Prior to this scandal, I'd never known what felt like to have a broken, torn, dislocated, or injured anything. I know, I know, it sounds like an over exaggeration but 'tis the truth. Kids go through broken ankles, broken arms, whatever. I went through packs upon packs of Band-Aids, bottles of peroxide, and bags of cotton balls and maybe the occasional cold pack. I was clumsy but not brittle-boned.
So, this morning, I woke up to a full blown dosage of sizzling hell. Fuck having a broken heart, my diaphragm and lung were doing a killer set on my ribs. Dipping from Rosa's had been no walk in the park either. Damned, yet blessed, woman all but hugged my internal organs out of place! This little twenty minute merry-go-round was a mix of pot holes, quick brakes, and brutal turns.
Just when I thought I was out of the woods, when I thought my dose of ultra-fucking-agony wasn't amped enough, I'm rammed by a freaking Metra. Okay, not a Metra but close to it: a heavily pregnant tiny thing of a woman wobbling full-speed into me – if there's any me left.
"Oh my god, babycakes…" she squeals in my ear. There's a growing lump in my throat. I ready to burst into tears. This is excruciating like my skeleton has been realigned! I just want to sing the song of the dying whales but…I can't. My best friend, sister, is knocked up. Knowing how my surrogate is, she probably divulged the entirety of the fiasco that went down yesterday. I can't begin to imagine the anxiety that the news gave my poor Mackenzie. No crying…for now.
"She's been busted wide open, Mack! Handle with care."
Micks's entire frame goes rigid. She pries herself off me. I let out a sigh of relief and sulk by the car, watching. Her mouth agape, she follows the voice like she's seen the light.
About my friend here is that she's a chatterbox. There's no red light to that mouth of hers. It's shocking to hear nothing, uncharacteristic.
"Well you're looking big as ever."
Something turns the motors on inside Mackenzie's head and she rumbles back to life, "Philly, you're…" she points a chubby finger to the grounds, sky, me, the car – everywhere. In typical, dramatic fashion, the girl tapes a hand over her mouth, breathing profoundly, and tears brim her hazel eyes, "You're here, asshole."
'Philly' throws away that signature smirk of his, nodding, "Missed you too, asshole." He circles the front of his sedan and embraces his visibly younger sister. Planting a firm kiss atop her dirty blonde hair, he mutters, "Stop this emotional shit, we have an audience, Mack." He chuckles as she playfully swats him.
From the sidelines, I've found confirmation: the kid's definitely a Brooks. I also find myself sweating out tears, pain and pleasure.
Between her excitement and pestering, we manage to drag her to her house 'cus the afternoon is chilling down but same is same: here or outside, it's freezing nips. This burly sweater ain't basking in anything!
I trail the bleach blonde as he steers his rambling sister towards the table. Is she getting new furniture, I ask myself. Bumping into her coffee table, I get a glimpse of half sealed envelopes littered all over and maybe a checkbook, "I see y'all have reacquainted, how weird is that? Almost ten years…"
Averting my eyes, I grab a chair next to her, "Come again?"
"C'mon, silly, I'm talking, you and Philly." Whatever she's getting at with that pushy smile of hers, I'm not receiving, "Phil, you remember Mar, don't ya'?"
The man in question looks up from inside the fridge, "If you mean, if I remember her from yesterday, sure as hell I do," he mumbles, bologna hanging from his mouth.
Shit on a stick, I don't even remember him from yesterday. All I have to his rugged face and beautiful eyes is today. "I had someone else in mind, actually. You'll get filled in on how we met today, but I seriously didn't – still don't – recognize this brother of yours," remembering the incident(s) makes me cringe, "Given that, he still came to my Hallelujah: saved yours truly."
"True story," adds the brother, "I can add that to my ever-growing resume if 'rasslin' doesn't work out. It'll read something like, 'Phil Brooks: plays Batman in his spare time, plays with men in underwear for a living," says the hero of the moment, looking ever so bad ass with a sandwich in hand and pop in the other, "You'll vouch for me, won't you, Marleene?" he winks and a meek smile appears on my face.
Eyes rolling, the pregnant lady in between quips, "Calm down, spunky. You already got the girl."
The man nearly chokes on his soda, "Shut up, kiddo." I cover a smirk of my own.
