Wow! I am so excited about these reviews! I'm glad people like my writing style and notice it that makes me feel really good. I am passionate about writing, I love it and I hope I can get something published someday. I really love all the details and I guess it's the artist in me that I like to paint these pictures with words. To tell the truth I've even surprised myself on this fic but I am enjoying every moment of it. I appreciate all of your reviews very much they always make me feel good and give me reasons to keep it up and to push myself and not settle for mediocre writing. Before I quit babbling and get on with it, thanks to: Dark Kaneanite, Souless666, nothingsnobody, Divine Arion, and Anne Ominous for the amazing reviews they mean so much to me!
Chapter 6
As my time on the road begins to wind down I start to feel more normal. Since the night I had the nightmare about Kane's childhood things have been going a bit better for me. I haven't had anymore full fledged nightmares. Once in a while little snippets of Kane will sneak into my dreams here and there. Mostly I just find that I have to control myself more than usual. I find I am becoming edgy and irritable and once in a while I have the sudden and fleeting urge to inflict needless pain on some random person, like Chris Irvine who keeps telling the same bad jokes every time I see him, or Layfield who keeps asking me for Rolaids, or some fan who's blubbering nonsense at me, or some random person checking in at the front desk of whatever hotel I'm staying in that night. Other than that I remain myself and I am able to keep Kane zipped up where he belongs. Maybe things are starting to change and he is going to let me be. As I think this I have a strange sensation that this is not the truth, but that Kane is playing mind games with me. That concept however must be void because Kane is not an entity in himself he is a persona I slip into when I'm working. He can not play mind games with me when he doesn't even exist. I must learn to deal with him and not fold. Kane is out of thought and out of mind as I sit around with some of the guys up in Shawn Michaels' hotel room in Indianapolis, Indiana. Some of us: myself, Shawn, Darren, Layfield, and Chris "Jericho" Irvine are up here enjoying ourselves over some friendly (at times not so friendly) card games and some beer provided by Irvine, a little stronger stuff donated by Layfield, and some hot wings Michael's picked up earlier. I know John is going to be hounding me for antacids again, you would think he would learn by now, but I guess he never does.
Right now we are in the midst of a heated poker game. Shawn keeps folding just about every hand and I've been in the same boat he has. It usually ends up with a three way stare down between Chris, Darren, and John. John tries to bluff his way to the pot more often than not, and he fails more often than not, and once again you'd think he would learn. Each time Darren eyes Irvine with a smug look on his face thinking, Ah, I finally have him! This is usually followed by Chris putting down something that is just enough to beat Darren's hand and Darren goes into a half put-on fit about losing. The process repeats its self and as we drink more some of us feel more courageous than we should and thus bet more than we should, some of us raise our voices, and some of us (Michael's) forgets just what it is we are doing. Right now is one of those moments.
"Shawn, it's your turn! Piss or get off the pot!" John commands and elbows a droopy eyed Shawn Michaels. Shawn perks up for a moment and looks around the table.
"Huh?" He asks gruffly. He picks up his beer bottle to take another drink but realizes it's empty (another gesture that has became more and more repetitive as he's had more to drink) and he sits it back down. "Oh…" He looks down at his cards and studies them for a moment with his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He gives his stubbled chin a rub or two. "What are we playing again?" Chris and I laugh and Darren peeks over at Shawn's hand and advises him to fold. Shawn heeds the advice and then goes to drink his empty beer again.
"I raise!" Layfield declares and he tosses a wad of crumpled money onto the middle of the table.
"How much is that?" Darren wants to know. Layfield shrugs as though money really doesn't matter to him. It probably will when he opens his wallet in the morning and finds it yawning up at him like a barren, toothless, maw.
"Too much for me." I let the guys know and I follow in suit of Shawn and fold. Here comes the three way stare off. They are like three children fighting over the last cookie in the cookie jar. John and Chris wait for Darren to decide if he's going to raise or cave and follow in the footsteps of Michael's whose head is now bobbing up and down on his chest. Darren takes his time and rubs his chin whilst he tries to decipher Layfield's expression, is it a bluff? John just sits and looks deadpan, giving away nothing, as he waits for Darren's decision.
"Hell, it's just money right?" He relinquishes his share to the growing pile in the center of the table. A sly smile plays on Irvine's lips as he quickly adds his money plus.
