She sped along the dark highway in silence. Dean had not uttered a word since he'd climbed into the passenger seat and they'd departed the arena. He was in a strange state, calm but seemingly contemplative. He just stared out the window, his eyes following the shadowy scenery. She wanted to talk to him about what had happened that night. More importantly, she wanted to know the truth about his supposed jail time. However, she quickly became distracted when she realized where she was. They were about ten minutes away from her hometown, a place she hadn't seen in nearly fifteen years. She grew sick to her stomach just thinking about it.
"Are you okay?"
His gruff voice startled her. She found that he had abandoned the views of the dark and desolate Southern highways and was looking at her now instead.
"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"
"You're driving pretty fast. You seem tense."
She looked down at the speedometer and was surprised to find she was driving over 95 miles per hour. She slowed down and pulled off on the side of the road. Putting the car in park, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Dean continued to watch her in silence for several moments. When he spoke, it was in a surprisingly gentle tone.
"I've got to be honest, Sunshine. You're kind of freaking me out."
She gave him a small smile.
"I'm sorry. It's just…I just realized we're close to where I grew up."
"Is that a bad thing?"
It was a simple question, but the answer was a long and complicated one and one that she had never spoken to anyone about. She tried not to think about it herself. Still, she'd been running from her past for some time now. It seemed like fate had brought her here on this night that was already full of melodrama, and she was here with Dean, the one person she felt might understand her past. Perhaps it was finally time to share her secret.
"Do you want to take a little detour? I want to see the house I grew up in."
Dean seemed to study her carefully.
"Whatever you want."
It didn't take long to find the dirt road that led to the small little shack of a house she called home for the first twelve years of her life. She stopped the car and climbed out, slowly pacing around the perimeter of the property. She could hear Dean following along behind her at a distance. She was amazed at how everything looked the same, but time had certainly done a number on the place. The solitary house looked as if it had been uninhabited for years. She supposed she and her father may have been the last tenants.
She walked into the garage. Some of her father's tools still remained. She froze when she saw an old crowbar lying in the corner. There was no way to tell, but it could have been the very one her father had struck her with when she was a child.
Dean had caught up to her by this point. He stood beside her, gazing around at the mostly empty garage.
"This place is a dump," he said.
She chuckled.
"Yeah. It didn't look much better when I lived here."
"How long did you live here?"
"Until I was twelve. I moved in with my aunt shortly after my twelfth birthday."
"You lived here with your mom and dad?"
"I mostly remember my father. My mother ran out on him when I was six. She was just gone one day. I found out later on that she'd hooked up with somebody else and skipped town."
"So your dad raised you by his self?"
"My father worked and provided me some food and a roof over my head. Aside from that, he didn't do much of anything except get drunk and watch TV."
"Is that why you moved in with your aunt?"
She smiled an empty smile.
"That's where the story turns ugly."
She turned her back on the garage and walked toward the front porch. She sat down on the steps and was soon joined by Dean. The property was completely dark save for the car's headlights that she'd left on. It was eerie seeing her childhood home this way. It made the place seem just that much more sinister.
"Hey, I know it's none of my business, but…"
He trailed off, seeming to struggle with what to say.
"Do you want to know what happened here? Why I was forced to leave and move in with my aunt?"
He paused a moment then nodded once.
"I'll tell you, but afterwards I get to ask you something. Deal?"
He smirked.
"Deal."
She took a deep breath, contemplating where she should begin.
"My father never wanted me. Neither did my mother. I was an "accident". My mother and my father had only been together a couple of months when she turned up pregnant. They decided to "do the right thing" and raise me together, so they got married. I only have a few memories of the two of them together. I remember thinking that they really loved each other. They seemed so happy back then and they tried their best to love me too. But over time, things changed. Then one day, my mother was gone. I was left with my dad, a man who'd just had his heart ripped out. He loved my mother up to the day she left, and he always blamed me for her leaving. My father had always been a drinker, and when my mother left, his drinking slowly got worse. The worse his drinking got, the more violent he became. I endured many beatings over the years, and the things he'd say to me when he was drunk were the meanest things you could imagine: 'I never loved you, neither did your mom,' 'I wish you'd never been born,' and so on.
I tried really hard to keep him happy so I wouldn't have to hear him yell or have him hit me, but it got to a point where there was nothing I could do. It finally reached the breaking point when I was twelve. I was playing in the garage one night and I accidentally knocked over a bucket of paint. The paint spilled all over the floor. I tried to clean it up but I only made it worse. It wasn't long before my father heard me in the garage. He came out to see what I was doing. I knew I was in big trouble when he saw the paint spilled all over the floor and his face turned a shade of red I'd never seen before. He started after me, picking up a crowbar on the way. I ran from him at first, but I didn't get very far. He caught up to me in the backyard. The first few hits were very painful. After a while, I think I blacked out. I woke up the next morning in my bed. I suffered through getting myself ready for school; every inch of my body was burning in pain. On my way to the bus, I saw my father sleeping on the couch. It was the last time I saw him in this place. When I got to school that morning, the bus driver walked me to the principal's office. I stood there in shame while they all eyed me pitifully, looking at the bruises all over my body. I was sent to the hospital to be checked out, and the cops came for my father. They say he didn't show the slightest sign of remorse when they told him I'd suffered a fractured arm and three broken ribs."