The wickedly ancient chair creaks against the laminate floor as this hulk of a man plops down on it with such carelessness. He fusses around trying to readjust himself and the creaking, squeaking – talk about nails on the chalkboard. The damned thing is on the last of it's' legs and that body size is pushing it! He's not no normal person, he's an Andre the Giant motherfucker.
"Quit this, 'I'm a modest fuckface', act you got rollin'. Nobody in the vicinity is buyin'." Micks then turns to face me, "Back in, like…at the birth of his wrestling career, Charming over here had them ring rats swooned. For a time, they called him, 'Chick Magnet'. His little show name is CM Punk so it fit but kid was a fuckin' dork…" she giggles, "Oh boy, you remember, I know you do!" And, in reality, I'm blanker than a new college-ruled notebook!
After couple more rounds of rowdy banter between the siblings, conversation shifts towards the mood sobering reality of what was yesterday. By the end, my best friend was petrified and by that, I'm talking about lifting my sweater and revealing a canvas smeared with cold colors and a back washed out with warm ones. The second I discovered those weepy eyes of hers, I knew I'd ruptured the bubbly joy her brother's homecoming created.
"…said the car had seen the roughest of times but always managed to finish the journey. That's the last time I listen to those shithead paper ads," grumbles Phil, storytelling us about the detour to a shop a ways before arriving in Lockport.
"How long do you have?" The olive-green eyed man scratches the side of his neck, contemplating. His sister looks on, her soft smile wearing down, "C'mon, you knew this was coming."
He clears his throat, "I know, I know…" he takes a sip of his soda, downing it like an alcoholic shot, "Couple of days," he slides his hands over the condensation on the pop can, "Two…three tops," he shuts his eyes tight as if awaiting some kind of wrath.
It never comes, "At least you're finally home," her smile outlined but forced, "even if it's for a quick glance. One of my men…" she drifts off, "I missed you, big bro. I really did," her smile quivering, "I really fucking did."
Times like these, when she's all sentimental talking about her "boys" make me wish I had the ability to fly in from wherever they may be. This time, she's referencing the husband she hasn't seen since she discovered that she's with child. Months. The guy is half way round the world fighting for that red, white, and blue. It's a different kind of war out here. It's seeing a vulnerable Micks fighting tooth and nail to keep her tiny family afloat: financially and emotionally.
"Auntie Marley!" shouts a high pitched voice instantly quirking my lips upwards. It is my beloved, four year old nuisance, Dominick.
"Papi!" I shriek, exuding the same enthusiasm as he sprints into my arms (my sore arms). Holding back a groan, "Did you go through a growth spurt, kiddo?"
The munchkin wiggles out of my arms, giggling, "You're so silly! I can't grow in two days!"
"Oh, really?" curling my lip, "You must be turning into a giant!"
The beautiful sound of childish giggles resound throughout the house as my fingers tickle his sides. His mother, her face composed, taps his miniature shoulder and nods her head towards the newly arrived house guest.
"This is your uncle Phil, honey. He's my brother, the one in with spiky orange hair in that picture I showed you, 'member?"
Speculating his mother's words, Dominick inches towards the tower-sized stranger. Up and down, down and up. It clicks. Dom glances back at his mom, nods. Encouragingly, "Cat got your tongue? Say, 'hi'."
Little guy clasps his hands together, moving them around like he's solving a Rubik's cube. His head bobs my way, orbs holding such uncertainty – asking for assurance. A simple smile from me, "I rode with him for twenty minutes straight, he doesn't bite." I send a wink at an oddly squirmy Phil.
"Hey, Champ. I'm your uncle, Phil," states the man, his voice softened, almost silky, "You don't remember me. Last time I was here, you were this big," he motions with his hands.
"Mommy's shown me pictures, Uncle Phil. You didn't look so big in them though."
I let out a muffled laugh, so does Momma Bear, at the six foot wrestler's expense, "I guess cameras have that effect when it comes to me…" he smiles, "Between you and I though, I prefer 'Uncle Punk'. Sounds more…more…kickass."
"Language!" whines Mackenzie and Dom giggles.
Apart from the vast difference in age as well in height, the resemblance between uncle and nephew is uncanny. Can't really articulate anything other than physical qualities, "Me too, it sounds cooler," agrees the toddler, "Does that mean that you like video games?"
