Chapter 52: Misery Loves My Company

Ten of these ~ is a time change

Four of these • is a pov change

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the wrestlers mentioned in this story, or anything pertaining to WWE and TNA. I am well aware that the ages of the wrestlers in this fic don't match the time period of the fic. (I found it more sympathetic and believable for them to be younger, and that they'd garner more pity with a greater age difference.) I also moved AJ and Punk's marriage up a year. It was necessary to my story. Sue me. Violence, disturbing torture, blood, angst, language, slash, smut, (in earlier chapters) non-con/rape (in earlier chapters, mentions of rape (earlier and later chapters)

SONG: MISERY LOVES MY COMPANY BY THREE DAYS GRACE

I am in control,

Not over yet. Ugh. He's a giant mountain of a man, white, in his mid-30's, easily 275 pounds of muscle standing 6'3". I've been wary of large, muscular men since I escaped. Just something about them makes me painfully aware of what they could do to me if they wanted to. And I get the sense that this guy wants to. He has his jet black hair buzz cut. He looks like he'll burst out of his stiff suit. His eyes are as dark and sinister as a bottomless pit.

I haven't lost my mind.

I get bad vibes from him immediately. Everything about him is wrong, from his intimidating size to his furious glare to his knowledge of what his clients did to me. Not to mention the fact that my testimony incriminates them unquestionably. I know exactly how strong he is and he knows exactly how weak I am. Weak? You're not weak. You survived. You beat them. But it still sticks in my throat.

I'm picking up the pieces of the past you left behind.

He's already got the upper hand and he hasn't asked me a single question. The nagging thought in the back of my head: he's gonna come fuck you up when the trial is over. What's stopping him? Nothing.

"The question I would like to lead with is simply, 'what proof is there that this whole ordeal was non-consensual?'" I almost want to laugh.

"Are you kidding me?"

"I am not one to judge others… personal preferences. And I don't believe this is a laughing matter, Mr. Brooks."

"Yeah, me neither. Do I look like I enjoyed that? Why in God's name would I be okay with being whipped, drowned, burned, tazed, yelled at, insulted, emotionally scarred and forced to watch my best friend be dismantled? I have serious PTSD from this. That's what soldiers get. When they come home from war. Does that sound like your idea of a good time, Mr. Big Intimidating Defense Attorney?"

"That would be Hertz, Mr. Brooks. Demetri Hertz."

I don't need your condescending words about me looking lonely.

"Cool. My friends call me CM Punk, which you are not. Now that we're acquainted, maybe we can go to Sunday brunch sometime and have tea, and start a sewing circle, and talk about the pathetic attempt at a defense you gave for your clients. Up until then, I suggest you stop wasting everyone's time and ask questions that at least make a tiny little bit of sense." He glares at me.

"Mr. Brooks, if you're prepared to take this seriously, please inform me of the reason why you do not want Brock Lesnar, Randal Orton and Glenn Jacobs to be punished for their crimes against you?" I falter for a second while I choose my words carefully.

"Glenn Jacobs was not in his right mind. Paul Heyman manipulated him, he had no conscious awareness of his actions."

"How do you know that?"

"I work with Glenn for World Wrestling Entertainment. He suffers from Intermittent Explosive Disorder. He gets these fits of rage where he doesn't know what he's doing. Paul catalyzed one within him, and he was under the influence of his affliction while in the basement. He's just as much a victim as I am. He's getting professional help."

"And the others?"

"I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they affected me bad enough to bring it into a court of law." I don't say it, but the more I think about it, the more I realize why it's so important to me that they 'get away' with this. I theorize about Brock. There's a real good possibility that Paul did something to him, like a way mild version of what he did to me, and that's why a crazy bastard like him is so submissive to a non-threatening type of person like Paul. If that's the case, I don't really know how much I can hold him accountable for what he did. He's just a puppet in Paul's grand show, a victim, a casualty, just like me.

I don't need your arms to hold me,

I know, better than anyone, how it feels to be manipulated by Paul Heyman. Ten years, that two-faced prick manipulated me. So even a little thing, like how Paul's been with Lesnar since day one, if he were to threaten that relationship in any way, Brock would panic. Paul has a way of making people feel like they owe him. Somehow, he forced Brock into doing something he had no real desire to do, and did it in a way in which he didn't feel forced into it and somehow 'had' the desire to do it. And Randal? Randal is sick in the head. I don't know if that's an excuse or not, but I'd much rather he stick around in WWE, where I'll be soon, so I can show him just how okay I really am. I think that's another way the basement changed me. I can actually find it in myself to forgive these guys, they were really just pawns in the game. Maybe not Randal so much. But the others, I can at least try to understand where they're coming from and why they felt they had to. I honestly just feel sorry for the two of them, Glenn with his IED and Brock with his debt to pay to Paul Heyman.

cause misery is waiting on me.

