Thanks to everybody who reviewed this story. It makes a very
big difference, as I'm sure you all know. (
A/N: You guys who reviewed earlier read another version of this chapter. This is the revamped one. The top part has only a few changes, but the bottom one is completely different. I realized what I needed to do when I uploaded it and realized my mistake.
Thanks to those who reviewed. And if you want to review again, that would be nifty too. ( ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* Chapter Five ~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*
"I'm not letting you go," Kurt stubbornly told Chris as he entered the freeway.
"Kurt, you don't control my life," Chris told him, trying to remain good-natured, but his patience was being sorely tested. "And I'm perfectly fine. I had a mental crash, but now I'm back and as good as ever. I'll talk to Vince, we'll sort everything out about the show tonight, and everything will be okay."
"I don't agree," Kurt said silkily.
"Well," Chris blurted, "my life does not have to agree with what you think."
Kurt did not answer. Chris felt immediately like a jerk. Kurt was his friend and he was trying to do what he thought was best. Chris could have at least accepted it kindly and graciously. He looked at Kurt, whose eyes were focused on the road intently. Ignoring him, most likely. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he sighed and slumped down in his seat.
The phone in the cup holder clanged. Kurt quickly glanced then, picked it up with one hand, and flipped it open. His gaze fixed on the caller ID for a moment, clouded his confusion, and he put the phone to his ear. "Hello. Who's this?"
Chris snuck a glance up at his friend. Kurt's mouth opened his wide surprise for a moment. His eyes became unfocused. His head dipped.
"Kurt?"
The car swerved across a lane of traffic, and Kurt's head surged upwards blindly, his eyes closed and upward through the glass. Chris felt a pang of fear as horns honked and cars banked wildly out of the way. Surprise took him and he started to yell. "Kurt, Kurt! KURT!"
Fear closed around him. Cars flew. Horns blew. Rhymes, rhyme! Oh jeez, I'm gonna die, Kurt's gonna kill us . . .
Chris thought that maybe it was only in reality five seconds from when Kurt had first swerved until he straightened, but for him, it was an eternity. The yellow lines in the asphalt dizzied him; the brown walls containing the freeway swirled into one cage. He felt sick.
But . . . slowly . . . he felt the car stopping. He felt his chest jolt and his legs kick under the dashboard involuntarily. Hardly breathing, Chris dared a look at his friend.
Kurt's head dropped, his eyes opened, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The car slowly straightened. His gaze refocused, his mouth closed, and he looked straight ahead into the freeway. He put the phone back in the cup holder and he slumped slightly back against the seat.
He maneuvered the car to the off ramp, made a sharp turn into a dusty street, and came to rest in a quiet neighborhood.
"Kurt . . ." Chris panted at him, his heart thundering and his head and arm aching fiercely. His back started to ache. "Kurt, what happened? Are you okay?"
"Yes." The voice was loud, too loud, forceful and raucous. "Everything's okay. I had my moment of temporary insanity, but I'm fine now." He was still loud, but now he was forcedly cheerful. "Sorry there, Chris. It was my fault. I hope nobody got hurt."
Chris didn't buy it. "Kurt, I don't believe you. What's wrong?" No way had Kurt just caused Chris's heart to plummet, make a mad charge into heaving cars, and stop in a quiet neighborhood where serial killers lurked for nothing. Serial killers?
"Nothing's wrong, Chris." Now his voice was ashamed. "I just lost my hearing for a second. When I lose that, it panics me. I'm sorry."
Chris was not as much astonished by Kurt's blatant statement, but at his bland lie. Kurt was, of course, deaf in one ear. Of course Chris knew that. But he was supposed to believe that Kurt's panic had been caused by a lost of hearing? What kind of idiot lie was that? Kurt played in the ring with the big boys every day. And he expected Chris to believe that?
Chris opened his mouth to speak.
"Just shut up, Chris. I'm sorry, okay?" His voice was pleading. "Drop it and let me drive."
Chris was shocked by this and dismayed that his friend would expect him to turn away from something like this.
"Kurt-"
"Chris, just leave me alone. I'll get us there."
Kurt's voice was sharp. Every fiber in Chris's being told him to fight against what Kurt had said.
