikey, you should know by now that those guys don't exist. I'm the only one here that does, quite frankly. And that brings me to my second point...our career? Our career?! You mean MY career, sweetheart! Nobody pays to see Michael Mizanin; they pay to see ME. They pay to see THE MIZ! I'M the star, I'M the professional wrestler, and you don't fucking forget that EVER!"
He just wanted Miz to shut up. The more he screamed in his head, the more pain Michael felt. He didn't know whether to be sorry for the guy tied to his bedpost or to be jealous! "My career...my career's over. My career...it's over!"
"Well, I wouldn't say that. Because, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, I found this guy in an alleyway next to the local dive. Down-on-his-luck nobody who looked to have stumbled out of the joint drunk off his ass and passed out against a dumpster. I made sure nobody saw me when I helped him to his feet and drove him back here. He didn't have a phone or anything on him. Nobody is gonna miss this schmuck."
Slowly, the pain began to subside. Mike didn't know if his prayers had been answered, or if Miz just got bored and felt he needed Michael at his best to clean his mess up. Either way, the Ohio native considered it a blessing for the brain-splitting pain to be leaving. Michael's ability to think came back, much to his relief. He feared the day he ever caused somebody to call the cops on him for his loud screaming.
"But...what about his clothes? Where's the murder weapon?"
"I have that covered, alright? You think I cleaned nothing up before giving you control again? All that you have to do is get rid of the body and clean your bedsheets! I basically did all of the hard work for you!"
"What if the police finds him?! Miz, my fingerprints are all over him!"
Michael heard a sigh from Miz, shortly followed by returning pain to his temples. Strangely enough, complete darkness while standing outside his front door also followed.
"There. Are you satisfied now? I got the icky dead person out of the house. You can stop bitching now."
Michael blinked, quickly looking at his hands. No blood was in physically in his hands, though for whatever reason he was now wearing his old pair of gloves he wore while he was still a tag team champion. He rubbed his hands all over over his head for wounds; nothing. Wanting a better look at his clothes, he bolted indoors, straight back into his bathroom. The first thing Michael noticed about his reflection was that not only was he cleaner than last time he saw himself, but he wasn't wearing the same clothes. The black "Bullet for My Valentine" t-shirt and blue jeans he sported earlier was now replaced by his old "Chick Magnet" ring gear minus the fedora and bandana combination. What was the purpose of Miz dressing him in this outfit? Irony?
Dreading what sight would be waiting for him in his bedroom, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard before slowly turning the doorknob. His hands were shaky, barely willing to put much effort in opening the door to a crime scene. But he knew he had to force himself to look at the damage Miz had done; after all, his career depended on it. He weakly pushed the door open and forced his eyes open.
Surprisingly enough, Miz kept his word. The room was spotless, the faint scent of Febreze lingering. Michael stepped inside and began to inspect. His bed was made up and the sheets lacked bloodstains. The corpse was gone, too. The room looked like it was brand new; like there was never any heinous crimes committed within its walls. He quickly glanced at the digital clock by the left side of the bed. 2:34 A.M; Miz has spent a lot of time covering his tracks. Michael glanced over at his fancy closet. Hoping Miz wasn't lazy in discarding the evidence, he hurried over and opened the double doors. He wasn't met with any foul odors or bloodstains, and Mike was finally able to take a deep breath.
"Just so I know I won't be getting into any trouble, is there anything else you want to show me or let me know of before I go to sleep?"
"Hmmm...nah. He was the only lucky customer tonight."
With no more words for the alternate personality, Michael left his closet and began stripping out of his outdated ring gear. Left only in his boxers, the young man glanced over at his bed. The thought that somebody was killed, tortured, and potentially violated in his own house-in his own bed made him nauseous; the simple fact it was his body doing these horrible actions was just the cherry on top of this rancid, vomit-inducing sundae.
