Please, read this first, before you move on with the story.
A couple years ago, I wrote a story called Escondio under the name SpiritStream17. That was two, possibly nearly three years ago.
Two years later, and I've returned to a fandom that I dropped after I wrote a story called "The Lazarus Elegy" for I believed I was a horrible writer. Thus, no one reviewed it. I've grown up, and I know fanfiction doesn't revolve around what others think.
This story, Escondio, is thick in plot, detailed, and has been extremely rennovated since I wrote it originally. I hope that you took your time to read over this part before you moved onto the story.
Now, the story I took much pride in, begins again. This is a story filled with twists and turns, with details, and a plotline. Read on, enjoy, and hopefully you all have brushed up on your Spanish.
Don't worry, though. I won't use Spanish in the story... too much.
-- Solita
Panting and breathing hard, his tattered, aged body ran through the thick pine trees and the heavy stones. Mud slicked his shoes, trying to prevent him from running any further. The outfit he wore was old and dilapidated, matching his state of mind presently.
His mind was fixed on surviving, living to the next day, and to never be found. His blue bloodshot eyes and pale features were brimmed with the downpour of the rain last night. The sound of extra, rushing footsteps were close behind him. Internally, the old man could hear his heart ready to burst in fear and anxiety.
Questions fluttered through his mind, and vomit reached to his throat. Swallowing the bile, the old man heard his bones crack under the pressure and the stress his body and mind were going through. He couldn't get caught. Not after all the times he was able to avoid the others. He used his free hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. He didn't need this.
All he wanted to do was pay his respects to the dead. The grave site was secluded from everyone. It was the middle of the morning, the grave was surrounded by millions of trees, and away from all types of civilization. It was the perfect, blissful place from him to emerge and say goodbye to his dear friend.
Curses flowed in a whisper out of his fatigued mouth, but they were not very audible. He couldn't even hear his own voice. He was amazed he could even whisper, especially since he hadn't actually spoke in his real, audible voice for an extended period of time.
His feet moved faster through the rain-soaked mud, trying to find his salvation. The monster was close, very close. He could feel his hot breath slipping down his spine, sending chills throughout his numb body. He could taste his own blood, and hear the voices of humanity asking questions every second.
Was this his paranoia sinking in? He ran forward, never once slipping on the mud beneath him. He had to hide and run away. He couldn't let the monster catch him. It was too risky. He couldn't let one mistake happen. He knew that if the world knew where he was, everything that he worked to keep in control and in perfect secrecy would fall apart instantly.
Shaking his head, he saw a clearing of grass and pavement ahead of him. In the distance he saw his brown pick-up truck, the only one left in the parking lot. A small smile of relief grace his old features while the wrinkles slowly reduced. He was almost scott free of this stress and his salvation waited only a few steps ahead of him.
His thoughts were cut short, though, when he felt a tight hand grasp around his weakest, most vulnerable spot of his body -- the neck. The monster finally caught him, and his eyes widened in fear, paranoia, and anger.
A contempt look graced his features, and the man with no conscience glared his Diablo eyes at the former leader of the RAW branch. His thick hand squeezed tighter around the neck. He didn't even bother to suppress his satisfied, demonic grin as the bones began to crack slightly under his very fingers.
Sweat ran down his prey's body and filtered through his cold fingertips. The monster licked his lips in a feral hunger, ignoring the small voice in his head that was screaming for him to stop his urges. It had been too long since the monster tasted fear and blood and the infinite power he had over these prey. He had become weak for his brother.
The old man screamed in agony for the damage around his ultimate weakness. Paranoia and a frantic plea to be erased from this world emerged in his own pair of blue eyes, throwing punches at the monster before him. Old age crept up, and the old man couldn't get out of the grip the Undertaker's brother had on him.
Kane, though aged, threw the old man against the wall, feeling the dripping flesh writhing in pain underneath his hand. His sheer strength and power was evidently there. He tried not to enjoy the sensation of having power again. His brother had taught him better. Kane smiled wickedly, and he could taste the fear in the other man. The smile grew.