Punk taps his chin, "Hm...depends. You wanna show me which ones you got?" The toddler lights up, "I'll race ya!" and he's off like the races and so is an amused Phil. "Don't break anything!" Micks shouts after them.
Taking a moment to take in the woman who seems as though she's aged overnight, I realize that in she isn't quite plump. It's just her belly that looks like a tumor growing. The rest of her is frail, almost too delicate to touch. Her vibrant, wavy dirty blonde hair seems to have thinned out. Her eyes bore deep bags and her cheeks seem hollow. Have I really been so caught up with in my own problems to ignore hers? "Do I have something on my face?"
I blink, "We need to talk, don't we?"
"Well if there are more details about you and Noah's fallout...yes."
I shake my head, "It's always almost the same thing with me and him. You and everybody and the parlor are like broken records. I'm talking about you," her confused face tells me she isn't following, "You're worried about Ace, aren't ya?"
ΔΔΔΔ
Two gallons of ice cream later, I'm bordering brain-freeze and pneumonia while Micks is out like light. I envy her, being as full and cold as I am, but then again it was for her own good: girl was balling her eyes out over her desperation and need to see her husband.
Ever so quietly, I slide off the couch and tiptoe over to the TV where "Pearl Harbor" is playing, grab the phone, and head in the direction of her room for some blankets. Passing Dominick's door, my curiosity gets the better of me, I decide to sneak a peek. Surely enough the boys a heavy into some boxing game on the kid's Xbox console. Bit of banter here and there; Dom has a knack for befriending people. As I'm set to go, "Uncle, you know my dad is a soldier, right?"
"I've heard. Only the bravest become soldiers."
"I bet! But I was wondering if you knew when he's coming home," asks the youngster and I feel my heart beginning to fall, "Halloween is so close and it'd be cool to go trick-or-treating with him."
The screen pauses and the bleach blonde turns to his young nephew. His expression is caught between contemplative and hopefulness, "If I could, I'd bring your dad home this instant, kiddo, I would. Thing is, we just have to wait it out. Something that's for sure is that he's coming home," and then unexpectedly the man grunts in pain. He hold his chest as if it something might burst out, and that's when I know he's playing.
Dom though, he's all over him like a bug, "Uncle! Uncle, are you okay?"
"I'm hurt. You seem like chilling with me isn't as fun!"
I laugh quietly, "I do! Please get better, I'll let you win!"
Shivering, I carry on. Upon opening Micks's door, a ghostly breeze drifts by making me shiver all the more. Entering I find that the crazy chick has the window open. It's freezing nips outside, crazy ass! Scrounging around the room looking for an extra set of blankets as to not strip Mrs. Brooks-Welsh's bed entirely, I can't help but think of how well Phil carried out that scene with Dom. If it'd been Noah, he would've just botched the whole thing with his negativity - he wasn't a fan of the army or authority in general - and there'd been tears and dirty glares.
Noah is irrelevant, Marleene. He fucked you over and up. Groaning, I open a closet and spot so,e more blankets and a box with glitter letters that sparkle from the setting sun. "Mar & Micks's - KEEP OUT!" the scrawled out letters read. My interest is sparked but then again it'd be considered snooping. Reminder: ask Micks's about box. Lifting myself and the mountain of blankets off the floor, I walk, quietly as can be, out the door.
"...she's the bestest! She teaches me Spanish and the ABCs!"
"Really? Sounds like she's a good teacher. Maybe I would've learnt something from her if I'd had her."
A humbled smile makes it's way onto my face. Not being arrogant but I know they're talking about me which is nice considering whenever somebody talks about me, it's usually to blurt out shit.
"Maybe but she's an awesomer tattoo artist! You should see, Uncle Punk! Once she did a really cool Pokemon one on this girl..."
"She's a tattoo artist? That's pretty freakin' awesome," replies Phil.
"She's awesome, but uncle can I ask you somethin'?"
Stop meddling, Marleene, "Go ahead, Champ."
"Why does Auntie Marley have so many boo-boos and can't open her eye?"
Oh God... My lungs disinflate. My heart plunges into the acidic pool of my stomach enzymes. Obviously kids are curious creatures by nature but this catches me off guard. How is this guy gonna break it down for Dominick? The boy is intuitive and could always sense that Noah didn't take to him and he reciprocated those feelings; point is that I don't want to turn this child's feelings of dislike into hate...he's too young to feel such a strong and ugly emotion.