"I raise fifty!" He proclaims with a smile. Layfield bangs his fist down onto the table and Shawn's depleted beer bottle topples over and rolls to the floor. Shawn's head snaps up suddenly and he nearly jumps out of his seat.
"Immawake!" He announces but no one pays him much attention.
"Damn it!" John slams his cards down and falls into a childish pout. Thus he folds and leaves it up to Darren.
"I'm not backing off of you Irvine, you're bull-shitting!" Darren matches Irvine's fifty. "Beat this!" Darren spreads his cards onto the table. John gives out a low whistle of amazement. He shows a straight flush of hearts. The only thing that can top that is a royal flush. Chris's smug smile widens to a grin as he slowly lays down his cards. He snaps them down onto the table one at a time and with each card being revealed Darren's look of disgust and ire grows deeper and deeper. Chris hold one last card in his hand and teases with it before finally revealing that it is an ace of spades. This cements his win. Darren is up out of his chair and he spouts off at the mouth like a fountain spewing forth curses and oaths to all and anything.
"Royal flush, spades, ha!" Irvine rakes the pile of money. "It's all about da money, money, yeah-yeah!" He does his best imitation of Cryme Tyme.
"Bloody fucking hell!" Darren leans over the table and starts to claw at the money with ravenous, snatching, fingers.
"Hey, hey, hey! Get your paws off, I won, this is mine!" Irvine tears a few bills away from Darren and stuffs them down his pants.
"I want me money back, you're a no good cheatin' arse hole!" Darren shouts across the table at the blonde haired man who is now scowls at him. Darren likewise frowns with hatred at the younger man. They are like two mutts staring each other down, hackles raised, teeth barred, muscles bunched, prepared at any moment to pounce on the other and fly into a dog fight. As if to prove my point Darren pulls his lips away from his teeth and growls and Chris.
"I've got an idea…" Layfield pipes up. He points over to a table littered with empty beer bottles and paper plates full of chicken bones. There also remains Johns' two bottles which no one has broken into yet. This is all they need, to add more to heads that are already clouded with alcohol and ire. "Whoever can take the most shots gets the cash."
"I win already!" Darren practically spits at Irvine. Normally the two would be civil with each other but Darren doesn't like to lose and he squabbles too much once he's got liquored up. "I'll drink ya under the table boy!"
"I'm the youngest here, I think I have the best chance." Chris leans back in his chair and cracks his knuckles and John gets up more than happy to retrieve his spirits. He gets some foam cups the hotel provides for coffee and converts them into shot glasses. He pours three and looks up at me questioningly.
"Glen?"
"Nah, you three can battle it out."
We all turn and look at Shawn. He's slumped over the table. His head rests on his folded arms. We chuckle at him as he snores softly.
"Looks like he's gone." Darren says. "Just us three then, let's have at it!" He goes to reach for one of the cups but Chris swats his hand.
"Wait, whose keeping count?"
Everyone turns to look at me since I am obviously the most sober of the three and the one who is not participating in the game. I roll my eyes around. This is how I planned to spend my evening (well evening has long since passed it's now after midnight) watching the trio of ultimate warriors fight and feud and throw back shots until they're all three sheets or less to the wind. They know I will cave so they just look at me and wait for my reply. I give in.
John picks up Michael's fallen bottle and uses it as a microphone. He stands and dramatizes the events unfolding.
"In this corner, weighing in at--"
"Oh, sod off Layfield and let's get on with it!"
John's shoulders slump as he places the bottle on the table and sits down reluctantly abandoning his short lived career as a shot-chugging announcer.
I am left to the task ahead. I keep track of each shot downed. It turns into a long night. As time and the alcohol wears on Darren becomes more and more aggressive, Chris seems to become cockier and full of stupid, childish, insults, and John just gets wasted. You would think he would be able to hold out but he's the first to run his words together and say things that make little to no sense.
"I'ma winnin' this here money I know allabout money I know allabout everything a'cuz I'm onna t.v. news yessir I'm winnin' th'gold! Come on Princessess 'ntellme what I won!"
