Post by The Golden One on Nov 5, 2024 3:24:51 GMT
The clouds above – usually darting across the sky with a speedy breeze or slowly trudging along with no wind – look stuck. They seem like they’ll never escape their current position.
Maybe time has stood still. Maybe the second hand on clocks around the world stopped, all at once. Maybe the world paused.
That’s how it feels, at least, for XYZ. It feels as though time has stopped, the world has stopped, everything has stopped. Everything is … waiting on him. The night sky, nearly pitch black, feels like an empty void of waiting on him.
XYZ rarely ever feels like he’s at the center of the universe. He feels like he’s there currently. It’s funny how this only happens in the darkest, lowest moments. In the loneliest moments. Because it’s the loneliness that kills you.
XYZ is standing on the Cantera Bridge in San Juan, Puerto Rico, which is known by now to be the site of Lights Out. The Cantera Bridge is part of Highway 27, which rips through the eastern part of the city. San Juan isn’t very large in terms of square footage. Not a big city for mass. It is a major city for people, though. And stuff to do. Things to see.
Also, to be fair, the Cantera Bridge is not a very large bridge. It stands approximately 80 feet above a narrow river snaking down below, connecting the Bahia de San Juan the Laguna San Jose, which divides San Juan with the municipality of Carolina. There are no lights on the bridge or immediately off on either side. It’s moody. Away from the capital city’s population. Scattered neighborhoods to the southwest are all asleep. Still. Paused.
At 2 a.m., nothing is lively, to be fair. But this area? Desolate.
Except for XYZ, who chose the spot for its desolate nature.
The drop from where XYZ is standing to the water below would not be deadly. At least not the impact from hitting the water. It’d likely be painful, even if he swam after landing.
XYZ doesn’t know how to swim.
Which is why he chose this spot. XYZ is standing near the edge of the Cantera Bridge because of the water below … and because of the vacancy around him. Nowhere else in San Juan, even at this hour, would provide this setting.
XYZ is standing on the side of this particular bridge and looking down to the water 80 feet below because he is considering jumping. Him, his green wrestling tights, his unbuttoned black suit jacket, and the FWA Television Championship belt. He knows he can’t swim. He knows if he can just get over the edge, he will have made it.
This is the current mental and physical state of XYZ.
All of this time … all of the urging for people to keep going in life and pleas for people to join the fight and inspirational moments of telling people the dream never dies … and he is ready to give up.
Because he is alone. All alone.
No Menage. They left at Back in Business when he didn’t listen to their (correct) suspicions.
No mom. She was an imposter who was not actually XYZ’s mom, and he still is searching for answers as to what exactly happened.
No Wild Jerry. He hasn’t appeared since Back in Business.
No one.
It’s the loneliness that kills you.
XYZ called for help. On the last Fallout before Lights Out, he called for The Menage to come home. He asked Sierra, Frank, PacMan Bert, and Lizzy to come back. He would welcome Wild Jerry with open arms. Anyone to help him through the cave he's currently in. Anyone who understands his past, his present, and the dungeon his heart is entrapped within.
And earlier today, with the loneliness spreading like a cancerous tumor through his brain and heart, he wished one more time for each of them to come. Individual, heartfelt messages to his former friends. They all read the same.
“I need you all. In San Juan. Will you please?”
It emulated a prayer. XYZ was not on his hands and knees. He simply was seated, closed his eyes, and spoke so softly that no one but he could hear the words. Him and fate. Him and the unseen forces that tilt the pendulum whenever they wish to become involved. Him and the powers that exist between light and dark. Between good and evil. Between the haves and have-nots. Between the meek and beaten, and the world’s bullies who beat and sit on their ivory clouds of scorn.
His prayer was left unanswered.
XYZ is currently standing one step below the edge. He could just fall forward and over the edge if he wanted. There’s only about a foot of pavement left between his feet and the honest edge. But it makes more sense to take this last step up, and then fall in.
How could he defend the FWA Television Championship against a testosterone-ridden superhero such as Captain Righteous? How can he match strength against someone who is the superhero persona of a raging boner just flying through the air whipping the world with his hard-on?
How can he even focus on that match? Wrestling? His livelihood? His purpose? His calling?
He's just trying to survive. He's just trying to find reason and way to keep breathing.
And he's tired of fighting the loneliness ... the loneliness that is bound to kill him ... chipping away at him like a thick tree leaning heavily to its side after being tormented by hurricane winds.