Readying myself to barge into that room to make any random excuse to deviate from the pending answer, "Um...Champ, why don't we pause this little chimichanga fiesta and have a man-to-man talk?"
The little ray of sunshine giggles a bit, "Okay? You know I'm only four?"
His uncle joins in, "And I'm twenty-five and people still call me 'kid'," he clears his throat, "Seriously now. One day, Champ, one day you'll find that special little woman that'll blow your mind in every way imaginable, you'll want to tie her down and keep her forever. Sure she'll drive you nuts, women are crazy by nature," he laughs a little bit, " but it won't matter because you'll want to protect her against all evil. That, young grasshopper, is what we humans identify as love. Now, when you love someone you don't treat them bad no matter how bad they hurt you. Trust me, Champ, that girl will make you the maddest guy on the planet. Your brain will tell you to lash out at her but listen and listen closely, never ever hit her. Understand? We, as men, we don't hit women because once we do that... our man card will be taken from us and all we'll ever be are cowards."
Someone put that in the freaking bible, in a freaking ad, a fucking commercial. That speech just left me speechless. Made my night, my day. This man is one hell of a man for having just said that.
"But girls are gross!" exclaims Dominick in utter disgust. Boys...
"Tell me about it; that's why we men have to stick together," replies the man who just left me flabbergasted. And again, boys...
ΔΔΔΔ
Maneuvering my way into the kitchen, seeing as Micks is out cold, I dial up my boss. It rings five times before I give up and try the parlor's phone, "You're talking to Wesley, what's up?"
"Bonehead, it's Marleene! Are you working on somebody?"
"Babygirl! Where have you been hiding-" a distinct woman's voice pulls him away momentarily, "Sorry, Luz is over. Again, where you been, 'chacha?" Last time I was seen, I'd been briskly throwing on my trusty leather, Babyphat jacket readying myself to raise hell on whatever unlucky female I'd catch with a certain cheating ex-boyfriend, "Issues. Irrelevant issues. I'm really sorry though, I know I kind of sobered up the party mood. Anywho, I was wondering if I'm to go in tomorrow?"
"Honey, I'm sorry for your little dramas but it's our anniversary. You're cutting into our special time and last time I checked, Inkblot is closed for tonight...check in tomorrow. Thank you," it's Luz, Wesley's long-term girlfriend, and she just cut the line.
"Fucking bitch!" I murmur under my breath. Her and I haven't ever been on the best of terms. She's like a maggot that's crawled under my skin and never leaves. She's like a cancer that won't go into remission. Luz is a bitch, one that I have to see every single time I walk into the one place where my talent is worth something: Inkblot.
Muttering obscenities, I open the fridge and pull out a Coke and ease my anger by observing the collage on said fridge. It's a colorful flurry of memories: goofy looking photos of the billion and one times Mackenzie and I were caught doing something stupid throughout the years, strips of the girl and her hubby, prints of Dom as a mere alien inside her womb, and professional shots of Micks, an infant Dom, and Phil with Lake Michigan in the background...dated '02. You were busy moving in, remember?
Popping open the can and slumping over the counter, I mull over the problems that just won't stop popping up, "Ninety-nine problems and bitches are most of them..." I laugh a grief filled laugh and hold my head in my hands, "Empezando desde cero, Marleene. Tienes nada porque todo lo que un dia fue...se derrumbó..."
"They say problems are only temporary..."
My hands jerk toppling over the can as I spin around to face to owner of that raspy voice, Phil, "Could you quit doing that? On one of those surprise pop-ups I'll end up on an emergency stretcher!"
"I'm sorry..." he kicks off the wall and snatches up a dishrag, "Coke, it's spilt. Let me..." the mossy-brown eyed man starts mopping the counter with the rag.
He's so close, like I can feel the warmth radiate off his body. It unnerves me. He's attractive, I'll give him that, but it unnerves me for reasons I can't explain. My body is tensed up, waiting for him to lash out, and my mind tells me he will but somewhere I know he won't.
"I can...I can wipe you - it...I can wipe it. I tipped it over."