But he decided, against everything that was just in him, to drop whatever issue had arisen. His head thudded painfully and arm stung like bees had attacked him. His back felt heavy and he wanted to suddenly fall into sleep.
"Fine, Kurt, whatever. Let's just keep going."
Kurt looked at him, and Chris felt his eyes. He stole a glance up, and found . . . disappointment?
"Sure, Chris. Let's go."
Uneasiness and pain colored Kurt's face. Chris could almost taste the thickness in the air when Kurt's heavy foot dropped on the engine. Something had troubled him, clearly, and Chris could not place what it was. He wanted to think about it more, ponder it, and turn it over in his head.
But his back ached and his head and his arm throbbed, and he wanted nothing more to sleep. Pain littered him, and he slumped down low in his seat, turned over toward the window, and made a cradle out of the seatbelt. He shut his eyes.
"Chris? Are you alright?"
Chris did not open his eyes. He clenched them in pain, and tried to keep it out of his voice. "Yeah, Kurt. Yeah."
He wasn't turned over. He didn't see, though he felt something, that Kurt was looking at him with concerned eyes, that Kurt's face was distorted in something of concern and confusion, and that his gaze, though also on Chris, was on the phone.
And Chris drifted into sleep, his head still cradled in the seatbelt, and with two words floating around his mind.
Serial killers.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
He quickened his pace along the hallway. Things were wrong. He could feel it in the atmosphere; it was too thick, too tense. He could feel it in his bones, trickling through his skin, seeping into his bloodstream, into his heart. He felt despair and an emptiness he could not describe.
He stopped at the door leading out into the parking structure. Everything in him told him to go through it, to run, and to search. His legs itched and his eyes started watering. He felt physical pain. He had to leave. He had to leave and find something . . . something that was lost and alone and scared.
His hand touched the doorknob, which immediately turned cold underneath his hand. No. He couldn't start losing it here. He had to be calm, cool, collected. He had a job to do here; he had moral obligations to produce. And if he bucked his moral obligations, then he would be no different than those he opposed.
But still, something . . . something important was lost.
He turned away from the door. Turned away from everything just in him told him to do.
He had duty elsewhere, but his duty was right before him . . . . his mind roamed the world. In Europe, he skimmed breezily over the Parliament; in the Middle East, he dipped over Jerusalem, and saw the lives being wasted there, dreams being killed; in Washington, he floated over the White House, saw a person who could have passed for the President. Nothing was wrong in these things; in fact, he had often spent many nights gazing lovingly into the orb of the world that he could summon into his mind. Nothing was different in these pictures.
But something was different elsewhere, something somewhere.
He muttered to himself, as he often did, "I have something to do. It's my duty."
Yet, wasn't protecting those who mattered his duty as well?
He had felt inklings earlier, his senses sharpening and special talent moving forward in passion. His enemy had moved, he guessed, but he didn't know why or when. He had felt that same suspicion, earlier, much, a week ago, when the earthquake had struck. It had been much stronger then. But now he felt it again, less sharp, less calling, less burning his mind, but he could still make it out in his mind.
Briefly, he let his mind soar into the building, the orb in his mind growing to absorb the enormity of the population. He saw nothing that wasn't unusual, saw no murderers, no crazies taking drugs, no parents abusing their children, as he often saw. Nothing to arouse his suspicion. Nothing here.
"Hey, Hardy."
The voice dragged him from his thoughts and brought him back to the world. "Yeah?"
"You okay, Matt? You're staring off into nothing. Have any drugs I can buy?"
Bradshaw was poking fun at him, again, but Matt didn't have any time for this. He needed to head to his match, finish it, and leave. To . . . find the thing that was lost and perhaps help put something back on its track.
"Nothing, Bradshaw. Nothing at all. I just have to go and wrestle and I'll be done. See ya." He headed the other direction.
"Hey, Matt, did you hear what happened to Shane?" Bradshaw called, his voice buoyant.
Matt didn't particularly care, but to humor him, he replied, "No."
"He's missing."
Matt stopped. Froze. Became a statue.
"Matt? Are you okay?"
Something was lost.
Something that needed to be found.
But . . . it wasn't just Shane. It was a soul that had been dirtied, touched. And not just one. More. A large number.
