.
Faces.
Too many faces.
Staring, shouting, cheering, jeering.
A cacophony of noises, of eyes, of stares, of stimulation overload.
It all blended together into a white noise, loud enough to drum into his ears and echo within his bones, and yet, the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat was still louder, deafening. A wall of colors, of hues, of mixes flashing before his eyes as he took a staggered step after another, not even sure where he was going, only that he had to go, he had to get away, before
He caught up with him, before
He dragged him back into
His den, before he found himself strapped and cuffed in a cage of cotton once again, at the whims and graces of
Him.
The uproar increased, the shades warped and groaned, and every trip, every stumble, felt like a mile-high setback. The exit never grew any closer - if there was an exit at all, that is. There were only shapes, leering and jeering in at him as he slipped. He didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to look behind him, in case
He was right behind him, dulled claws outstretched to clasp him on the shoulder and steer him back into
His waiting arms. And yet, he didn’t know where he was going - he only knew it was a direction away from
Him, and that was good enough.
With a hoarse gasp, he lost his footing, stumbling onto the slick ground. The ground crunched beneath him, cracking under his frame, and for a moment, the briefest of moments, the thought of staying there entered his mind. He was so tired. How long had he been running for? Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, surely. But it felt like hours. His joints ached, his nerves shrieked, his body begged for rest.
It would be so easy to give up.
But giving up to himself would mean giving in to
Him.
The thought gave him enough cause to rise back to a vertical base, and continue the staggered jaunt, as the noises and the shapes bellowed and clamored at him.
There was a grip on his arm, a sudden clench on his wrist, and he shuddered - right where the indents where. And suddenly he was being dragged along, hauled along. His shoulders sagged - he was too late, and
He had caught up and recaptured
His prize.
He was a fool to think he would be able to just leave, like that, when all other attempts to do so had been met with abysmal failure.
The cacophony faded. The racket eased. The colors dimmed, and expired. The world washed away like a beach sculpture in high tide.
And there was a voice.
A familiar voice, one that wasn’t
His. One that didn’t croon and bray about the things they would do, the things they had in common, how much he meant to Him and how much He meant to him in turn.
Infact, in sharp comparison to the only voice he had heard over the past six months, this voice was blunt and vulgar, with none of the calming tones to it.
“-et you the fuck out of here. Keep up, Fuckface, I didn’t nearly kill a fuckin’ imposter goon for nothing. I nearly killed him for something, and that something is you, so get on your feet and fuckin’ move with me, godamnit.”The voice, or at least it’s sensibilities, was familiar, the same way a distant memory of your forgotten youth was. As the world began to focus, and he felt himself be pushed into the front seat of a shitty rental car, he glimpsed a long, green mohawk.
His heart didn’t quite stop pounding, but it did settle, and that might’ve been enough.
-=-=-=-
The shitty rental car roared through the streets, leaving the roaring arena behind in the distance. At the wheel, Violet Dreyer cackled, , and throwing a hand out the window, she flipped the bird to the retreating stadium and all those within it, despite being far enough that nobody would be able to witness, let alone decipher, the crude gesture. Satisfied, she began punching the stereo and flipping through some radio stations until something that sounded vaguely rock enough came though.
‘Well where are they now?
I’ll be in the ground,
‘Where’s Pinkie gone’ they’ll wonder,
too late now I’m six feet under-’
“Do y’all think I fuck around?” She boasted, cheerfully, either to herself or her quiet passenger. Didn’t matter - she was going to boast nevertheless.
“What, y’all think a midlife crisis manchild and his oversized bozo of a bro with brass knuckles and brittle skin can keep me away? Fuck around, find out, am I right or am I fuckin’ right as?” She shot a glance at her passenger, thumping him on the arm encouragingly.
Krash sat quietly, staring out the windshield with wide eyes.
‘Tell me, tell me it's okay,
Will they notice that I've gone away?
I've lost everything worth living for,
And soon it won't hurt anymore-’
“Hey. Hey hey hey, Moustache Fuck,” Violet continued, with another shove on the arm.
“Has it settled in yet? You’re free. You’ve escaped. Jeremy fucked up, Baxter fucked up, their lil’ Dollar Store MasKrash certainly fucked up, and like the fuckin’ genius that I am, I swooped in and got you free. How about you wake the fuck up, show me that fuckin’ smile and thank me for puttin’ in the work, why don’tcha?” ‘Tell me it's all in my mind,
Just take these pills and you'll be fine,
Can't live like this another day,
It's time for me to fade away-’
“Please stop the car.” Krash finally spoke up, his voice a hushed whisper, barely audible above the radio.