He closed his eyes, wishing to God, or some other divine being, that he could leave this insanity and vanish from the Earth once more. He couldn't let someone find him here, out in the open of a graveyard. Kane wasn't the most inconspicuous character. He knew he was going to be found. The fact alone made him want Kane to kill him right now.
All the questions would have to be answered. His fears would be known. His reputation as the most dreaded, toughest man in the world would be tarnished forever. He bit his lip hard (not hard enough to puncture a hole and bleed), and regressed a scream. The neck that brought him his downfall rained down agony and despair.
Determination seethed through his aging body. He wouldn't be found. He could not be found. He had to stay dead, but that didn't mean he had to make the lie a reality.
He opened one blue eye, and locked it dead on with Kane's. The younger brother of the Pheanom loosened his grip on the old, battered man's neck, and his jaw nearly opened at the sight he saw before him.
The bloodshot eyes stared right into his soul, engraving into his mind an animalistic savagery the man had never seen before. He had seen the growls and insults and vows thrown to his enemies in the past. He had been on the receiver of most of them.
It was different now. Kane was unnerved, and thrown off guard. This wasn't the man that used to smile at his children lovingly, laugh with his brother, and weep when he had to give up his livelihood. Kane knew who this being was, and he refused to smile at the irony -- for this being was a monster, like himself.
He blinked, and the stare never went away. A chill corsed through his bones, running up and down his spine. He refused to chatter his teeth. He wouldn't lose his grip of power, not when he finally gained it back.
Kane tightened his hand over the slick neck harder than before. The old man choked deeply, his neck reaching backwards in an awkward position. He still locked his eyes with Kane's. The monster refused to be scared of his own prey.
"No..." he whispered darkly, showing his voice was extremely hoarse from the years of non-usage. He gulped, not in fear, but in the rawness evident within. Anger seethed through his teeth, and a barbaric side emerged.
"You..." the man whispered, his eyelids dropping in fatigue. A smirk emerged on his face, and it began unnerved Kane again. "You... can't... kill me."
Kane narrowed his eyes and silently debated what to do with this man in front of him. He growled, the monster he himself killed arising from the dead again. Madness glistened in his eyes, one vaguely a clear white, the other a chaotic blue.
Kane sneered the grave, direct words through his grated, clasped teeth. "You. Are. DEAD."
Yet Stone Cold Steve Austin's smirk grew, and his eerie blue eyes became wild and paranoid. "Just... like... your brother."
Ningun hombre puede esconder de su pasado para siempre.
There's a story that is passed down within the confines of Spanish families, telling about men, their lives, and the hardships they faced. Each story is varied for some of the character's names change, or the setting changes, or the plot changes, as it is inevitably does in oral traditions. However, the motif is still the same.
A band of Mexicans were lost in the mountains. There, in the blazing heat, each person faced an image from the past. Whether it was a moment of fear, sadness, or sheer joy, neither man dared to share what they experienced. None of them knew why they saw the phantoms of the past and what it meant. They dismissed them as simply mirages, tricks of their imagination, and they were able to find a way home.
These images from the past came into their minds for they hadn't reconciled with whatever happened beforehand. Those who face what transpired ago and finished what they started will lead a happy, carefree life into the future. That was the constant, fixed moral of the story.
Not many know this story. It isn't as significant as stories like "Adam and Eve," "The Tower of Babel," or "Noah's Ark." It isn't a recognizable tale like "Alice in Wonderland" or "Cinderella." It's a story about men, their haunting pasts, and the consequences of never finishing what they started.
This story isn't different from the one passed down from one generation to another. There are men, hiding secrets and events that happened in the past, and hoping that they never remember what transpired. They never closed the book to their past, or read the final chapter about their lives. Certain things like that will haunt a man till he dies.
It has been passed down, and it shall be known to the world. This story has been taken outside of it's normal circle of oral tradition, and is about to be said to the world. It is a story that has been changed to fit the characters, the setting, and the genre. The theme will never change.
After all, ningun hombre puede esconder de su pasado para siempre.
No man can hide from his past forever.
