--
Ric gazed at the razor in his hand. He'd locked the bathroom door, so he was free to do anything. No one could stop him. The only other person in the house was Beth, and she trusted him. But if she found out what he was trying to do, she probably wouldn't anymore.
He sighed at his wrists, which were heavily wrapped. Maybe he could unwrap them and then wrap them back to the way they were . . . when he was done. That way, no one would notice. . . maybe. Or he could just not do it at all, and he could rehabilitate with no problems.
He returned to his thoughts, that no one would care, and began to unwrap his wounds. He remembered WrestleMania 8. The fans care back then. They love to hate him, and best of all, he was in his prime, unlike now. He thought of that heart attack he had in Old WCW. They cared back then. They even flooded the hospital with phone calls, asking if he'd be okay.
But all of that was a long time ago. No one cared anymore. He wondered what he did to deserve it. Was he in for it from the start, or was it something he did wrong down the line? He smiled at the memory of DDP's autobiography. "Real World's Champion," Diamond called him. That meant so much to Ric. People always saw him as a legend, an icon, a hero. But DDP saw him as 'real'.
He frowned at his now-visible wrist. The stitches looked awful and ruined his intentions. He sighed, "Damn it." He then wrapped it and glared at his reflection.
He hated what he had become. He used to be a lid back man who was in his prime. 'Best Ever', they'd call him, but not anymore. He wished he had a friend now. Arn, Charles, or Diamond. Anyone. Sure, Beth was there, but he didn't want to worry her any more than she already was. He let out a frustrated sigh, realizing he was probably worrying her right now.
He looked at his forearm. It was like his wrists used to be: clean of any scars. He took the razor and watched it tremble, with his hand. If he did it, Beth would notice. But it'd be too late for anyone to stop him. They'd keep a closer eye on him but that's all. And he'd stay home longer from WWE longer, so the fans wouldn't have to see him.
As he brought the blade to his skin, a knock on the door stopped him. "Ric?" Beth's voice asked. Ric's head snapped up and he glared at the door. "Are you okay?" He looked at his razor and began to contemplate second thoughts.
"I . . ." he uttered, unsure how to answer. Could he tell her? Could she keep it a secret? "Of course not," he whispered. She'd probably kick him out if he kept doing it, or kept trying. . . . He thought about that. She wouldn't do that far. He did used to be into steroids in the 80's for a little while, but she helped him through that.
Before he could think it through, he heard the jingle of keys. His eyes darted to the doorknob. Clever wife, he had; she brought the key. He couldn't blame her for that. She was worried as hell about him. He felt awful about that.
His wife, a lively, happy, beautiful woman - his best friend - was so down now, and he caused it. He hoped she didn't think his doing was her fault. It had nothing to do with her. She'd been nothing but supportive throughout the entire time they knew each other.
He dropped the blade into the sink just as she came in. Her expression was calm and caring, as if she honestly didn't know what he was doing. She came up to him and placed her hands on the sides of his arms, almost protectively. She glanced at the sink and spotted the razor blade.
She turned to him, "Did you do it?" Ric showed her his arms, to prove he hadn't. He saw a bit of happiness in her eyes. Relief, even, since she'd came to him just in time.
"Leave it be, Ric. It won't get any better, you won't get any better, if you keep trying to do it."
Beth took the blade out of the sink and left the bathroom. Ric watched her leave and then followed. They went into their bedroom and Beth, still serious, remarked, "They're coming here tomorrow. They want you to be there."
Ric tilted his head, confused, "But Vince said I could take as long as I wanted."
He watched as Beth stepped into their bathroom and came out, empty handed. He wondered what she did with it, but decided he wasn't desperate enough to ask. Or look, for that matter.
"I know, but it's not every day they come to Charlotte. Plus, it's important you be there." She smiled.
Ric blinked, "Just because it's my hometown doesn't mean they want to see me." Beth shook her head, "No, it's not about them. It's someone else." She left it at that and exited the room.
Ric stayed where he was, with no idea of what she was talking about.