Randal has his own issues, whether they're his fault or not is up for debate. In any event, they get a break, in my head, so they should get a break in court. It's really my decision anyway, isn't it? I'm the victim, after all.

I am not alone,

"Are you sure that's why?" His baritone voice is accusatory.

"Do you think I have a different motive behind my request?"

"Yes, I do. My theory, Mr. Brooks, is that you coerced these three men into framing my clients." That's fucking ridiculous. My eyebrows knit together.

"How's that?"

"You talked Randal, Brock, and Glenn into convincing my clients to commit the crimes they've been accused of, so you could bring video evidence into the trial that 'proves'," he makes air quotes with his fingers, "that they are guilty. You're trying to free those men from blame because they aided you in your scheme. Your goal was to get my clients thrown into jail, by any means necessary. They're the real victims here, and you're the criminal."

"Objection, your honor!"

"On what grounds?"

"He's browbeating the witness!"

"Overturned."

not beaten down just yet,

The defense attorney smirks.

"It was quite the performance, I'll give you that, Mr. Brooks. Your little reaction to those videos." He assumes a mocking tone. "What with your inner turmoil, and your crocodile tears. You sure made it seem like it was hard for you to watch. Had the jury eating out of the palm of your hand. I'm not so easily won." I laugh a little. "Would you please educate me on what is so humorous, sir?"

"Your theory is humorous. First off, those freaking videos were hard as hell to watch. But they're an important part of getting the low-down, dirty bastards who did it to me thrown in jail. Where they belong. And your story? It's full of holes. Why would I voluntarily get the crap kicked out of me again and again and again just to incriminate somebody innocent? Paul, to my knowledge at the time, was a great friend and an important part of my life. It's no secret that I owe my whole career in WWE to him. Why would I want to get him put in jail? Another thing, if Paul and Hunter," Hunter isn't his real name… force of habit. "Excuse me, Paul and Paul, are innocent, why have they been smiling like that at me this whole time?" As I point their way, they quickly put their heads down. I laugh dryly again. "Yeah, you'll stop it now. I hate to break it to you, but they're guilty. There's no way around that. Even if I did 'convince'", now it's my turn to make air quotes, "them to put me through hell, they still did it. So they're guilty, even if your crackpot story were to be true, which it isn't. Clearly. You've got a college degree in law and you couldn't think of a better story than that? I would love to see you try to prove it." My confidence returned in some capacity while I picked apart his idiotic presumption.

I am not afraid of the voices in my head.

Guess you gotta grasp at straws when you're in his position. He fumes at me, his face turning red. He's gonna kick my ass, I know it. Might as well make the most of this while I still can think straight. "You lost this case before it even started. The truth is unquestionably, irrevocably, blatantly obvious. Paul Heyman and Paul Levesque orchestrated a plan against me and my best friend to take out their anger on us in a violent, sadistic manner. That's all there is to it." As he stares daggers at me I force myself to look back at him in smug confidence.

Down the darkest road,

"Is that so?"

"Sure is."

"Then how do you explain this?" He pulls out an old-fashioned tape recorder and presses the play button. Sure as shoe leather, my voice comes from it. Disjointed, but my voice nonetheless.

something follows me,

"And they trust you? When? Next Sunday? After our match? Perfect. Make sure it's realistic." My stomach plummets. He picked apart pieces of those videos and mashed them together to create a bogus recording of me having a conversation with Brock. But I don't know how to prove it.

I am not alone,

I take a deep breath.

"You honestly expect anyone to buy that?"

"They aren't buying anything, Mr. Brooks. It's the truth."

"That's the biggest load of B.S. I've ever heard in my life."

cause misery loves my company.

"You obviously got those sound bits from the videos taken in the basement. You put that fake tape together to try and prove your false theory. I'm not even going to entertain the idea that I was behind all of this. It doesn't make a modicum of sense."

Leave me in the cold,

"Mr. Hertz, unless you'd like for me to charge you with perjury, I suggest you present relevant and reliable evidence, or you sit back down and allow Mr. Brooks to return to his seat." The judge booms from my right.

you better run away.

Demetri cowers like a kid getting scolded.

