Disclaimer: I own nothing here except for the story and the content itself. All wrestlers and other related media is not owned or licensed by me, and in no way is the content here meant to reflect the individual wrestlers themselves, but rather the characters they portray.
Credit: This story was inspired by insomnia and the fantasies of an angsty teenager with too much freetime and an overly-active imagination. May be used with permission and credit.
Summary: He still loves her with an all-consuming passion; yet he cannot get over her betrayal, or the guilt that stems from the fact that he caused it.
Characters: Kane/Lita, may also include Taker, Edge, and others.
Warning: This story includes extreme sexual and violent themes and is not appropriate for younger readers. Please use discretion, althogh more adult themes come in later chapters.
This Chapter: This is a sort of prologue, giving background and depth to the story. More is to come.
The roar was deafening.
After all of these years he had managed to tune it out, become as apathetic towards the appeal of the fans as the other wrestlers were enamored by it.
His mind was filled with other things. He had gone about fighting his matches in an almost autonomous state, his mind brimming with thoughts of what he regarded as more important matters. (The fighting, the urges, the wantonness, fleeting moments of joy.) But always he was brought back to the pain. The inescapable pain.
He found after many years that separating himself from his matches was best. It was those years during which he became emotionally invested in any way during his job, (yes, he must learn to view it now only as a job, despite the fact that after allowing himself to lose so much else it was become his everything) that pain was most profound. Those years with his brother, relationships, all attempts at friendship, all had ended terribly when he invested himself.
He decided, if only for his own good, that he must become completely apathetic to avoid any and all forms of torture that came from this wretched attachment, this "love." And so came about the irony that while attempting to distance himself from his work, or rather, his history, that he became consumed by it.
Every day was spent furthering his career. Feverishly he worked to climb the ranks, working, pushing, striving ever towards perfection in the only are of his life he could achieve. Perfection in his body, working out obsessively to the point of exhaustion. Perfection in his technique, training to a point others found unhealthy, not heeding their admonitions of "rest" and "relaxation." Perfection over his opponents, mental advantage. And so he would torture them in numerous ways.
Family, friends, their own bodies, lives, careers, not caring whom eh hurt so long as it brought him ever closer to perfection.
Others, officials, never stopped him unless he carried to too far, knowing that such things meant good ratings and good ratings meant good money, money that could be used to pay off wary government bodies or officers who felt he might be going to far.
He learned to take great pleasure in these excursions, in his own sick twisted way following others' advice of finding an outlet.
Forsooth he found many outlets of pleasure, taking women and other lavish luxuries as he pleased.
Quietly, of course.
Women were easy to come by, for one of his stature, (physically and fiscally, as well as one of his supposed ("girth.") He chose his women sparingly, using them in whatever disgusting way he so desired, knowing they would always agree and conform, or suffer thereof. He believed, or rather he knew, that many females were as damaged as he was inside, and thus attracted to normally repulsive means, Such women secretly disgusted him, and he dealt with them justly by giving to them what they outwardly wished, begged for, but soon came to regret. Bleeding, crying, knowing now the error of their ways as they crawled off on tired, broken, bloody limbs to a symphony of his laughter. That is, those that could crawl away at all.
There was only one that he knew that had ever refused such treatment knowing that she deserved better. And, indeed, he would never, could never (and in fact, was disgusted by the thought of) give her such a treatment ,as she was of a certain breed.; a strong, beautiful woman, that he had never seen or could have even fathomed before. He was captivated by the very first sight of her, grew to yearn for her, need her.
Just when he finally achieve having her, all he had ever dreamt of, she tore it away with a thousand steely knives carving his heart into a ragged bloody mess left upon the floor, and subsequently spat on.
He shuddered now, even thinking of such things, and thus learned to shy away from such thoughts in the daytime, being haunted only at night, in his dreams, where he could not escape
.
In his dreams he relived a million miseries, a million nightmares. Thy were not felt so because they were garish memories, but rather beautiful ones.
Oh yes, what haunted him was not the thought of pain, a norm he had come to accept as both an inevitability as well as a handy weapon, but rather the old feelings dug back up, feelings he could no longer escape in the dead of night.
He was tortured by the memories of their few fleeting moments of happiness together. Oh, how she had despised him, refuting his every touch. He treated her with a distance and cruelty spawn only out of his need to be with her, refusing to let her know his true feelings, sensing them unrequited.
The night she had gotten out of the hospital after their son had died, she had finally released the veil. She cried uncontrollably and openly, no longer caring for anything, wishing to feel anything. He clamored to help her, holding her, comforting her, speaking to her soft words and as he always did, tracing his finger along her smooth skin, yearning for her smell, her touch, her taste, her love.
The thing that killed him the most was that one fleeting moment, for years in secret which he had wished, she yielded. To his touch, she was responsive, taking comfort in his warmth. Tighter he held her, eyes shut firmly to prevent tears of disbelief from escaping, tears that this moment would come only now, after so much else was lost.
Softly she sighed, releasing with it the grief of the hatred which she had felt for him for so long.
Hatred, of which he did not know. Hatred that was truly only resentment, resentment that he had her prisoner. Not physically, but he captivated her, for years he had and the feeling grew so deep she had to repress them, knowing that he could never love one so undeserving and unworthy as her.
She turned to face him, still caught in his embrace, and for on moment, their eyes met.
That moment would forever haunt him as the one moment that he saw pure, unadulterated moment in her eyes. Desire as strong as that which he felt himself.
So unable to cope with the thought of her deeming him worthy, he did something which would cause him to wake up in the night, screaming ,crying, refusing to wipe his tears for fear of acknowledging their presence and thus acknowledging the horror of what he had done;
He left.
He merely walked out, leaving her in her moment of greatest need, the moment which he had promised her he would protect her, be her savior, promised her late at night when he held her, talking to an unreceptive, cold body of the ways in which he loved her and would always protect her.
Never had he told or expressed such things to anyone. And now with a cold uncaring look upon his face as he left he saw the horror what he had done dawning in her eyes, eyes which moments before had mirrored the feeling embedded in his soul, so stunned by disbelief that the one moment she had finally given in, he had betrayed her.
As he shut the door, he couldn't contain his ears as he heard her screaming. Fully he understood the terror and pain that she felt all to familiar to him.
And yet still, he walked.
The trust was never regained or even acknowledged.
It shocked him how receptive she was in public, knowing it only a sham, their love a dead pauper being paraded in king's clothes for the amusement of the world.
Her betrayal did not surprise him, but rather finally bring to light the realization that what could have been so great he had destroyed.
He dealt her justice nonetheless, yet every week he saw her, kissing him with passion he could only dream of, and saw that same passion reflected back in his eyes.
And this is what haunted him. What slowly consumed, and destroyed him, eating up his very soul.
Making his mind slowly rot, as his intellect only increases with age, making all forms of torture and pain inflicted upon other humans ever more intricate, ever more advanced than before. His need to hurt others, to destroy, to ravage, consumed, before the realization of what he had done finally catches up to his mind, in a fervent stage of denial.
And yet still, he yearned.
Next Chapter: Her perspective.
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