--
Ric gazed at the razor in his hand. He'd locked the bathroom door, so he was free to do anything. No one could stop him. The only other person in the house was Beth, and she trusted him. But if she found out what he was trying to do, she probably wouldn't anymore.
He sighed at his wrists, which were heavily wrapped. Maybe he could unwrap them and then wrap them back to the way they were . . . when he was done. That way, no one would notice. . . maybe. Or he could just not do it at all, and he could rehabilitate with no problems.
He returned to his thoughts, that no one would care, and began to unwrap his wounds. He remembered WrestleMania 8. The fans care back then. They love to hate him, and best of all, he was in his prime, unlike now. He thought of that heart attack he had in Old WCW. They cared back then. They even flooded the hospital with phone calls, asking if he'd be okay.
But all of that was a long time ago. No one cared anymore. He wondered what he did to deserve it. Was he in for it from the start, or was it something he did wrong down the line? He smiled at the memory of DDP's autobiography. "Real World's Champion," Diamond called him. That meant so much to Ric. People always saw him as a legend, an icon, a hero. But DDP saw him as 'real'.
He frowned at his now-visible wrist. The stitches looked awful and ruined his intentions. He sighed, "Damn it." He then wrapped it and glared at his reflection.
He hated what he had become. He used to be a lid back man who was in his prime. 'Best Ever', they'd call him, but not anymore. He wished he had a friend now. Arn, Charles, or Diamond. Anyone. Sure, Beth was there, but he didn't want to worry her any more than she already was. He let out a frustrated sigh, realizing he was probably worrying her right now.
He looked at his forearm. It was like his wrists used to be: clean of any scars. He took the razor and watched it tremble, with his hand. If he did it, Beth would notice. But it'd be too late for anyone to stop him. They'd keep a closer eye on him but that's all. And he'd stay home longer from WWE longer, so the fans wouldn't have to see him.
As he brought the blade to his skin, a knock on the door stopped him. "Ric?" Beth's voice asked. Ric's head snapped up and he glared at the door. "Are you okay?" He looked at his razor and began to contemplate second thoughts.
"I . . ." he uttered, unsure how to answer. Could he tell her? Could she keep it a secret? "Of course not," he whispered. She'd probably kick him out if he kept doing it, or kept trying. . . . He thought about that. She wouldn't do that far. He did used to be into steroids in the 80's for a little while, but she helped him through that.
Before he could think it through, he heard the jingle of keys. His eyes darted to the doorknob. Clever wife, he had; she brought the key. He couldn't blame her for that. She was worried as hell about him. He felt awful about that.
His wife, a lively, happy, beautiful woman - his best friend - was so down now, and he caused it. He hoped she didn't think his doing was her fault. It had nothing to do with her. She'd been nothing but supportive throughout the entire time they knew each other.
He dropped the blade into the sink just as she came in. Her expression was calm and caring, as if she honestly didn't know what he was doing. She came up to him and placed her hands on the sides of his arms, almost protectively. She glanced at the sink and spotted the razor blade.
She turned to him, "Did you do it?" Ric showed her his arms, to prove he hadn't. He saw a bit of happiness in her eyes. Relief, even, since she'd came to him just in time.
"Leave it be, Ric. It won't get any better, you won't get any better, if you keep trying to do it."
Beth took the blade out of the sink and left the bathroom. Ric watched her leave and then followed. They went into their bedroom and Beth, still serious, remarked, "They're coming here tomorrow. They want you to be there."
Ric tilted his head, confused, "But Vince said I could take as long as I wanted."
He watched as Beth stepped into their bathroom and came out, empty handed. He wondered what she did with it, but decided he wasn't desperate enough to ask. Or look, for that matter.
"I know, but it's not every day they come to Charlotte. Plus, it's important you be there." She smiled.
Ric blinked, "Just because it's my hometown doesn't mean they want to see me." Beth shook her head, "No, it's not about them. It's someone else." She left it at that and exited the room.
Ric stayed where he was, with no idea of what she was talking about.
--