XYZ has every intention of taking one more step. Yet, as he lifts his right foot about 6 inches off the ground, he stops – unable to move it any further – due to fear. He is scared of losing this lengthy fight, and what that means for him as a person. He is scared of the end, and what type of beginning may come after – if any beginning at all.
Yet, he is also so so so tired – and the thought of continuing feels too exhausting and overwhelming. He can’t even process the idea of it right now.
So he lifts his right foot about 3 more inches. It’s like putting one foot in front of the other to keep running a marathon, except this is inching closer and closer to overcoming his fears of death.
It’s not the first time he has been in this exact position. Not on this exact bridge, but on a bridge, looking over water, with the intention of jumping. The first time, XYZ couldn’t get his foot more than those first 6 inches. He would lift his foot, get scared, put it down. Lift his foot again, put it down. Deep breaths. Lift his foot, put it down.
Finally, someone walked by and literally tackled him to the ground. Then called 911 and held XYZ there until emergency workers arrived. XYZ was brought to a hospital, and then a mental health institution, for the next three years of his life.
He never learned the name of the person who tackled him. In fact, he doesn’t really remember the person saying much. But that person saved his life many years ago. XYZ is pretty confident he would have eventually gained the courage to jump.
And now, XYZ is doing the same song-and-dance, half hoping someone shows up and tackles him, and half hoping he can gain the courage to jump before someone shows up.
XYZ closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and this time lifts his right foot high enough to move it forward and place it on the very top and last step. This is the furthest he has ever gone. Now all he has to do is lift his left foot up and forward enough to where the momentum carries his weight forward and he has no choice left.
But his left foot feels like it is stuck to the ground. He can’t lift it … out of fear.
He takes another deep breath. That worked last time.
But before he can lift his left foot, he hears footsteps. They are, at first, quite soft. A pitter-patter against the pavement. Then they get louder, and louder. XYZ opens his eyes and looks to his left, down the bridge toward an outskirt neighborhood of San Juan. It’s vacant. No one. Nothing.
Then he looks to his right. Beyond the bridge in this direction are trees, street pavement void of any automobiles, and an entrance ramp approximately 100 yards away to another highway. A few headlights can be seen every few seconds, but it’s just a faint vision from this distance.
But the bridge is not empty. Not anymore.
A dog with mostly black fur, beagle-sized ears, a labrador-shaped face, white-fur feet, and a white tip on its tail. It’s not a black lab retriever like Big Al was. Big Al, XYZ’s childhood dog, was an all-black lab. Not a single centimeter of white fur on him.
But the labrador-ness is similar. The pup has its tongue out, just like Big Al would, to form almost a smile. Its long-sloped nose was also mimicking Big Al.
It’s the same dog he spotted in Columbus, Mississippi, weeks ago during his first out-of-the-ring, superhero confrontation with Captain Righteous.
It’s the same dog he spotted outside of the Magic School Bus during Fallout.
It’s the same dog only he sees … and no one else. Captain Righteous could not see the canine. The cameraman on Fallout could not see it.
And it’s back.
Suddenly, XYZ does not feel so lonely. The pup is just feet from him, and he senses a warm chill bristle through him. It’s a feeling of companionship.
The Television Champion steps his right foot down from the very edge of the bridge’s side and finishes what he started – a 180-degree turn to face the canine. He then steps onto the actual proper pavement of the bridge’s two-way, one-lane-each-way road. XYZ is no more than 10 feet from the pup. He crouches down and holds his right hand out gently – a sign for the pup to consider approaching.
And the dog does indeed approach. He walks quickly up to XYZ, sniffs one time, and begins licking his hand. The dog then jumps up and puts his front paws on XYZ, who is crouched like a baseball catcher to be at the dog’s eyesight level, to lick his face.
For the first time all night, XYZ smiles. He almost laughs.
XYZ then notices the dog has a collar and tag. “Jolene” is the name. No address, though. XYZ stops and looks out beyond the dog to the other side of the bridge, as if something was in the water, but XYZ’s eyes are aimless. He is in thought, because he could swear he has heard the name “Jolene” before given to a dog. He can’t place it, though.
XYZ stands up and assumes the dog, who he confirmed is a female, will keep walking and allow X to finish what he came here to do. She doesn’t, though. She stays right in front of him, looking up at the human. XYZ turns around and walks again toward the bridge’s edge, trying to ignore the pup, but Jolene hurries around XYZ and stands in front of him. Is she trying to get his attention in only a way a dog would? Or is she trying to stop him?