“What?” Violet barked, turning down the music and gesturing for him to repeat himself.
“Fuck, sorry. Say that again?” Krash turned, pale face aimed towards Violet.
“Please stop the car.” He repeated, a hoarse, unrecognizable voice from his lips. Violet frowned, but acquiesced, pulling over near a city park. As the shitty rental car ground to a halt beside a tall lamppost, Krash pushed open his door, stepping out onto the asphalt with shaky, trembling legs. A hand held on to the frame of the door, the other outstretched, as is to grasp at something from within the air.
“You, uh, doin’ good there, Krash?” Violet queried, leaning forward.
Without warning, Krash suddenly bent over onto the grass next to the car park, retching.
“Shit.” Violet muttered, getting out on her side and rushing over to Krash’s. “Look, just try not to get a mess on the car itself, alright? It’s a rental.” Coughing and spluttering, Krash knelt on the grass, a thin trail of saliva hanging from his lips. Groaning, he raised his head, gazing out at the city park, of the bushes and the benches and the sidewalks. Then he turned, laying on his back, and stared up at the night sky above, his chest heaving.
He mumbled something inaudible, as Violet knelt down next to him, making sure to stay away from the pile of sick on the grass. Within the illumination of the lamppost, Violet was finally able to get a long, detailed look at Krash’s being.
She felt innately sick.
Krash was pale, absurdly so, nearly completely devoid of colour as he trembled. His face was gaunt, haggard, almost skeletal like, hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed. His hair seemed to have lost colour, silver patches lining the base of his skull while the natural black hair hung limply, unwashed, clumped, cluttered. Uneven stubble lined his jaw, dark in some areas, lighter in others. Moving her attention to his body, Violet had to ignore the urge to count how many of Krash’s ribs were visible, strained beneath the emancipated skin of a torso that seemed to have an indent beneath the ribcage, and as he breathed in, Violet could’ve sworn she was able to make out the outline of his spine. The term ‘all skin and bones’ entered her mind, which seemed like an apt description. Scrawny, wasted, angular. She had seen corpses looking more alive than this.
Oddly enough, his moustache still seemed on par. In fact, his moustache looked like the only part of him that had been cared for.
“Fuckin’ hell.” She whispered in equal amazement and disgust. “You’re a funeral suit away from presentable.” A hand raised itself up towards the stars, clasping and unclasping at them.
“Is it real?” Krash spoke, rasping with an uncharacteristic voice.
“Is what real?” Violet replied, tilting a head. “If this is some sort of ‘I’m in a coma and you’re all just manifestations of my subconscious’ then Devin Golden already did it. Siempre and such.” Krash cleared his throat, a process that sounded painful.
“No, I- is this real? Or- or am I hallucinating… Again… Trapped with Him still?” Violet shook her head, grabbing Krash’s outstretched hand and pushing it back to his body.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean- Fuck. It’s real, alright? You’re free now. He can’t hurt you anymore.” Krash stared at her, with a pair of eyes that looked empty. Maybe he had told himself those words before, while he was hallucinating an escape attempt. Or maybe he just plainly did not believe her. Violet decided not to entertain either theory.
“You’re going home. Alright?” Silence.
“Alright?” Violet prodded.
After an eternity, Krash nodded, the barest adjustment of his head, the quietest raw voice.
“Alright.” -=-=-=-
“Okay, so, fair warning so you don’t get mad - You’ve got a broken window next to your front door.” Violet explained flippantly, as they drove across the red sands of the outback.
“Wasn’t me. Well, maybe it was me, but it wasn’t my fault. It was months ago anyway, so no big deal. Cool?” Krash did not respond.
“Cool.” During the travel across the globe to return to his home in Australia, Krash had been nearly completely quiet. While he had thrown on a shirt to cover up his ragged torso, a shirt Violet had hanging around and was covered in the kind of statements one would usually find graffiti’d on a bathroom wall, Krash had barely made a sound. Barely responded to Violet’s inquiries to his being, to what happened to him, to where he had been even before Jeremy found him. He avoided eye contact whenever possible, and multiple times Violet caught him staring straight ahead vacantly, fists clenched and knuckling the seat, before it passed.
She didn’t ask about that. She wasn’t sure how.
The car ground to a halt in front of Krash’s abode in the middle of nowhere. Far, far away from any neighbours, any towns, any point of civilization. At one point, long ago, Violet had wondered why a man as social as Krash lived so far away from society, a question she never bothered asking. She never got a solid answer. She didn’t think she ever would.