"Congratulations, you've won a punch in the nose ya blubberin' pussy! Darren draws his fist back and glowers at John. He just itches for a fight. John rises up out of his seat like he may take up the offer and as he does he sways a bit. This is all we need is for the massive form of John Layfield to come crashing through the table like a tower of wobbly blocks. He braces himself against the wall for a moment and looks like a humanoid version of the leaning tower of Pisa.
"Guys, we're not having a brawl right now." I, peace-maker extraordinaire, stretch my arms between the two and gently prod John to sit back down. He does and mutters something no one can really make out.
A few more shots and John gets up and announces he has to go to the bathroom. He stumbles toward said destination but instead turns to Michael's bed and passes out on it with his legs hanging over the edge.
"You and me again, well prepare to lose, loser!" Chris announces and with an unsteady had he points at Darren, actually, more like past him.
"I'm not walkin' away from here empty handed…" Darren grabs for one of the bottles. The first is void of its contents and the second nearly matches the first. He knocks the empty one over and snags the second just as Chris dives for it. He starts to chug from the bottle.
"Hey ref!" Chris complains and shouts at me. His face twists into a frown. It looks like someone just gave him a lemon to suck on. He crawls onto the table and tries to pry the bottle from Darren's grip. Cards and money slide over the edge of the table and end up on the floor as Irvine wallows around and tries to free the bottle Darren has nabbed away from him. "He's cheating, he's disqualified!"
"It's what I fucking do! I win an' if it means I hafta bend or break the rules then I sure as bloody hell do!" Darren gets up and throws his chair aside with a bang and clatter. This causes Chris (who had been leaning with one hand on Darren's shoulder and the other had been flying around in an attempt to liberate the stolen bottle of hooch) to lose his balance and tumble off of the table and land on the floor in a cursing heap. Darren finishes the bottle quickly then holds his head and wobbles around a bit. He hoists the empty bottle over his head like he's holding up a well earned trophy or a title belt.
"I win!" He sneers at Irvine who picks himself up and turns to the table and rakes up the money again. Darren lunges at Irvine but I intercede. Punches rain down on me as Darren shouts profanity and tries to push me out of the way. I played both basketball and football in college so I am used to blocking and his endeavors to topple the wall that I have became to him now is useless.
"I'm the ref here I make the calls!" I remind them both and I grab handfuls of the money and stuff about half of it into Darren's pockets and let Chris have the rest. I manage to get the spitting, raging, Brit out into the hallway and away from Chris. He flies off into a fit and money falls out of his pockets as he storms down the hall. I hurry to catch up with him and steer him into the elevator and finally to his room. I get him in there and shut the door as he still rants to no one. I go back to Michael's room to find Irvine curled up on the floor and out like a light. He clutches his winnings and a big smile stretches across his face. I leave the three men and head up to my own room. By tomorrow evening I will be home and happy and not babysitting middle-aged men. I am walking to my room thinking about Jenna and seeing her tomorrow when a woman plows into me as she drags her son out into the hallway and slams the door behind her.
"Sorry!" I offer but she doesn't hear me. She's too busy and she barks at the little boy who looks scared. I walk on a bit but turn to look back. She's yelling at him like he's a piece of shit and nothing more.
"Filthy little bastard, when are you going to quit pissing yourself! You're not a little fucking baby you're eleven years old damn it!" She clutches the boys' arm tightly with one hand. His eyes brim with tears and as he tries to stutter out an apology the tears spill over and run down his cheeks. "Stop crying!" The mother, who really doesn't deserve that title, slaps the boy hard across the face. He starts to sob. I feel my hands and knees start to tremble. First I think it's out of anger at what I see unfolding before me but that's not it. "I said stop it! Look what you did, look!" Again, again, the sound of her hand as it connects with his flesh and the ring of her shrill cries drudge something up and I start to feel nauseous. Images of the card game that had been played earlier in the evening flash through my mind like the lilting flicker of a movie projector or like the flash of lightening in the night that dances over darkened walls. Her voice rings again and again and the whap of her hand joins in until my head is spins.
"No Red, you can't put that down."
I look down at the card I have laid onto the pile and then up at my brother. His lips are pushed together in a tight line and his eyes disapprove of my actions. I pick the card up and try again but he shakes his head making his auburn locks flop around on his forehead.