XYZ gently pats Jolene’s head and tries to walk around her, but Jolene stays in his way. XYZ doesn’t have the heart to get mad or scold the dog. He tries to step over her, but Jolene moves her body in a position to prevent XYZ from stepping onto the ledge. It’s almost as if she refuses to let XYZ get any closer to the edge of the bridge.
“Can I ask why?” XYZ says softly to the dog. It’s intended as a rhetorical question, because dogs don’t talk.
“Because it’s not time for you to leave this place yet,” Jolene says without moving her mouth.
XYZ didn’t expect an answer from a dog to his rhetorical question. He assumes it’s all in his head.
“Yeah, sure. Not my time,” he mumbles to himself.
“You think you need someone. You don’t,” Jolene says defiantly.
XYZ is now sure he isn’t just hearing dog voices in his head, or if he is, then it’s quite the accomplishment of his quirky mind.
“Yeah? A dog who talks? Okay.”
“You literally travel through space in a school bus. Either weird shit can happen, or your imagination is so vividly creative that you have warped your own reality to a point where a talking dog is absolutely feasible.”
She’s right, XYZ thinks to himself. How is he able to fly through space?
“You don’t need anyone. Stop thinking you need a crutch.”
“Easier said than done.”
XYZ takes his right hand and sort of waves it at the dog – one of those waves that’s a dismissal while turning in the opposite direction. XYZ does just that, waving his hand down and toward Jolene and turning in the opposite direction. He stands in the middle of the road for about five seconds.
“You won’t be alone forever.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I made you. And them."
XYZ doesn't fully comprehend what the dog just said.
"You must breathe.”
The caped hero spins around to respond to Jolene once more, but she is not there. She’s no longer standing in the spot blocking his access to the bridge’s ledge. No one is there.
XYZ is … again … all alone. “It’s the loneliness that kills you, they say,” he thinks to himself.
A pause to reflect on that statement. XYZ takes a deep breath. Then a few quicker breaths. He meditates on the sound and feeling of his breath within the slightly humid November nighttime air.
“They say.”
XYZ looks toward the edge of the bridge. For a few seconds, he considers continuing what he paused. He considers becoming the center of the night’s attention once more.
But he leaves that endeavor paused. For now. Still standing in the middle of the bridge, he looks up to the sky and sees the clouds slowly starting to move from northeast to southwest. XYZ follows that exact trajectory, walking toward the bridge’s exit, the FWA Television Championship still wrapped around his waist.
Maybe time has stood still. Maybe the second hand on clocks around the world stopped, all at once. Maybe the world paused.
That’s how it feels, at least, for XYZ. It feels as though time has stopped, the world has stopped, everything has stopped. Everything is … waiting on him. The night sky, nearly pitch black, feels like an empty void of waiting on him.
XYZ rarely ever feels like he’s at the center of the universe. He feels like he’s there currently. It’s funny how this only happens in the darkest, lowest moments. In the loneliest moments. Because it’s the loneliness that kills you.
XYZ is standing on the Cantera Bridge in San Juan, Puerto Rico, which is known by now to be the site of Lights Out. The Cantera Bridge is part of Highway 27, which rips through the eastern part of the city. San Juan isn’t very large in terms of square footage. Not a big city for mass. It is a major city for people, though. And stuff to do. Things to see.
Also, to be fair, the Cantera Bridge is not a very large bridge. It stands approximately 80 feet above a narrow river snaking down below, connecting the Bahia de San Juan the Laguna San Jose, which divides San Juan with the municipality of Carolina. There are no lights on the bridge or immediately off on either side. It’s moody. Away from the capital city’s population. Scattered neighborhoods to the southwest are all asleep. Still. Paused.
At 2 a.m., nothing is lively, to be fair. But this area? Desolate.
Except for XYZ, who chose the spot for its desolate nature.
The drop from where XYZ is standing to the water below would not be deadly. At least not the impact from hitting the water. It’d likely be painful, even if he swam after landing.
XYZ doesn’t know how to swim.
Which is why he chose this spot. XYZ is standing near the edge of the Cantera Bridge because of the water below … and because of the vacancy around him. Nowhere else in San Juan, even at this hour, would provide this setting.
XYZ is standing on the side of this particular bridge and looking down to the water 80 feet below because he is considering jumping. Him, his green wrestling tights, his unbuttoned black suit jacket, and the FWA Television Championship belt. He knows he can’t swim. He knows if he can just get over the edge, he will have made it.
This is the current mental and physical state of XYZ.
All of this time … all of the urging for people to keep going in life and pleas for people to join the fight and inspirational moments of telling people the dream never dies … and he is ready to give up.
