I feel like I'm ready to crack from head to heel. - Tapping The Vein, Undone.




If people were to ask me what my thoughts were on this date of infamy, I wouldn't be able to give them a direct answer. I could only say it in one word.

Crack.

Returning back from another movie deal, I reacquainted myself with the others. We sure had a lot of new comers in the business now, some already heading for the top like I did when I was young.

Damn. That almost makes me sound like I'm old. An old man.

Most of the old guys, the ones I used to hang around with, hate the living shit out of me. I can't blame them. I admit it, I'm no wrestler anymore -- I'm a damn actor and I'm proud of it.

I couldn't pass up Wrestlemania though. It's the grand daddy of them all. What's a Wrestlemania without the Great One, the People's Champion? Even if the fans probably hated the guts out of me like the guys in the back, I don't care.

This was Wrestlemania an event -- a moment in history -- that always spelled magic, happiness, hope, dreams to be made and legends to be created for the rest of eternity. Like me. Like Austin.

Like... Austin.

He was also the reason I came back. I missed him. Out of everyone in the back, out of all of those "old guys" that I supposedly talked and bonded with, he was the only one who stayed true with me.

We loved each other -- not as lovers, but as brothers. I missed chatting with my brother, drinking and laughing with him, sharing secrets and swamping ideas. In Steve I confined my soul, and in myself he confined the same.

As the hours passed for the countdown to Wrestlemania, I felt... something iffy coursing through my veins. Something inside me told me... that... something peculiar happened. Or was going to happen. I felt a shudder running through my veins as I said hello and had a conversation with some of the guys.

My heart worried, fussed over where Austin was. Always prompt, never late -- that was Steve entirely. He never missed a Wrestlemania unless he was injured. It was a few hours before the show started, and my heart began to pound while my brain raced questions.

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he going to show up? Is he going to show up? God, I didn't know. I kept on thinking about him, desperately keeping at bay the urge to call him. He was okay, I assured himself. He was going to come to the PPV, we were going to have a chat after the show, and maybe bond a bit, recollect on our lives, inform each other on what's going on...

And then that announcement. The announcement that changed everything.

And that definite sound.

Crack.

I was in the locker room, drinking a Coors Lite beer, a trait Steve made me pick up. I didn't even pay attention to the TV in front of me, lazily hearing into the conversation a few other wrestlers around me were having -- Benoit, Jericho, Mark, Eddie, and a bunch of others.

When I saw Lillian enter the ring, I thought, "Wait a second, the show isn't starting yet. Steve still has at least thirty minutes to get to the arena."

It was that look that sent a chill down my spine. Her eyes voided of happiness, vibrancy, and life. They stared at the crowd, searching, dead, lifeless. A sickening bitterness filled my mouth, and I swallowed it down.

I knew something went wrong. I just knew something happened. Someone died, and I didn't know who. All of this reminded me of the time Owen fell in the ring, and how we found out a couple minutes later he died. I could never stop remembering how I felt that moment.

And for some odd reason, I had that same tormenting feeling again.

She kept on stuttering, desperately trying to control herself. I felt so horrible and sad for her. The poor girl tried to compose herself to say the news. I saw her calm down, and focused, she said the words that shattered my mind.

My best friend died one hour ago.

And one hour ago, I denied the urge to call him.

Crack.

At first, I screamed in denial, shouting at the TV, yelling at them, telling them to rectify their mistake and say another name. It wasn't Steve. It just couldn't be Steve. He was supposed to come to the PPV, and have a drink and a laugh with me...

It's when Lillian fell to the floor, screaming out a sob, falling into a heap of misery in the middle of the ring on national television that shut me up automatically. My eyes glazed over, and I couldn't feel anything. I was numb. I was dead.

Within that one moment, all these memories rushed through my mind, clashing with my personal self-inflicted insults and depressive beatings. I don't remember walking away from the others, merely ending up in the middle of the parking lot.

And I lost it. I lost myself, my will, my soul... whoever I was, some actor, a wrestler, a human being -- that was gone. Slamming myself against the cold wall of the lot, I found no comfort. I found no one to talk to, to scream my problems to, to have a voice softly tell me to wake the fuck up -- that was all gone.

It was all gone.

And I couldn't do anything about it.

CRACK.

My body slid against the wall, and I cried out. I had no words to scream. Nothing could give what I was feeling justice. I pulled my legs to my chest, finding no warm in myself to keep me company. Sobs racked against my chest, but I refused to let them go.

Covering my face with my hands, I sucked it all in. All of it. It was almost impossible to do so. I wanted all of this pain out of my -- wanting to scream it out to the world so they too could empathize with my condition. Tears fell from my eyes, pouring onto my hands, my face, my body, the ground -- everywhere, staining everything.

There was no Steve Austin to tell me everything was going to be okay, to ask me if I wanted to go to the bar for a chat, to show me all these new moves and ideas he had for their match or for their own respective match. He was gone.

And he took my soul with him.

I'm still in that same position. I'm still here, against the unforgivening, icy wall in the middle of forty, fifty degree temperature night of a parking lot. I'm dressed with my Armani outfit, brand new and tailored, but stained with dirt and my tears. I could give a damn. Austin always hated suits.

Why must I feel this way? Just make this go away... I just want one more day with Austin. One more day where I can tell him that he's appreciated, and that if he wasn't for Austin I don't know where I'd be right now. He really was my friend, my brother. I trusted him. I loved him.

And I miss him. I miss him so much, I feel all the shards of my heart and mind that Steve pieced together cracking apart and ready to shatter. The adhesive wore down, and prepared to shatter. I cried. Steve wouldn't be here to help me put me back together. Like he did last time. And the times before that. Countless times...

He was such a good friend.

That's why I know what I can -- must say to someone who will ask me in the future, "What did you think when Steve Austin died?"

And I'll smile sadly, and my eyes will glaze over, and I'll say, "Crack. Just... a CRACK."

That's all I'm hearing right now. Small cracks echoing through my mind, like the way a fixed shattered glass representing the hope and love of humanity begins to crumble down but there wasn't enough adhesive left to put it back together completely. It'll only be put together half-way or less.

It won't be complete anymore.

I'm sitting here, and all I can do is sob, and listen.

... I miss you Steve. I'll always miss you. God... Steve...

Crack. Craaack. Crack crack. Crrraaaaccckkk. CRACK. CRRAAACK.