November 17th, 2020
East Los Angeles
Pouring rain fell from the gray sky above, engulfing all sources of light and life in the city. The outdoor supermarkets were closed, the streets were bare of life, and none could tell if the sun was up or down. Fog rested under the sky, and sagged into the city.
It was a dreary morning for the people in Los Angeles. More rain was expected to storm through the southern part of California. Luckily high temperatures were predicted for later on today around noon or so. The pouring rain would serve as a salvation and pleasure from the heat.
Drug dealers were already on the streets, ready to make money and do their job. Shop keepers were ready to open their stores, and the rest of humanity was getting ready to start the day. Some were cooking breakfast. Many were heading towards the bathroom to do their morning routine. Few were actually ready to go to work. Life began to emerge in the east side.
An old figure walked down the cracked, unkempt sidewalk of Los Angeles. He kept his focus fixated to the ground below him, and the trench coat helped secure his identity away from the world. The trench coat had been his friend for the longest time, and it had never failed him once.
The flaps were up, covering his neck, chin, and half of his facial area. The brown drapes covered his arms, entire body, and legs. He wore deep sienna brown boots, and a matching dark brown hat on his head. Blue eyes pierced through the darkness over his face, but none could look right into them. He was glad no one could. People might recognize him by eyesight alone.
Sighing with his raspy voice, he opened the rickety door, welcoming the sounds of the oiless hinges and the creaking floor. His footsteps were light on the wood below, barely making a sound. The door betrayed his enterance, screaming its mildew and stains like banshees to the world. Eventually he closed the door behind him, but his blue eyes went wild in dark fear.
The old man walked down the hallway, looking all around him with such alertness and paranoia. His head went all around the room -- behind him, on the sides, above him, below him -- and his eyes scanned for any other life force aside of himself. His neighboors were drug dealers, and his tenants were hookers and homeless people. Murderers and runaways tended to live here as well, but he had a severe distain to hitmen and assassins.
Around these parts, he kept to himself. He was the average guerro on the wrong side of town. However, he knew how to take care of and defend himself from others. He didn't have any friends in this area, but he was courteous enough to greet them with a smile, a hello, and a goodbye. No one bothered him, and that fact alone made him feel a little safe and extremely grateful. He would have one less thing to worry about.
Walking up the stars, his hands traced the railing, while his footsteps barely made a sound on the mildew floor. In his mind, he remembered a song he used to love very dearly. He couldn't exactly remember the title, the artist, or the lyrics for that matter. It was the sweet, melodious tune that made him remember the song.
Reaching into his pocket and fumbling around for his keys, he hummed the words, even though he couldn't recite the lyrics for the life of him. Once inside his room, he took off his coat, and threw it and the keys onto the battered couch.
His room wasn't exactly the Taj Mahal or Buckingham Palace. This place made all the roach-infested Ecnolodges he stayed in when he was on the road and he had a life seem like nothing at all. He only had the essentials in his room -- a couch, a cot with a blanket and a pillow, a TV, a kitchen table, a kitchen counter, a refridgerator, a phone, and a bathroom.
Nothing stood out of place, which set his nerves at ease. His dark brown walls were deteriorating, and stained with the rain that leaked in from the outside. The wood creaked underneath his steps, but not loudly enough. He was able to control how loud he walked on his floor. It took him a while to gain that talent.
Walking over to the kitchen counter, he picked up the remote and turned on the television. It was already preset to Fox News. He had become an avid watcher of the news, refusing to watch any other channels. If he did, people he knew might come out. He didn't want to be reminded of the past.
He never had to leave his new life and his new routine. He had the television and the news broadcasters to keep him up-to-date on what exactly was going on in the world today. He hummed the tune louder, and took out a bowl and a box of Honey Nut Cherrios. He would have to go to the supermarket later on today.
"Another homicide occured today in Los Angeles," the reporter stated in his journalistic tone, eyes fixated to the middle of the screen. "Police are searching for a six foot tall man with white, pale skin and green eyes..."