Because he is alone. All alone.
No Menage. They left at Back in Business when he didn’t listen to their (correct) suspicions.
No mom. She was an imposter who was not actually XYZ’s mom, and he still is searching for answers as to what exactly happened.
No Wild Jerry. He hasn’t appeared since Back in Business.
No one.
It’s the loneliness that kills you.
XYZ called for help. On the last Fallout before Lights Out, he called for The Menage to come home. He asked Sierra, Frank, PacMan Bert, and Lizzy to come back. He would welcome Wild Jerry with open arms. Anyone to help him through the cave he's currently in. Anyone who understands his past, his present, and the dungeon his heart is entrapped within.
And earlier today, with the loneliness spreading like a cancerous tumor through his brain and heart, he wished one more time for each of them to come. Individual, heartfelt messages to his former friends. They all read the same.
“I need you all. In San Juan. Will you please?”
It emulated a prayer. XYZ was not on his hands and knees. He simply was seated, closed his eyes, and spoke so softly that no one but he could hear the words. Him and fate. Him and the unseen forces that tilt the pendulum whenever they wish to become involved. Him and the powers that exist between light and dark. Between good and evil. Between the haves and have-nots. Between the meek and beaten, and the world’s bullies who beat and sit on their ivory clouds of scorn.
His prayer was left unanswered.
XYZ is currently standing one step below the edge. He could just fall forward and over the edge if he wanted. There’s only about a foot of pavement left between his feet and the honest edge. But it makes more sense to take this last step up, and then fall in.
How could he defend the FWA Television Championship against a testosterone-ridden superhero such as Captain Righteous? How can he match strength against someone who is the superhero persona of a raging boner just flying through the air whipping the world with his hard-on?
How can he even focus on that match? Wrestling? His livelihood? His purpose? His calling?
He's just trying to survive. He's just trying to find reason and way to keep breathing.
And he's tired of fighting the loneliness ... the loneliness that is bound to kill him ... chipping away at him like a thick tree leaning heavily to its side after being tormented by hurricane winds.
XYZ has every intention of taking one more step. Yet, as he lifts his right foot about 6 inches off the ground, he stops – unable to move it any further – due to fear. He is scared of losing this lengthy fight, and what that means for him as a person. He is scared of the end, and what type of beginning may come after – if any beginning at all.
Yet, he is also so so so tired – and the thought of continuing feels too exhausting and overwhelming. He can’t even process the idea of it right now.
So he lifts his right foot about 3 more inches. It’s like putting one foot in front of the other to keep running a marathon, except this is inching closer and closer to overcoming his fears of death.
It’s not the first time he has been in this exact position. Not on this exact bridge, but on a bridge, looking over water, with the intention of jumping. The first time, XYZ couldn’t get his foot more than those first 6 inches. He would lift his foot, get scared, put it down. Lift his foot again, put it down. Deep breaths. Lift his foot, put it down.
Finally, someone walked by and literally tackled him to the ground. Then called 911 and held XYZ there until emergency workers arrived. XYZ was brought to a hospital, and then a mental health institution, for the next three years of his life.
He never learned the name of the person who tackled him. In fact, he doesn’t really remember the person saying much. But that person saved his life many years ago. XYZ is pretty confident he would have eventually gained the courage to jump.
And now, XYZ is doing the same song-and-dance, half hoping someone shows up and tackles him, and half hoping he can gain the courage to jump before someone shows up.
XYZ closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and this time lifts his right foot high enough to move it forward and place it on the very top and last step. This is the furthest he has ever gone. Now all he has to do is lift his left foot up and forward enough to where the momentum carries his weight forward and he has no choice left.
But his left foot feels like it is stuck to the ground. He can’t lift it … out of fear.
He takes another deep breath. That worked last time.
But before he can lift his left foot, he hears footsteps. They are, at first, quite soft. A pitter-patter against the pavement. Then they get louder, and louder. XYZ opens his eyes and looks to his left, down the bridge toward an outskirt neighborhood of San Juan. It’s vacant. No one. Nothing.
Then he looks to his right. Beyond the bridge in this direction are trees, street pavement void of any automobiles, and an entrance ramp approximately 100 yards away to another highway. A few headlights can be seen every few seconds, but it’s just a faint vision from this distance.
But the bridge is not empty. Not anymore.
A dog with mostly black fur, beagle-sized ears, a labrador-shaped face, white-fur feet, and a white tip on its tail. It’s not a black lab retriever like Big Al was. Big Al, XYZ’s childhood dog, was an all-black lab. Not a single centimeter of white fur on him.