Michael felt like if he were to go to sleep on this murder instrument, he'd spend the whole night dry-heaving. Lord only knew when he'd feel comfortable on his own bed again. For now, he didn't want to even think about what Miz had done; he was only grateful he couldn't remember the event himself. Trying to no longer think about it, Michael looked away from his bed and headed towards the guest bedroom.
Sleep never came that night. Even when purposely avoiding his own bedroom, Michael couldn't get the sight of the stranger's naked, dead body out of his mind. The man's body would pop up like a jump scare every time he tried to think of something else. His upcoming United States Championship reign? Six stab wounds to the chest. His mother calling him to tell him how proud she is? Face covered in blood. John wrapping his arm around him, congratulating him with his warm, sexy grin? "This body really, really enjoyed fucking that man's asshole."
With Miz's words, any hope of slumber was lost. Michael sat up from the guest bed, staring at the wall in front of him. It seemed far too often that the professional wrestler's own worst enemy was his tendency to think way, WAY too much. Of course, he knew damn well who the real enemy was...but he'd never actually go and say who it was unless he wanted another corpse tied to his bedpost.
Michael knew more than ever now that he needed help. It's always easy to say that he could just deal with Miz always talking to him and never tell anyone, but this time things have changed. Miz killed somebody-MICHAEL killed somebody! He needed to get down to the very root of this condition of his and figure out what needed to be done to make himself whole again.
But how? How could Michael just go and casually tell someone, "Hey! So yeah, I'm totally fucking crazy and I just killed some dude I've never met. Strange, right?!" It was idiotic to even assume he could do this without any kind of punishment! This would be yet another secret for Michael to shelve off in the "restricted" section of his memories; right next to his homosexuality and his love for John Hennigan.
So, as pathetic as it was, all that Michael could do right now was sit on the bed, roughly grip at the bedsheets as some kind of pointless means of maintaining his control, and cry in the silence of his expensive L.A. home while he waited for the night to end.
And he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Before he knew it, dawn was cracking through the window. The sunrise threatened to blind him as he stepped out of bed to brew a pot of coffee. He entered the kitchen and emptied the water from the coffee maker into the sink. He proceeded in filling the coffee grounds into the top and pressing the 'brew' button. He sighed, patiently waiting for his coffee to finish brewing. What else did he have to do today? He wanted to do nothing that would encourage Miz to act up as had before.
And then it hit him that John and he were supposed to hang out at noon.
"Oh man...can I even face John right now? I don't think-"
"Why the hell are you so worried? I hid the fucking body, did I not? NOBODY'S going to find out!"
"But I feel so...so dirty! My body did more than just kill that man, Miz."
"Heh, you don't think I know? Shit, I'M the one who fucked his brains out!"
"I don't even remember doing that! I don't even know who that guy was! I need to probably just forget drinking any damn coffee and just stay in the shower until he shows up."
"Who? John? Why are you so...oh. I get what's going on here!"
"What?"
"You feel guilty for fucking somebody who isn't John. Well, first off let me tell you that that makes you sound like a goddamn pussy. Secondly, why the hell is this even an issue? Don't you remember that he couldn't take his dick out of Melina for two seconds to talk to you yesterday? Why shouldn't you go and get your rocks off somewhere?"
"One, I didn't fuck anybody yesterday; YOU did. YOU'RE the one who got YOUR rocks off. As far as I'm concerned, I'm still a hopeless virgin even if my body isn't. Two, it's an issue because YOU KILLED THAT MAN! I don't remember anything about what happened; for all I know, you raped him as well! Nobody would understand that this body has more than one personality; they'd just see me as a whole. That makes me a rapist, Miz. I don't want to be labeled a fucking rapist!"
"IF they find the guy! You keep implying that he's going to be found! It's almost as if you don't trust me when I say that I hid him somewhere nobody will ever, EVER find him. You know how I get when you don't put your trust in me, Mikey."
"I...I trust you."
"Good! Now drop it and drink your coffee. You got a big day ahead of you, after all!"