Getting out of the car, she gestured broadly at the house, and the flimsy wooden pallet resting against the aforementioned broken window in a feeble attempt to cover up the breakage.
“Ta-da! Home sweet fuckin’ home! Just the way you left it, more or less.” Krash quietly exited the car, following her. His gaze traveled from his home, to the sandy desert around him. His eyes rested on one patch of sand that was a shade darker than the others, lingering a second longer than necessary, before he tore his gaze back to the house. Evidently, Violet never bothered locking the door after she broke in long ago, as she already pushed the door open, gesturing for Krash to step inside.
“I bet you’re glad to be home, right?” Krash eyed the dust encasing most of his home and the dirt spread across the hallway floor, before clearing his throat. It sounded like sandpaper on gravel.
“I guess. Still doesn’t feel… Real.” He stepped inside, took a deep breath, and instantly sneezed.
“That felt real, though.” He noted.
Violet sighed.
“So… It’s been a while.” She began.
“A long while, I should say. Last year, you and Randy-”Krash visibly grimaced at the mention of the rockstar, a movement that went unnoticed by Violet, who continued, unheeding, inspecting her nails in a way that was anything but casual.
“-kind of… Well… Fuck man. After you two went into the water, no-one found you. They searched the lake and everything. Everyone thought you were… Gone. ‘Cept that fuckin’ nutcase Jeremy, for some reason.” Violet paused, glancing at Krash, as he sat on the couch, staring at his thumbs.
“Are you listening? I stopped hoping for quick gigs in FWA because, I figured, what’s the fucking point, you’re not there to vouch for me anymore. And it’s not- It’s not just you not being able to vouch for me. It’s you not being there, period. Not being there, not being here, not being fucking anywhere. I tried hanging out with Alyster, but he… We need you. He and I, we’re too similar. You’re the buffer. You balance us out. Or something. Fuck, I don’t know. Doesn’t help that that Masked Fuck didn’t tell me y-” Violet stopped herself, biting her tongue. No. Don’t go there. It wouldn’t help. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Krash slowly turned his gaze towards her. Something had happened at the mention of Alyster, but exactly what, Violet couldn’t tell.
“Point is - I thought you were dead. Everyone did. Then one night zitface and his goon drags you out from wherever the fuck you were, beats you up, then kidnaps you like a lunatic? Was he always two steps away from being on a watch list, and nobody ever noticed? Christ on a stick. But the thing is - you are alive, or at the very least, not 100% dead. And now, you’re home. You’re safe. You hear me? You’re okay, you’re in one piece, or close enough to it. I guess what I’m trying to say is… It’s nice to have you back.” Violet smiled, the kind of smile not typically found on her features - one of kindness. The kind of emotion Krash didn’t think she even possessed.
“I don’t know how you do it, but people fuckin’ care about you. Y’know? You mean a lot of people.” Krash was taken aback by a sudden pair of arms slinging tightly around his body.
“I missed you so fucking much.” Violet mumbled.
He missed her, too.
But for some reason, he couldn't express it, and sat limply in her embrace.
He tried to smile back, to match her expression.
He couldn’t.
He settled for a thin, tight-lipped curve of the mouth, and hoped it was enough.
With an exhale, Violet broke the embrace, looking someone embarrassed for the display of genuinity.
“Where did you go, by the way? Where the fuck did Baxter find you from? If I knew, I would’ve found you myself.” Krash hesitated, and simply shrugged.
“Eh. Look, I’ve got to duck out, take care of some errands.” Violet said, with a handwave.
“I should be back in a day or two. Three at most. You’ll be alright here, by yourself?” There was an unasked question at the tail end of Violet’s sentence. A question both of them knew.
Internally, Krash felt otherwise. But he nodded his head, regardless.
-=-=-=-
That night, sleep did not come easy to Krash.
Sure, he was in his own home. In his own bed. But as he closed his eyes in an attempt to ease into a restless slumber, a thought occurred to him.
He knew where he lived.
He knew the layout of his house.
He knew how to get here.
Though their ‘team meeting’ in preparation for the Cibernetico, an event that seemed so long ago, the five of them met at Krash’s home. Konchu Hao, Jackson Fenix, Gerald Grayson, and of course…
Him.
And just like that, any hope of sleep left him, and paranoia gripped him. What was stopping
Him and
His crony from just… Waltzing on in and taking Krash back? Nothing. Even if Krash locked the door, the broken window Violet had made long ago meant anyone could just reach in and unlock it.