"I said you have to…" I tune him out as he goes on to explain the rules again. I don't even know what game we are playing. I don't even like games like this I'm just here because I'm under his orders. He threatened to take my crayons and stuff half of them up my nose and then melt the rest if I didn't do what he wanted to do. I should have told him I would stuff them in another orifice of his body, and I don't mean his ears. But I wouldn't do that because I really like my crayons and if they are up my nose or up his ass then I can't really color with them. So I let him have his way which is still not good enough for him, the brat. Sometimes I think Mom and Dad adopted him straight from hell.
"Are you listening? Maybe if you dig the crud out of your ears you could hear me!" He reaches over and flicks my ear hard. "Dust your brain off and use it once in a while!" He reaches over again and this time flicks my forehead.
"Stop it!"
"Stop it!" He mocks back in a whine.
He wants to get into a fight with me but I'm not in the mood for it. I've been feeling down lately. In a way I think he prefers when I'm depressed because it's easier for him to force his will upon me when I don't feel like bantering with him or exchanging blows.
"Doesn't matter…you make up the rules anyway."
"Well it is my game." He says like he's just something really special. "Fine, we can play Slapjack."
He takes the cards from my hand and shuffles and then starts the new game. I don't even try I just let him slap at the cards. I watch his face as he gets irritated that I won't play with him.
"I'm going after your crayons…" He lowers his gaze and squints his green eyes at me. He's just seven years old but he puts on a pretty mean scowl. "I'm going to make them all turn white and dead 'cause I'm gonna suck out their little rainbow souls!"
"Fine, go ahead!" I throw my cards at him. Some hit his chest and they flutter into his lap. I lean over on my knees so I can get close to his face and maybe convince him to leave me alone as I try to make my own grimace. "But I'm going to take Jake the teddy-bear and I'm going to pull his eyes off, then I'm gonna slice him up so all his stuffin' falls out like a bunch of bloody guts, and then I'm gonna set him one fire and make you watch him burn!"
"Touch my Jake and I'm gonna embalm your ugly ass while you sleep!"
I fall back to sitting and we are no longer nose to nose. I laugh. The thought of him trying to embalm someone while they are still alive strikes me as funny.
"Dad would let me too, I'm his favorite, he doesn't like you!" He scoops up the cards and starts the game over again. "Now, we're playin' Slapjack, or you're gettin' embalmed what's it gonna be crazy brother!"
I glower at him for a few moments but it fades away as his words echo in my head: ugly ass, Dad would let me too, I'm his favorite, he doesn't like you, crazy brother…crazy brother…crazy brother…The words hurt and make me feel even more depressed and my glower fades away into a look of despair.
"Oh cripes! Waa-waa you're such a baby!" He rolls his eyes at me.
I try to cheer up but it's like there's a heavy weight bearing down on my small shoulders, it's like the world wants to turn its back on me, and if I got embalmed during my sleep no one would care because I'm nobody and nothing. I heave out a long sigh. I sometimes feel like a lost puppy wandering around and shivering alone in the rain.
"Alright, I'll play your stupid game."
We play a little and he slaps his hand down but before he can rake the cards in I slam my fist down on top of his hand as hard as I can. He looks up at me with a grimace that twists his face and we both lock eyes until our mother breaks our hold with a bark.
"Who did this?"
We both look up simultaneously. She holds up broken shards of something. I recognize it as our grandpa's urn. Before I can declare my innocence my brother stabs his finger at me and lies.
"He did! I saw him!"
My mouth falls open in surprise at him. I didn't touch the urn! But his words press a treacherous kiss to my cheek. It is in this way my Judas brother betrays me and hands me over to the woman who wants to crucify me to a tree. I look up at my mother and babble. Her eyes are ablaze with anger. I already know what to expect, this is not the first time I have been wrongly accused and beaten for the crimes of my sibling. She tangles her snake-like fingers in my hair. She tugs me up and it pulls and tears in her clutching hold.
"You? I should have known, you can't keep your hands off anything, you can't ever behave can you!"
"Mom!" I squeak out pitifully.