She went silent and stared at her arms. The silvery little scars showed up nicely in the moonlight, little pockmarks where the sharp end of the crowbar had split her open that night. She'd hated them for the longest time, but now she looked at them as tokens of survival.
She chuckled to herself.
"You know, you're the only person I've ever told that story to."
He looked at her skeptically.
"You haven't told Punk? Isn't this the kind of information your fiancé might want to know?"
She sighed.
"It's always been a sore subject. I never wanted anyone to know that my father was such a loser that he lost his only daughter because he nearly beat her to death."
"Then why did you tell me?"
She shrugged.
"I don't know. I thought you might understand."
Dean seemed to be at a loss for words for the first time in his life. His eyes glazed over like he was reliving his own horrible memories. He snapped out of it when she asked him a question he hadn't been suspecting.
"And now that I've told you about all that, I want to ask you something. Hopefully now you'll understand why it's important that I know. Did you go to jail for beating up your girlfriend?"
His expression darkened. This made her nervous, but she knew she must press on.
"Who told you that?" he asked in a low voice.
"…Phil. He told me earlier today."
He surprised her by bursting into laughter.
"So Punker is trying to dig up dirt on me? Hmm, I wonder why…" he said sarcastically.
"Just answer the question," Aidan said ignoring his sidetracking comments.
He looked at her, his eyes sharp even in the low lighting.
"Yeah, I was arrested and I was put in jail, but I didn't lay a finger on that bitch. Everybody knew it too! That's why they let me go. Insufficient evidence or whatever."
"Why would she put you in jail for something you didn't do?"
He ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair.
"Because she cheated on me with some douchebag that ended up dumping her like a month later. He always beat on her, but when they split she got all clingy on him, tried to get him to come back, and he beat the fuck out of her. At that time, I was starting to gain some respect in my wrestling career. I guess she was jealous that I was doing well. The other guy was a drug dealer and she helped run some deals for him. Maybe she was scared she'd go to jail if they found out who he was. Fuck if I know what she was thinking. The bottom line is, she gave the cops my name and they arrested me. They soon realized it was all bullshit and they let me go."
She looked him over for a moment, trying to determine whether or not he was telling the truth. She knew he was the king of bullshit and he could very well be trying to fool her, but she had her own ways of getting the information she wanted.
"That must have really broken your heart when she had you arrested."
He scoffed, trying and failing at nonchalance. His mouth dipped into a frown baring his teeth, an expression she knew too well. It meant he was bothered by something.
"Heartbroken doesn't begin to describe what that bitch did to me. I loved her, and she acted like she didn't care whether I lived or died. I would have done anything for her and she goes out and betrays me not once, but twice."
He stood up and began pacing around the yard, kicking up dirt with each step.
"I kept asking myself over and over 'what is it about me that is so goddamned unlovable'? I know that I was poor, that I grew up on the wrong side of town. Maybe I've got a short temper—and I don't always do or say the right things—but I loved her—more than anything else in my fucked up, miserable life. Shouldn't that be enough? And I wouldn't have laid a finger on her—but she chooses some asshole selling drugs out of the back of a van that beats the fuck out of her night after night. Meanwhile, I'm trying to move on and I get a call one night that she's in the hospital, fighting for her life, and oh, by the way, I'm under arrest for putting her there."
He punched at the air, releasing the pent up anger that had built over the past few years. Without thinking, Aidan walked over to him and put her arms around him. He seemed unsure of this sudden sentiment, his body stiffening. After a moment, he seemed to relax. Somewhat awkwardly, he put his hand on her back. She looked up at him and he saw tears in her eyes.
"Why are you crying?" he asked in a soft voice.
Unaware of the tears that had just started spilling down her cheeks and embarrassed by their presence, she wiped hurriedly at her eyes.
"I'm sorry-I just—"
"Don't be sorry. I wasn't looking for sympathy. I don't even know why I told you all that stuff. You're just—you're really easy to talk to."
He took a step back, painfully aware that their bodies were pressed tightly together. He seemed to consider her for a moment. The emotion in his eyes was unreadable, but it seemed like he was at war with himself over something.
"Hey…I know I've been a real asshole over the past couple of months and you probably…you didn't deserve any of that. I just…I want to give you some advice and I hope you take it."
She stared at him blankly, in disbelief that these words were coming out of Dean Ambrose's mouth.
"What is it?"
"You should tell Punk…about everything. I know you've got a good thing with him. Keeping all these secrets is not doing you any favors. Its better he find out now about your past…about our past. He won't forgive you if he finds out after you're…married."
Suddenly he seemed very fidgety. He was showing the tell-tale signs that he was upset about something.
"What's wrong?" she asked him softly.
"Nothing. Let's get out of here."
He stormed off towards the car. She stared after him, a little confused by his behavior. She had a feeling it took every last ounce of sensitivity in his body to say what he'd just said. She was also afraid she knew why it was so hard for him to say it.