At first, Krash tried closing his bedroom door and barricading it, just on the off chance that
He did, in fact, make an appearance, with a toothy grin and enough duct tape and cuffs to ensure Krash wouldn’t struggle. But once the barricade was in place, the all-too-familiar, horrible feeling of being trapped, imprisoned, unable to escape from a single returned to him. And minutes later, in a panic, the barricade came down.
Then he tried sleeping with his door open, under the assumption that he would be able to hear
Him approach, and hide accordingly. But now, he was too exposed.
He had no gates, no guards. Nothing would stop anyone from entering.
So he gave up on the notion of sleep, eyes burning with disagreement.
And he sat on the couch, staring at the front door, a thick blanket wrapped around him and a kitchen knife clutched in his grip, until the sun rose.
He didn’t quite relax. But he eased, enough to let the knife drop from his grip, onto the coffee table.
Still unwilling to drift off into a slumber, Krash rose, shrugging the blanket off, and began making himself a coffee. He didn’t even drink coffee, usually, but… These were not usual circumstances. With blearly, faded eyes, he groped around in his cupboard for a bit of extra spice, and topped off the mug of coffee with a strong dose of whisky.
It burned his throat, and he spluttered terribly, in immediate regret. But it kicked his heart awake, and that’s what mattered now.
He itched, his fingered twitched. Not because of the coffee. He had to do something. Sitting around doing nothing would cause him to go stir crazy. His gaze wandered to the TV. He had a whole year of FWA to catch up on. He had no idea what had happened over the past year, and Violet refused to tell him. At the very least, it would pass the time, right?
Grabbing the remote, Krash’s finger hovered over the button. He hesitated.
There’s a lot of FWA to catch up on. And he most certainly wanted to.
But how much of that catching up would involve
Him?
Krash’s hand shook. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t prepared. The thought of seeing
Him again, even in a recording through a TV screen, filled him with such unfathomable dread. With a sickness he couldn’t get rid of.
So instead, he switched on the movie channel, and his heartbeat slowed slightly. He wouldn’t run into
Him or be reminded of him watching a random film, right?
The last few scenes of Toy Story were playing. That would do.
Resting the knife back on the coffee table, he sat down on the couch, aimlessly watching Woody and Buzz Lightyear make it back to Andy. He wasn’t really watching it at all, everyone knew the story off by heart, but the visual stimuli helped distract him. Even as the credits started to roll, he simply observed and absorbed it as a distraction.
Until a certain song began playing during the ending credits.
‘You’ve got a friend in me.’
Krash froze.
‘You've got a friend in me.’
He broke out into a nervous sweat, hyperventilating, eyes wide.
‘When the road looks rough ahead,’
His vision began to warp, the familiar objects and settings of his home bleeding and fading into each other, losing all meaning. Already, he could feel the embrace of
Him, something that was warm and cold at the same time. He could smell
Him,
His peppermint scent burning his nostrils. He could hear
His voice in his ear, feel
His hot breath cascading against the skin of his neck. A pair of leather restraints began to curl their way around his wrists, an additional pair around his ankles.
‘And you're miles and miles from your nice warm bed,’
His hands scrambled for the remote, gripping blindly, unable to see neither the remote nor the coffee table. In his vision, they simply stopped existing.
‘You just remember what your old pal said…’
His hands instead managed to grasp the handle of the knife instead.
‘Boy, you’ve got a friend in me.’
And without stopping to think about it, he gripped the handle of the knife with his right hand, and drove the blade as hard as he could into his left hand.
“FUCK.” Krash cried. The pain was immediate, agonizing - But it also dragged him back to reality, away from the nightmare of
His clutches. Blinking tears away, his home returned to view. The TV, the house, the remote, the knife, and the coffee table now sprinkled with a splatter of blood. The sounds, the smell, the feeling… Everything associated with
Him was gone, for now.
Aside from the end credits music of Toy Story, temporarily drowned out, which Krash quickly turned off.
He panted, cradling his bleeding hand, and with a groan, got up to find some bandages.
-=-=-=-
That night, against his own efforts, he fell into a slumber.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. It was a dreamless sleep - one second he was on the couch, staring at the door and fighting sleep away-
And the next second, darkness overtook him, and his body rested for the first time in a long while.
Yet when he woke up, he wasn’t on the couch.
For a brief second, Krash’s heart leapt with fear. He had been taken again,
He was waiting for him to fall asleep, and
He kidnapped him once again, and this time
He wouldn’t let Krash go that easily.