"Shut up!" She places the broken pieces of urn on a small table and drags me away from my brother as a little girl would drag her dolly around absently by the yarn of its hair. All the while she shouts at the top of her voice—like fingernails clawing over a chalkboard-- about how awful I am. All I can do is whimper and cry. Mark's words ring in my ears once again: No one would care, waa-waa baby, you're such a baby! Waa-waa you're such a—
"You're such a baby!" Mom shoves me into her and Dad's bedroom which is full of heavy old antique furniture that looms around like dark monsters. The striped wallpaper peels like sunburned skin, the wood floor is raked with grooves and scratches that time has worn into its surface which is deep red like stagnant blood. She kicks the door shut behind her. I tumble down to my knees and forearms and then pick myself up to a sitting position. I don't want what is coming but I have no escape. She comes closer and I scoot away until I bump myself into a corner between a wardrobe and a trunk. She seems to loom over me like a horrible dark volcano belching smoke and hot embers or like a dragon with smoldering eyes and smoke shooting from its flaring nostrils.
"You're always the trouble-maker, you're the bad seed, you're a mistake!" She pulls me out of the corner and I huddle up into a ball as she pummels me with her fists. She lets out a frustrated yell and picks me up and tosses me onto the bed which lets out a weary groan. She tears away my clothes with her claws and I scurry to the head of the bed, naked and ashamed, and once again I curl up into a little ball of shivers and tears. She goes to the closet and I know what is about to come. The fear mounts inside and fills me until I think it will just explode me into tiny dead particles. She gets fathers' belt and snaps it and it slices the air with a loud clap. I bury my face into my hands. I wail as the belt bites at my skin as though it has rows of razor teeth like some leathery shark. I can feel my hide blister and split with each snap, each snap that is so forceful, my whole body jolts at its connection to my flesh. The sound of it as it cracks against my body repeats again and again harder and harder until I go numb and can barely feel the pain at all. I only feel the warm trickle of blood as it runs down my shoulders and back like strange little streams burst forth from my wounds. She throws me off the bed and onto the floor where she keeps whacking me. I beg in tortured cries for her to stop but she doesn't until her arm cramps. Then, she switches hands. I think it will never end but at last she tires. All I can hear now is her labored panting and my own hoarse sobs that I can't seem to control.
"Look at me!" I feel her bend over me and glare holes with her eyes. Her presence conjures up an image of a hawk that circles a dying rodent or a lion who stalks the weak link in the pack which it will surely wrestle to the ground, sink in its claws, and devour. I don't think I can move. My whole body pulses and sizzles with pain. I am a throb of rising welts. She rolls me over with her foot. "Are you sorry?" She spits at me.
"I'm sorry." I whisper. When she leaves me alone I close my eyes against the burn of my tears. I can't express to her how sorry I am. I'm sorry for being unwanted, I'm sorry for being the bad child, I'm sorry for being ugly, I'm sorry for being unloved, but most of all I am sorry—I am full of remorse—for being alive and having to endure this tormented life. I might as well never have been born, and no one would miss me. I feel as though I have been thrown to the bottom of a well and left to choke and drown in my own filth. They would probably enjoy that. Sometimes I see a small light at the top but it's so far away I don't know if I care to reach out for it. If I did, that light would probably just mock my plight with a cruel laugh and spit in my face and wink out to leave me in total darkness. I hug my knees to my chest and just the movement sends jagged bolts of pain through my whole body. From where I lay naked and bloody I can see the door push slightly ajar. His sparkling emerald orbs peek through the crack and blink at me. I close my eyes so I don't have to see his face. I wonder if he feels guilty or if he just wants to see how bad I got it—his punishment. What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.
I may be small now, I'm only five years old, but I will not remain a child forever. I will hide my hurt, bitterness, and rage inside and I will nurse it until it is ready to bloom into a wonderful, dark, flower of hatred and fury. I will not forget my suffering and I will have no mercy on those who have wronged me. Some day I will be the one who dishes it out, some day I will get my vengeance, some day I will deal, I will not fold.
I open my eyes and find I am not in a bedroom full of decrepit old furniture but I am in a hallway. I remember I'm at a hotel. I look around as I recall the mother who was abusing her son, she and my mother might as well be one in the same. No, she is not my mother but Kane's mother. No matter, they are gone now. I don't know how long I've been here hugging my knees and crying. I wipe tears from my eyes and unfold my legs but as I do a streak of pain bites into my back as though one final crack of the belt as landed there.
This turned out really long, yipes! Hopefully it is a good chapter despite its lengthiness.