"Yes, Your Honor. The defense has no further questions for Mr. Brooks."

I'm going to dig a hole and bury all the memories we've made.

I smile to myself and get up to leave for my seat. As I walk past the creep, he discreetly puts something in my pocket. I pretend nothing happened, and sit down. I then take the note out of my pocket and unfold it.

I don't need your condescending words about me looking lonely.

Phillip

Mr. Heyman and Mr. Levesque have told me much about you. But those videos tell me all I need to know. You're not much of a man, are you? You seem afraid. Odd behavior for a professional wrestler, don't you think? Well, your testimony cost me my case today. You do not make a fool out of a man like me. However, if you'd like to prove to me that you are a man, I suggest you meet me behind the courthouse while the jury makes their decision. Or else.

-Demetri Hertz

My heart beats quicker. I knew this was coming, but I didn't want it to be true.

I don't need your arms to hold me, cause misery is waiting on me.

People start to get up around me and I realize the time Thorne spoke of is already here. Everyone moves towards the door, and I debate on whether I should just go or if I should tell Rory. On one hand, I don't particularly want to get my ass kicked by this great mountain of a man. On the other, I'm not afraid of him, and he's touched a nerve with me. On one hand, it's be smart to walk away. On the other, my goddamn pride is getting in the way again. On one hand, I'm playing right into his hands. On the other, I don't really care. Hmm. Why is the world so full of people who want to hurt me? I'm running out of time to make a decision.

I am not alone,

I get up and follow the wave of people towards the door. The sharp, bitter wind cuts right through my jacket and suddenly my mind is made up.

not beaten down just yet,

I'm ignoring those voices that tell me this is a bad idea.

I am not afraid of the voices in my head.

I creep down the narrow road on the side of the building. The shadow of the courthouse blots out the sun, leaving an ominous black path in my wake. Almost like an alley.

Down the darkest road,

As I hear his footsteps behind me I turn around and walk backwards a couple steps.

something follows me,

I try to keep the fear from my face as he backs me up, the anger drained from his expression to be replaced by a cocky sneer.

I am not alone,

I stumble on a rock and fall to the frozen ground.

cause misery loves my company.

Shockwaves course through my body at the impact, and I try to scramble back up, but the pavement is all black ice. Out of nowhere, he extends his hand out to help me up. I stare at it skeptically until he grins a little.

"C'mon." I grab it and he pulls me back to my feet. My mouth starts to form the words "what the hell" but he starts to explain before I get the chance. "Hey, hey, hey I'm on your side, alright?" I take a step backwards and look hard at him.

I am not alone,

"I need to talk to you, and I knew you wouldn't come if I just asked nicely. It was all an act, and it had to be. I had to be looking like I was defending them earnestly, and giving the most ridiculous excuses for evidence possible so it'd look like I was trying to manipulate the system. I want those," he shakes his head and air quotes," 'men' locked up too."

not beaten down just yet,

"I really admire your courage, Mr. Brooks—" I cut him off, making a face.

"Call me Punk."

"Alright, Punk. It takes almost inhuman guts to make it through all of that, and then come here to tell your story. You're very strong. But that's not why I need to talk to you. I believe Paul sent you a text message a couple months ago?"

"Mmhm. Scared me shitless."

I am not afraid of the voices in my head.

"Well Paul spilled his guts to me, because I was his lawyer. If you haven't figured it out, Paul couldn't have sent that message. He was in jail. However, the person who did could endanger your life. Paul kept a close eye on the Ring Of Honor roster, since yourself, Brian Danielson, Colby Lopez and other talented individuals arose from their ranks. He kept this under wraps as best as he could, but he had one man earmarked as the "next big thing" and for what I've heard, the kid is just a bad apple. Dangerous, too. That's why you need to know about it. Something Whitney, I think his ring name is—"

"Tomasso Ciampa." I know exactly who he's talking about.

Down the darkest road,

"Yeah, that's the one. So Tomasso went to visit Paul in jail and got his phone. Paul told him to send you that text, and instructed the kid to carry out Paul's unfinished plan. Because you were rescued, he didn't finish it. Tomasso is just an absolute psychopath, and I think you might be in danger. You need to protect yourself. That's all I needed to say. I'm sorry if I frightened you, I understand you've been through a lot and I'm thoroughly impressed with you."

something follows me,

He holds out his hand for me to shake it. As I grab it, he grins a little.

I am not alone,

"Thanks for the heads up, I owe you one."

"My pleasure… Punk."

cause misery loves my company.

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