He needed to move.
A/N: You guys who reviewed earlier read another version of this chapter. This is the revamped one. The top part has only a few changes, but the bottom one is completely different. I realized what I needed to do when I uploaded it and realized my mistake.
Thanks to those who reviewed. And if you want to review again, that would be nifty too. ( ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* Chapter Five ~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*
"I'm not letting you go," Kurt stubbornly told Chris as he entered the freeway.
"Kurt, you don't control my life," Chris told him, trying to remain good-natured, but his patience was being sorely tested. "And I'm perfectly fine. I had a mental crash, but now I'm back and as good as ever. I'll talk to Vince, we'll sort everything out about the show tonight, and everything will be okay."
"I don't agree," Kurt said silkily.
"Well," Chris blurted, "my life does not have to agree with what you think."
Kurt did not answer. Chris felt immediately like a jerk. Kurt was his friend and he was trying to do what he thought was best. Chris could have at least accepted it kindly and graciously. He looked at Kurt, whose eyes were focused on the road intently. Ignoring him, most likely. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't find the words. Instead, he sighed and slumped down in his seat.
The phone in the cup holder clanged. Kurt quickly glanced then, picked it up with one hand, and flipped it open. His gaze fixed on the caller ID for a moment, clouded his confusion, and he put the phone to his ear. "Hello. Who's this?"
Chris snuck a glance up at his friend. Kurt's mouth opened his wide surprise for a moment. His eyes became unfocused. His head dipped.
"Kurt?"
The car swerved across a lane of traffic, and Kurt's head surged upwards blindly, his eyes closed and upward through the glass. Chris felt a pang of fear as horns honked and cars banked wildly out of the way. Surprise took him and he started to yell. "Kurt, Kurt! KURT!"
Fear closed around him. Cars flew. Horns blew. Rhymes, rhyme! Oh jeez, I'm gonna die, Kurt's gonna kill us . . .
Chris thought that maybe it was only in reality five seconds from when Kurt had first swerved until he straightened, but for him, it was an eternity. The yellow lines in the asphalt dizzied him; the brown walls containing the freeway swirled into one cage. He felt sick.
But . . . slowly . . . he felt the car stopping. He felt his chest jolt and his legs kick under the dashboard involuntarily. Hardly breathing, Chris dared a look at his friend.
Kurt's head dropped, his eyes opened, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. The car slowly straightened. His gaze refocused, his mouth closed, and he looked straight ahead into the freeway. He put the phone back in the cup holder and he slumped slightly back against the seat.
He maneuvered the car to the off ramp, made a sharp turn into a dusty street, and came to rest in a quiet neighborhood.
"Kurt . . ." Chris panted at him, his heart thundering and his head and arm aching fiercely. His back started to ache. "Kurt, what happened? Are you okay?"
"Yes." The voice was loud, too loud, forceful and raucous. "Everything's okay. I had my moment of temporary insanity, but I'm fine now." He was still loud, but now he was forcedly cheerful. "Sorry there, Chris. It was my fault. I hope nobody got hurt."
Chris didn't buy it. "Kurt, I don't believe you. What's wrong?" No way had Kurt just caused Chris's heart to plummet, make a mad charge into heaving cars, and stop in a quiet neighborhood where serial killers lurked for nothing. Serial killers?
"Nothing's wrong, Chris." Now his voice was ashamed. "I just lost my hearing for a second. When I lose that, it panics me. I'm sorry."
Chris was not as much astonished by Kurt's blatant statement, but at his bland lie. Kurt was, of course, deaf in one ear. Of course Chris knew that. But he was supposed to believe that Kurt's panic had been caused by a lost of hearing? What kind of idiot lie was that? Kurt played in the ring with the big boys every day. And he expected Chris to believe that?
Chris opened his mouth to speak.
"Just shut up, Chris. I'm sorry, okay?" His voice was pleading. "Drop it and let me drive."
Chris was shocked by this and dismayed that his friend would expect him to turn away from something like this.
"Kurt-"
"Chris, just leave me alone. I'll get us there."
Kurt's voice was sharp. Every fiber in Chris's being told him to fight against what Kurt had said.