But the labrador-ness is similar. The pup has its tongue out, just like Big Al would, to form almost a smile. Its long-sloped nose was also mimicking Big Al.
It’s the same dog he spotted in Columbus, Mississippi, weeks ago during his first out-of-the-ring, superhero confrontation with Captain Righteous.
It’s the same dog he spotted outside of the Magic School Bus during Fallout.
It’s the same dog only he sees … and no one else. Captain Righteous could not see the canine. The cameraman on Fallout could not see it.
And it’s back.
Suddenly, XYZ does not feel so lonely. The pup is just feet from him, and he senses a warm chill bristle through him. It’s a feeling of companionship.
The Television Champion steps his right foot down from the very edge of the bridge’s side and finishes what he started – a 180-degree turn to face the canine. He then steps onto the actual proper pavement of the bridge’s two-way, one-lane-each-way road. XYZ is no more than 10 feet from the pup. He crouches down and holds his right hand out gently – a sign for the pup to consider approaching.
And the dog does indeed approach. He walks quickly up to XYZ, sniffs one time, and begins licking his hand. The dog then jumps up and puts his front paws on XYZ, who is crouched like a baseball catcher to be at the dog’s eyesight level, to lick his face.
For the first time all night, XYZ smiles. He almost laughs.
XYZ then notices the dog has a collar and tag. “Jolene” is the name. No address, though. XYZ stops and looks out beyond the dog to the other side of the bridge, as if something was in the water, but XYZ’s eyes are aimless. He is in thought, because he could swear he has heard the name “Jolene” before given to a dog. He can’t place it, though.
XYZ stands up and assumes the dog, who he confirmed is a female, will keep walking and allow X to finish what he came here to do. She doesn’t, though. She stays right in front of him, looking up at the human. XYZ turns around and walks again toward the bridge’s edge, trying to ignore the pup, but Jolene hurries around XYZ and stands in front of him. Is she trying to get his attention in only a way a dog would? Or is she trying to stop him?
XYZ gently pats Jolene’s head and tries to walk around her, but Jolene stays in his way. XYZ doesn’t have the heart to get mad or scold the dog. He tries to step over her, but Jolene moves her body in a position to prevent XYZ from stepping onto the ledge. It’s almost as if she refuses to let XYZ get any closer to the edge of the bridge.
“Can I ask why?” XYZ says softly to the dog. It’s intended as a rhetorical question, because dogs don’t talk.
“Because it’s not time for you to leave this place yet,” Jolene says without moving her mouth.
XYZ didn’t expect an answer from a dog to his rhetorical question. He assumes it’s all in his head.
“Yeah, sure. Not my time,” he mumbles to himself.
“You think you need someone. You don’t,” Jolene says defiantly.
XYZ is now sure he isn’t just hearing dog voices in his head, or if he is, then it’s quite the accomplishment of his quirky mind.
“Yeah? A dog who talks? Okay.”
“You literally travel through space in a school bus. Either weird shit can happen, or your imagination is so vividly creative that you have warped your own reality to a point where a talking dog is absolutely feasible.”
She’s right, XYZ thinks to himself. How is he able to fly through space?
“You don’t need anyone. Stop thinking you need a crutch.”
“Easier said than done.”
XYZ takes his right hand and sort of waves it at the dog – one of those waves that’s a dismissal while turning in the opposite direction. XYZ does just that, waving his hand down and toward Jolene and turning in the opposite direction. He stands in the middle of the road for about five seconds.
“You won’t be alone forever.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I made you. And them."
XYZ doesn't fully comprehend what the dog just said.
"You must breathe.”
The caped hero spins around to respond to Jolene once more, but she is not there. She’s no longer standing in the spot blocking his access to the bridge’s ledge. No one is there.
XYZ is … again … all alone. “It’s the loneliness that kills you, they say,” he thinks to himself.
A pause to reflect on that statement. XYZ takes a deep breath. Then a few quicker breaths. He meditates on the sound and feeling of his breath within the slightly humid November nighttime air.
“They say.”
XYZ looks toward the edge of the bridge. For a few seconds, he considers continuing what he paused. He considers becoming the center of the night’s attention once more.
But he leaves that endeavor paused. For now. Still standing in the middle of the bridge, he looks up to the sky and sees the clouds slowly starting to move from northeast to southwest. XYZ follows that exact trajectory, walking toward the bridge’s exit, the FWA Television Championship still wrapped around his waist.