The old man droned out the TV with the song, pouring the cold milk into his cereal. Another death was irrelevant. He'd seen death already, and he didn't wish to see it again. Picking up the bowl, he walked over to his couch, which was situated right in front of the TV.
The song was still in his head, for some odd reason. He couldn't figure out who the song was by, and he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to. If he couldn't figure it out by now then he knew it had to deal with his past. Sighing, he sat on his couch, and placed the bowl into his lap.
Now wasn't a good time to think about the past, he thought to himself, putting a spoonful of the cereal into his mouth. Whatever happened, happened, and there is nothing I can do to change it.
When he finally turned his attention back to the television, the sight that caught him and the words that echoed from the reporter to his mind would never leave him for the rest of the day.
In a little caption on the screen, there was a picture of a dear friend of his. He was in his usual growl, and his eyes were covered with his sunglasses. His tattoos on his arms were shown on the TV set, and he wore a bandana around his forehead.
The old man would have recognized that aged, forgotten face anywhere. And underneath the picture of his long-time friend were two words dripped in blood red and made his rage boil within, and his paranoia reach heights that it's never been to.
WRESTLER DIED.
Those were the words that served as a caption for the segment the reporter was talking about about the man known as Mark "The Undertaker" Calloway. His fists were shaking softly, and slowly his knuckles were becoming white. He never shouted in anger.
A blurriness covered his eyes, but he never moved his hand to stop himself from crying. His phone rang, and his entire body moved to the right in surprise and anger. His heart threatened to jump right out of his body right there and then.
Trying to calm himself down and preventing himself from having an anxiety attack, he blinked and looked at the phone again. No one knew he was here, except for only four more people. The only four people who were left alive.
He made his decision. Quickly, the old man ran to the phone, the sound of the wood floor creaking loudly below him and his bones cracking in sickening places. He picked it up, and put it to his ear. It wasn't a voice he particularly cared for, but it was one he had to put up with.
"Steve," Vince McMahon said on the other line, his voice cracked and raw from emotions and the threats of internal sorrow emerging. "Did you hear?"
Stone Cold Steve Austin didn't answer. He responded in a code of silence.
He heard Vince sigh on the other line, his age starting to show as he began to speak again. "Steve, Mark's dead," he pleaded in a whisper, as if he was asking for Steve to save his own soul. "... you know who they're gonna go after next, right?"
Steve Austin was silent. He never said anything for a few seconds. Vince heard a thick growl within his aged sigh, understanding automatically that the Rattlesnake rarely spoke to anyone nowadays. He couldn't speak to anyone at all. It was too risky of a chance.
Vince tried one more time. He gulped and spoke one more time. "Steve," he began softly, "they're coming after you."
Steve Austin finally spoke in his raspy voice to his former boss. "Goodbye, Vince."
The line went dead before Vince could retort.
Steve Austin left everything behind him, like he was used to -- except for his trench coat, a couple dollars in cash, and the song that haunted him for the longest time.
As he entered the bus and put in his fare, he sat at the end of the bus and began to cry softly. His eyes were always on alert. There was no such thing as being too careful now. He had to be on guard all the time. Always.
No one on the bus saw his tears. He would never let other see him cry. He still had his dignity. Looking out the window, he hummed the song that attacked his mind earlier on during the day.
Turning his head towards the outside of the window, he noticed that the city finally woke up. People were on the streets, beginning the day of their lives. He envied them. They had a life. He didn't.
He was dead, and he had to stay that way.
Steve Austin leaned his head onto the window, and used his right hand as a pillow. The left hand was his blanket, and guard, constantly wrapped up in a fist. Trails of tears were on his face, and he didn't feel like wiping them from his face.
Had he not been so worried and distressed, Steve Austin would have found out that he was the only one on the bus. It didn't matter, though. He fell into a deep slumber, listening to the song in his head.
No one knows what its like to be the bad man... to be the sad man... behind blue eyes.
He closed his blue eyes, and fell asleep. He knew it would be a long ride to the airport, and then the flight to Houston would be longer. He wanted to conserve his energy.
Steve Austin smiled. He had a feeling he knew the song. He didn't forget things. He only refused to remember.