But the second passed, and he realized, he was still home. He was just standing in his backyard.
Knee-deep in the patch of sand that was slightly darker than the rest.
He blinked, frozen mid action. His hands were full of sand.
He had no idea whether he was digging the hole, the trench, the ditch, or filling it in.
Scrambling out of the hole, Krash breathed. The wind howled, the cold biting at his skin, as he shakily retreated into his home.
-=-=-=-
After morning rose, and after Krash had sat awake for it, he began shifting through his garage. He was looking for something, something that maybe only three people in his life knew about, himself included. Something he felt he might need, if only he could remember where he put it. His hand still throbbed with pain, something that was both welcome and not. On one hand, it kept him centralized, fixed him to reality. On the other hand, it made carrying and pushing boxes a chore.
With a grunt, mopping away sweat from his brow, Krash pushed aside what felt like the 100th cardboard box full of junk, and let out a sigh of relief at finding the black locked safe behind it. Unlocking the dial, he let it swing open. He almost didn’t want to reach in and grab at his prize, afraid at how he might react. But there was a worrying feeling biting at him, something he suspected might be worse than initially assumed.
He glanced around at the interior of his garage. Trophies, plaques, and accolades were strewn across the area - Championships won, trophies earned, and all kinds of professional acknowledgements of his victories throughout his long, storied, and often times painful career. FWA, CWA, CGS, CAW, APW, OWW, and a few others scattered across the place. He couldn’t recall all of them. Enough time had passed that most of the earlier ones had blended together. What felt like a crowning moment was soon eclipsed by another, bigger crowning moment.
Many fellow wrestlers had a ‘trophy area’ similar to this. Often, in times of crisis, they would retreat to their wall of victory to observe, to remember, to remind themselves what they are capable of.
For many wrestlers, it was all about the gold. The wins. The victories. The chance to stamp your name on the scoreboards of history, immortalized.
For Krash, all the gold won was just a cherry on top.
No. Sure, while he wouldn’t turn down a shot at the gold, what he truly treasured in this business was something more… Personal.
And so, reaching a hand into the safe, he pulled out a stack of journals.
Some were large, thick. Others were thin, only a handful of pages. Some were ragged, barely holding themselves together. Others were leather bound, well cared for. On the front of each journal was a name, the name of someone important to Krash, someone he had met and grown a connection with over the course of his career. With every moment, every match, every show or event that brought them closer together, Krash would paste a photo or a written recap of the event into the accommodating book. He wasn’t the best at arts & crafts, but he kept the habit throughout his decades of wrestling, in hopes that one day, when his gold is reduced to sand and he was little more than a wrinkled, bedridden old man on his last days, he could grasp his collection of connections and be reminded of what he really achieved in his life. Maybe some of the focuses of his journals would be beside him. Maybe not.
Some of the journals were still active, their books growing every day.
Others hadn’t been updated in more than a decade.
For example, the bold green book marked
‘CYRUS TRUTH’ had been updated as recently as early 2022, while the orange book marked
‘DAN MASKELL’ had been left to wither in 2018. A thin, ragged book marked
‘AJ TORNADO’ hadn’t been touched since at least 2010. Too many bad memories associated with that one.
But none of those were his current target. None of those were the book he pulled out of the pile, the biggest, thickest novel, with a blood red cover and the words
‘ALYSTER BLACK’ emboldened on it.
Krash let his palm rest on the cover of the journal. All of the self-made tributes to his friends and allies, none meant more to him than this one. Than the tribute to his fellow Gang Star, Alyster Black.
It briefly occured to Krash, that
He also made his own shrine. Unlike Krash’s,
His shrine was downright terrifying, the scope of a madman in the throes of obsession. Whereas Krash based his journals on real events and memories, with his allies being well aware of this habit,
He instead built
His out of clipped hair, unaware photos, discarded merchandise, with nobody the wiser.
Krash banished the thoughts from his head. He didn’t want to think of
Him any more. Already he could feel a chill in the air. So, shaking his head, Krash opened up the journal, hoping for the best.
Previously, in the years past, whenever Krash reminisced with these journals, a sense of warmth and comfort echoed within him. It reminded him of time well spent with people that mattered. It confirmed the connection between them.
But the night he broke free, in the moments before he exited the arena in a dazed sprint, something happened that caused no end of worry within him.
That night, just after he broke free from
His grasp, Krash stumbled out of the ring, and nearly approached Alyster Black.