But he decided, against everything that was just in him, to drop whatever issue had arisen. His head thudded painfully and arm stung like bees had attacked him. His back felt heavy and he wanted to suddenly fall into sleep.
"Fine, Kurt, whatever. Let's just keep going."
Kurt looked at him, and Chris felt his eyes. He stole a glance up, and found . . . disappointment?
"Sure, Chris. Let's go."
Uneasiness and pain colored Kurt's face. Chris could almost taste the thickness in the air when Kurt's heavy foot dropped on the engine. Something had troubled him, clearly, and Chris could not place what it was. He wanted to think about it more, ponder it, and turn it over in his head.
But his back ached and his head and his arm throbbed, and he wanted nothing more to sleep. Pain littered him, and he slumped down low in his seat, turned over toward the window, and made a cradle out of the seatbelt. He shut his eyes.
"Chris? Are you alright?"
Chris did not open his eyes. He clenched them in pain, and tried to keep it out of his voice. "Yeah, Kurt. Yeah."
He wasn't turned over. He didn't see, though he felt something, that Kurt was looking at him with concerned eyes, that Kurt's face was distorted in something of concern and confusion, and that his gaze, though also on Chris, was on the phone.
And Chris drifted into sleep, his head still cradled in the seatbelt, and with two words floating around his mind.
Serial killers.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
~*~*~*~*~*~*
He quickened his pace along the hallway. Things were wrong. He could feel it in the atmosphere; it was too thick, too tense. He could feel it in his bones, trickling through his skin, seeping into his bloodstream, into his heart. He felt despair and an emptiness he could not describe.
He stopped at the door leading out into the parking structure. Everything in him told him to go through it, to run, and to search. His legs itched and his eyes started watering. He felt physical pain. He had to leave. He had to leave and find something . . . something that was lost and alone and scared.
His hand touched the doorknob, which immediately turned cold underneath his hand. No. He couldn't start losing it here. He had to be calm, cool, collected. He had a job to do here; he had moral obligations to produce. And if he bucked his moral obligations, then he would be no different than those he opposed.
But still, something . . . something important was lost.
He turned away from the door. Turned away from everything just in him told him to do.
He had duty elsewhere, but his duty was right before him . . . . his mind roamed the world. In Europe, he skimmed breezily over the Parliament; in the Middle East, he dipped over Jerusalem, and saw the lives being wasted there, dreams being killed; in Washington, he floated over the White House, saw a person who could have passed for the President. Nothing was wrong in these things; in fact, he had often spent many nights gazing lovingly into the orb of the world that he could summon into his mind. Nothing was different in these pictures.
But something was different elsewhere, something somewhere.
He muttered to himself, as he often did, "I have something to do. It's my duty."
Yet, wasn't protecting those who mattered his duty as well?
He had felt inklings earlier, his senses sharpening and special talent moving forward in passion. His enemy had moved, he guessed, but he didn't know why or when. He had felt that same suspicion, earlier, much, a week ago, when the earthquake had struck. It had been much stronger then. But now he felt it again, less sharp, less calling, less burning his mind, but he could still make it out in his mind.
Briefly, he let his mind soar into the building, the orb in his mind growing to absorb the enormity of the population. He saw nothing that wasn't unusual, saw no murderers, no crazies taking drugs, no parents abusing their children, as he often saw. Nothing to arouse his suspicion. Nothing here.
"Hey, Hardy."
The voice dragged him from his thoughts and brought him back to the world. "Yeah?"
"You okay, Matt? You're staring off into nothing. Have any drugs I can buy?"
Bradshaw was poking fun at him, again, but Matt didn't have any time for this. He needed to head to his match, finish it, and leave. To . . . find the thing that was lost and perhaps help put something back on its track.
"Nothing, Bradshaw. Nothing at all. I just have to go and wrestle and I'll be done. See ya." He headed the other direction.
"Hey, Matt, did you hear what happened to Shane?" Bradshaw called, his voice buoyant.
Matt didn't particularly care, but to humor him, he replied, "No."
"He's missing."
Matt stopped. Froze. Became a statue.
"Matt? Are you okay?"
Something was lost.
Something that needed to be found.
But . . . it wasn't just Shane. It was a soul that had been dirtied, touched. And not just one. More. A large number.
He needed to move.