Rejection.
Title: Rejection
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I held out my hand. Waited for her to shake it. Accept it. She didn't. I was rejected by a Mother. Again.
Disclaimer: Nothing related to the WWE belongs to me.
Authors Notes: This is my first wrestling fanfiction. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.
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I held out my hand. Waited for her to shake it. Accept it. She didn't. I was rejected by a Mother. Again.
It seemed no matter how hard I tried, my efforts were futile. First my Mom. Then, numerous Mom's of highschool girlfriends. And now, my opponents Mom. All refused to accept me. None of them wanted anything to do with me; Brock Lesnar.
Looking back is hard for me, but I do it anyway. If only to remind myself that being nice isn't worth it. No matter how hard I try, the result is the same: rejection. From everyone. Mothers, girlfriends, buddies, co-workers and fans. I do not belong with any of them. They do not want me.
Today was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The dismissal from Zac's mother broke me. Sent me spiralling to the point of no return. Sitting here, in the locker room, all I see is darkness. Suffocating nothingness. Total despair.
I broke his only leg. Watched as his blood flowed from his head. There was so much blood. So much blood. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the image. It doesn't work.
I decide that it's my punishment. To watch what I did over and over again. To helplessly witness myself commit a horrendous crime.
His blood is still on my chest. Now it's dry and dark. A stark contrast to my bronzed skin. A painful reminder of who I am. The Real Brock Lesnar. A Manster.
Michael Cole is right. At Summerslam, Kurt should break every bone in my body. He should beat me to a pulp. Render me unconscious. Put me in the hospital for weeks. I wish he'd 'accidentally' cause my death. Unfortunately, that's never going to happen.
God, I used to be good. I tried so hard to defeat Vince. To keep him at bay. Kurt and I defended Zac against Vince. We defied the Devil. And look where it got me.
Condemned to Hell. Damned to serve Satan. Destined to do his dirty work. Fated to be an outcast.
I fought him tooth and nail at first. I wasn't going to be involved with Vince MacMahon. I was going to win back the WWE title fair and square. But he got to me. Messed with my head. Convinced me that he was the only person who would accept me for me. He wouldn't abandon me. Not like Kurt had.
After awhile the psychological shit he played worked. I turned, viciously, on Kurt Angle.
I set him up. Taught him a lesson. All the while, trying to defend myself against Vince's words. Somewhere inside me, I realise that if I had taken a moment to tell someone about my past, informed them of what Vince was doing, then I wouldn't be here now. If I had tried to save myself, then I wouldn't be sitting here wallowing in darkness, no bright light in sight.
In fact, if I had just tried full stop, then I'd be fine.
Years of rejection has made me bitter though. It's darkened my view on humanity. Having a Mother who would rather drink and party than see her son, has jaded me. Childhood trauma. The beginning of a troublesome descent into darkness. The start of my journey to hell.
Closing my eyes I see red. Blood red. First my Mothers. Her lifeless body, blue in the blood red water of a now cold bath. Then mine. From countless suicide attempts. Next the Undertaker's. A result of the hell in a cell match. After that, it's Brian Kendrick's, A.K.A Spanky. All over the ring, streaked down my chest. Finally it's Zac Gowen's. His blood everywhere. In the ring, out of the ring, on the ramp, on the stretcher, on his Mother's hands. On my hands. All over my hands.
I make my way to the sink, turning on the water I begin to rub furiously. The water must be scalding by now, but I don't feel it. Instead all I feel is the sticky wetness of His blood. It refuses to come off.
I scrub even more. Tears of frustration, pain and hopelessness building in my eyes. They threaten to fall. I won't let them. But, yet again, it's a wasted effort. The tears fall. Slowly at first. Then quicker, faster, more forceful. What started as a slow succession, soon becomes a torrent of tears. Accompanied by heart wrenching sobs.
Unbelievably the noise and tears are coming from me. My hand blurred by the salty water. Firmly I tell myself that Brock Lesnar doesn't cry. I keep defiantly doing so though.
I spare a thought to acknowledge, thankfully, that the door is locked. Having Vince walk in now would not be a good thing.
Vince.
He's going to be here soon. No doubt about it. He'll want to come in, congratulate me on a job well done. Pat me on the back for sending someone to the hospital. In a second I know that there'll be a pounding on the door. And I need to not be crying when that happens.
Resolutely I stop the tears. Wash my face and head towards the shower. I need to wash the blood off my chest. Get my body, if not my conscience clean. I set the water to the hottest setting and climb in. The heat burns, but I don't care. I let it burn away the blood and tears and sweat.
Drying off, I hear a knock on the door. A voice shouts my name and I tell them to hang on a minute. I pull on my clothes, making sure that there is no trace of my tears. Pleased that there isn't, I make my way to the door, unlocking and opening it. Revealing my boss. Vince MacMahon.
"Vince." I greet, my voice flat.
"Brock!" He exclaims, obviously pleased. He steps into the locker room. "What you did to Zac? Ingenious." I remain silent for a moment. Thinking of a suitable dark comment.
"It was nothing." I reply.
"It was everything! It's about time that insolent kid was taught a lesson. And in front of his family too! Brilliant. A job well done Brock. A job very well done!" I smile, a twisted smile. One that should keep Vince believing I enjoyed doing what I did. He looks at me and the room. "Leaving so soon?" He questions.
"Yeah." I answer, noncommittally.
"Well don't." He orders. "I want you out there at the end of Kurt Angle's match, win or lose." With that he walks out of the room. Leaving me alone, yet again.
I shut the door, deflated. I am too tired. Too tired to argue. I will go out at the end of Kurt's match. I will look him in the eyes and I will play the part. I will act like the Manster everyone expects me to be.
But for now, in these few sacred minutes I have, I will simply be. I will sit here and just breathe. I will not move until I have too. Rather, I will plan. I am going to get away from Vince. I will not be the Real Brock Lesnar anymore. I refuse.
My Mother my have rejected me. But Vince MacMahon is using me. Something I think is far worse. Something that he will, soon, no longer be able to do.
I am my own person. I belong to me. That's the way it has always been and that's the way it will continue to be. But first I need a plan.
I close my eyes and somewhere in the distance I see the faint glow of a light in the darkness.
The End.