He had been dreaming of the day, dreaming of the day he would be free, that he would be reunited with Alyster, dreaming of the day he would have that familiar comforting feeling of the connection he had with Alyster, and he would be whole again.
But on that night, he locked eyes with Alyster, and to his dawning horror, he felt absolutely nothing.
So he ran. He ran as fast as he could.
Until he got here.
With the journal in front of him, Krash had to know. He had to be sure it wasn’t just… Residue numbness from
His containment.
He had to be sure he could feel something, anything, when he saw someone he once had a connection with.
With bold, unblinking eyes, Krash turned to one of the last entries of the journal, updated sometime in mid-2022. A victorious tag match against, ironically enough, against
Him and Baxter, before
He revealed his true colors.
He stared at the photo of himself and Alyster, posing in victory, ignoring the visual of
Him in the background, leering at Krash.
He stared.
Desperate to feel something, anything at all, Krash stared at the treasured memory until his eyes began hurting.
-=-=-=-
Another night.
Against his own will, he once again drifted off to a dreamless sleep.
And once again, awoke in the ditch, half way between digging or filling the hole.
A heavy rainstorm thundered against him, and with a tight grimace, he again retreated into his home.
He wasn’t entirely sure, but he strongly suspected exactly what the importance of that particular patch of sand was. In a way, he had been there before, and not just last night.
Not wanting to dwell on it, he began making another mixture of coffee and whisky.
-=-=-=-
Finally, on that day, the sound of Violet’s shitty rental car returning reached his ears. Krash breathed a sigh of relief, glimpsing Violet’s ridiculously tall mohawk approaching from the driveway.
“Mornin’, bozo.” Violet chirped, setting some bags of groceries on the kitchen counter.
“You look like shit. Trouble sleeping?” “You could say that.” Krash mumbled. He did not tell her exactly what kind of trouble, nor did he tell her of his paranoia, nor his fears of the loss of the one thing that truly mattered to him. Instead, he simply shrugged.
“Yeah, it shows.” Violet remarked, polite as ever.
“Look, I got something that’ll get your mind off things - That game series you love just launched a new game. Multiplayer, too.” Krash squirmed.
“I’m not really one for multiplayer.” “Yeah, I know, but I figured you could probably do with a distraction from things, right?” Krash hesitated, but nodded.
“That’s the spirit. Gimmie ten, I’ll set things up for you.” And just like that, minutes later, Violet joined Krash on the couch. She eyed the stain on the coffee table, but didn’t say a word, instead handing him a controller.
“You’ll pick it up quick. Controls are familiar, you know the franchise, you’ll get the hang of it.” The game began, with bright chirps and colorful characters that Krash knew he recognizes from somewhere. But where, he couldn’t tell.
“Krash,” Violet said, her elbow bumping against his arm.
“C’mon, you’re up, it’s a live game. PvP. Everyone’s relying on you.” It took Krash a few seconds to process what he had been told, and hesitantly he brought a pair of unsteady hands to the controller. His eyes squinted at the controller in front of him, irises neither shrinking nor expanding, and he simply sat in unmoving silence for a few, long seconds.
“Krash…?” Violet hesitantly asked.
“Dude, c’mon. You remember how to play.” She remarked, prodding his thumb encouragingly against the joystick. On the screen, the little avatar of Krash moved forward a step. Then another, then another, forward in a straight line.
“That’s the spirit.” Violet remarked with a pat on the back.
“Now, go to midpoint, they need you there.” Krash’s finger stayed pressed against the joystick, neither increasing nor decreasing pressure, like a fixed position. The avatar continued moving in one direction, missing the turn towards the midpoint.
“It’s to the right, Krash, you gotta turn right.” The avatar continued moving forward, shouting generic fighting phrases, until it reached a ledge, a cliff at the end of the map. Krash’s finger did not move, and his avatar continued it’s persistent, determined walk right off the edge with a panicked shriek.
The respawn timer flickered on the screen.
Violet’s eyes darted to Krash’s.
“... Dude?” Krash made no response, finger still pressing the joystick. His avatar respawned, chortling a confident quote, and began it’s dutiful march to the ledge. With no variation, the avatar once again marched directly over the edge to it’s untimely demise, this time only letting out a whimper.
The respawn timer ticked on the screen once again.
“You’re just…” Violet paused, faltering.
“You’re just walking over the edge, man. You gotta turn.” Krash’s avatar respawned, began it’s approach towards the edge, and silently walked off without hesitation. The respawn timer once again ticked down on the screen.