He sends a funky stare my way and continues, "I'll do the honors, relax," he finishes and throws the rag over the sink and goes over to lean against the fridge, "You're doing a pretty shitty job at keeping up this 'I'm fine' facade. You went through something traumatic...you should cry or do something to let it out. Whatever 'it' is."
Leering at him, "Crying will get me nowhere. I'd bitch, moan, and whine but that won't do much, will it? After half a decade, I am left with nothing. I might as well be a dropout fresh outta college. Nothing is in my name. Problems are temporary because once one is resolved another rises."
Punk rubs his chin taking in the brick of truth that I've just thrown his way. He clears his throat a smirks, "What's life without a little drama?"
I scoff and chug whatever is left of my soda, "Better."
"Believe it or not, drama is what builds character and all that good shit," he turns around and peels off an aged photograph and points to the two subjects in it, "You remember them, yeah? Moms and Pops... if you do, you'd remember that ol' Daddy-O was a lousy ass drunk and Moms was a fiend," he puts the picture back, "Pops use to come home, on his good days, and find any excuse in the book to beat on Mikey and me. Sometimes we were lucky to be so exaggeratedly beat up that we'd be allowed to stay home from school. That was a daily problem," he closes his eyes, "Another problem, when Mom wouldn't make it home and we'd find her slumped on some corner, alley, or the neighbor's fence."
Personal. This is all too damn personal. We've only known each other for a short stretch of time. This is too much, it makes me cringe at the memories brought on. Micks would confide in me about how her dad acted or how she'd be lucky to even find her mom home.
"These problems only ever seem to vanish once Mike and I joined a small-time promotion. The LWF. We loved wrestling, never really trained but loved the sport. The pocket change we'd get gave us hopes that one day we'd save enough to get out of here..." he chuckles a bit, "The more successful we were, the guys and us, the more greedy Mike became. He was the reason for my departure from the promotion. He was the money man...he took it all," he bites his steel embedded lip, "Problems sprang up and once I was done with highschool, I upped and left. I haven't talked to Mike in years and don't plan to," he opens the fridge a pulls out a Coke, he scrunches up his face and shrugs, "I'll still be forever loyal to Pepsi. Anyway, since I didn't know anything other that wrestling...I entered the roadie lifestyle and began proper training as SDW. Met some cool guys. The picture hasn't been to make it big but be the best. I'm currently signed with ROH. Will I ever make it to the big league, WWE? Who knows, it'd be rad though," he keeps his gaze on me, "I'm not a spokesperson for 'Dreams Come True' and that bullshit, but I'd like to think drama and problems inspire people to better themselves."
Reflecting on his little speech, which he seems to be too good a giving, I manage a tiny smile. Aside from all this apprehensiveness, a minuscule smile for his troubles, "You're very charismatic, you know?"
"So they say," he says cheekily.
I roll my eyes, "You're very 'modest'. I'll take what you've said into consideration. Keep it in mind on my lowest of days."
He pops his white tee and I can't help but laugh, "All in a day's work..."
Covering my mouth, "Please don't do that."
"Do what?"
"This," I reciprocate his past actions.
"Why? If you look cute doing it...shit, I do too!"
Trying to hold back my blush, "Eh..."
"Eh?" he pushes himself away from the fridge and closer to me.
"Yeah, 'eh'."
"Damn..." he clutches his heart, "my self-esteem..."
"Gee, I'm oh so sorry, pretty boy," Really? You said that out loud, really?
A hurt expression etched on his face makes me burst out laughing, "You're something of a bully, Miss Marleene. Complimenting people and then laughing in their face..." he says with this playful glint in his beautiful mossy-green eyes.
We're just inches away. With unbroken eye contact that gives me shivers and a hint of self consciousness. I'm all fucked up, not too mention my bulging black eye. His gaze is so aware, so confident, so hypnotizing. The man is good looking in his own right: in that intense yet worn way. For the life of me, I can't figure out if he's leaning down or I'm leaning up. His minty breath caressed my lips and my eyes close expecting anything and nothing at all...
"What's wrong with people? I wake up alone with a shit ton of blankets an - Oh.."
A/N- It was a long read, wasn't it? More interaction between the two. YAY! I think we're getting somewhere, my dears. Read on and support my cause, haha.
Disclaimer: I own nobody who's name you recognize. This is just a work of creative fiction.