“Krash?” As Krash’s avatar respawned once more, an enemy player walked into view, possibly in an attempt to spawncamp.
“Right, okay, let the enemy come to you, okay, fair play, now’s your chance.” Violet said, her voice audibly unsure and unencouraging.
“Blast this guy.” To Krash, it didn’t even sound like a voice. It sounded like a leaf brushing in the wind, a sound one had tuned out. It sounded like nothing.
Krash’s avatar walked right past the enemy player, even as they shot directly at them, and marched right over the edge. The enemy player paused, befuddled.
Krash’s avatar respawned, walked right past the enemy player, and right off the edge again.
And again.
And again.
Violet watched silently, concerned, unsure how to proceed.
In the game, Krash’s avatar respawned once more. The enemy player was waiting for them. As Krash’s avatar approached, the enemy player joined him, marching sternly towards the edge.
Both avatars walked off the edge and ragdolled to their end.
Krash’s avatar respawned.
The enemy player’s didn’t.
The screen went black. Krash felt the controller being gently prised out of his grip, and blinked, feeling a wet trail running down his face. He even didn’t realize when and how his eyes had begun welling with tears - they just did. He couldn't even make out why that was. Relief? Melancholy? Something else entirely…? His feelings were hard to place. If anything, he only felt… Numb. Perhaps uncomfortably so.
“Maybe we should do something else.” Violet remarked, placing the controller on the coffee table.
She said as much, but stayed silent for quite some time.
-=-=-=-
“You know what your problem is?” Krash blinked. Hours had passed, hours where Krash had done pretty much nothing but stay curled up on the couch. Whereas Violet switched between pacing back and forth and flicking through her phone, torn between concern and annoyance, before finally speaking up.
“Look, I’ve been around the block with wrestlers,” Violet continued, throwing a lavender dress shirt at Krash.
“I know how everyone seems to find a way out of a rut, what they do when they’re super down and lonely or whatever. You go out to a bar, get fuckin’ hammered, then find some hottie and get fuckin’ hammered. Get dressed, you’re going out.” “What?” Krash squinted.
“Violet, I don’t… I don’t think I’m up for that.” “C’mon, I know you’ve had flings before.” Violet waved a hand flippantly.
“And look, I get it, you probably aren’t going to be comfortable with strangers. But you’ve locked yourself inside of your own house for days now, doing absolutely nothing but stare at the wall as far as I can tell.” Her eyes drifted to the stain on the coffee table, and she fought back a grimace.
“What’s the point of freeing you from one prison if you’re going to just going to retreat into another?” Krash frowned, squirming in discomfort.
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Is it?” It was. But Krash found himself unable to explain why, unable to tell her exactly why, and with a groan, he stood.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” He advised.
Violet shrugged.
“Can’t hurt to try, right? On the contrary, many things hurt to try. Like shoving a knife through the palm of your hand during the throes of a dissociative attack, to pull an example out of thin air. In fact, trying was considered to be one of the leading causes towards experiencing or causing the sensation of pain.
He didn’t say that, of course.
But in hindsight, he probably should’ve.
-=-=-=-
The nightclub was one of those neon bars, with overpriced drinks and music that wasn’t as much music, as much as it was noises created in a slightly rhythmic procession by a dude punching the turntables as hard as he could.
And yet, Krash was familiar with the nightclub. Nightclubs like this were made for people like him. This particular one, he hadn’t had the joy of visiting previously, but he had visited other nightclubs like it in his life. Some out of curiosity, some out of boredom, some out of enthusiasm, some out of a longing for companionship. And with every one, regardless of his reasoning, his hesitation usually washed away as he stepped through the doors.
This time, the hesitation didn’t.
He stood awkwardly in the doorway, fingering the hemline of his shirt. There were people – some talking, some dancing, some drinking, some huddled in an embrace with another.
His vision swayed.
He jammed a finger into the bandage on his palm, grimacing at the hot wave of discomfort, and his vision returned.
Eyes swivelling across the club, for a brief second his gaze lingered on a tall, broad-shouldered man at the bar. The barest hint of warmth stirred inside him, somewhere beneath his abdomen, and he paused.
Well, it was better than being numb.
And so, he approached the bar, sitting himself a few seats away from the man. He ordered a whisky, and began the long process of building up the courage to approach the handsome man with piercing blue eyes.
Turns out, he didn’t need to. Within a few minutes, the man at the bar caught his gaze, flickering a smirk his way, and shifted seats to be closer.
“Hey.” The man said, greeting him with a nod. His voice sounded like it came from a Spanish telenova. Thick black hair, trimmed and coifed with an undercut, waved as he bobbed his head. The top two buttons of his orange shirt were undone, deliberately so, as Krash’s gaze wandered to his chest. He suddenly felt extremely self-conscious, aware of the ragged torso beneath his own shirt, and as he sipped his drink and rose his eyeline.
Shit. This was going too fast.
“Hey yourself.” Krash replied.
Off to a tremendous start.
The man’s eyes flickered to Krash’s, and his lips curled.
“You waiting for someone?” Krash paused. He could’ve said no. He could’ve told him to fuck off. The call-and-response ritual of this nightclub tradition was long and storied, one both of them likely knew.
“No.” He said instead, slowly shaking his head.
“You?” The man shrugged.
“If the night calls, it calls. If not…” He shrugged again. Christ. Even a gesture as simple as a shrug spread a tingle of blood rushing down Krash’s body.
Krash forced his hands to steady, as he chose his words carefully.
“What if I called you?” The man’s gaze travelled down Krash’s body, slowly, carefully, the way one would observe a lost painting. He tilted a head, resting his chiselled jaw on the palm of a hand.
“For someone as… Handsome, as you? I might answer.” Oh, fuck.
“I have an apartment, not too far from here.” The man mused, casually. “Perhaps, you would be willing to… Accompany me, no?” Oh. Fuck.
-=-=-=-
His name was Luis.
Maybe.
Krash didn’t hear it, truthfully. He was preoccupied with a warm shiver as Luis’s breath cast down on the side of his neck, pockmarked by sloppy, hungry kisses, from his now bare chest, up his neck, stopping only to whisper things in his ear that Krash didn’t quite make out.
The intention was clear, though.
As his shirt was dropped to the floor, Luis’ gaze briefly paused on Krash’s withered torso. The shadow of concern fell over his face, before being summarily dismissed as Krash gently gripped him by the jaw, pulling him in, lips meeting lips, hungry, yearning for more.
There was no attachment here, no connection. That was okay – the warmth of his heart pounding and blood rushing to a certain place was a distraction enough. And he needed the distraction. More than anything else in the world, Krash needed the distraction. Even if it was only for a brief amount of time, he needed it. He needed the distraction, he needed the carnal desire that came with the distraction, and he needed the feeling of anything that came with the carnal desire.
He needed it badly.
Their embrace broke, briefly, and they took in breaths, oxygen they had forgotten they needed during their embrace. It felt secondary.
Luis’ hands explored the ridges of Krash’s back, trailing lower and lower, as he rested his head on Krash’s chest, humming.
“You have mistreated this temple of yours.” He whispered.
“Wait.” Luis’s hands stopped. He raised his gaze to meet Krash’s.
“Something the matter?” “No. I mean-“ Krash paused, considering.
“I havn’t even told you my name yet.” “There is no need. I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“Of course. I watched you as I grew up. I have been a fan of yours for a very long time… ‘Krash.’” Luis hesitated, tilting his head.
“Or do you prefer ‘Jake’ in this scenario?” The words fell on deaf ears.
Krash felt his stomach curdle, and the hot feeling in his abdomen turned to ice.
‘I have been a fan of yours for a very long time.’ The words echoed in his mind, thundering, except they weren’t in Luis’ smooth, flirtatious voice.
They were in a voice that he had begun fearing, long ago. That had said the exact same thing, the first time they had met.
They were in the high pitched, shrill, almost innocent tones… Of
Him.
Krash forgot how to breath, attempting to inhale, but nothing happened. His vision began to blur, to shift, to twist. Things lost focus, lost meaning. The surroundings of Luis’ high class apartment cracked and swayed, into the yellow ugly wallpaper, the old fashioned television, the tacky brown armchair that had restrained built into it.
And in his embrace, Luis’s face was gone, replaced by the oblivious, carefree expression of Jeremy Best.
“Are you alright?” Krash felt himself move back, step back, against the wall, mouth agape. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, deafening. A hand clasped at the doorknob behind him, and without thinking, Krash wrenched it open, ducked inside, and slammed the door shut.
He breathed, kneeling over a sink. He was in a bathroom – sink, toilet, shower. Nothing special. The face in the mirror was an unrecognizable mess, pupils shrunken in a panic. He needed stability, he needed something to yank him back to reality.
So without a further thought, he raised his left hand and punched the porcelain walls of the shower with his left hand as hard as he could.
His vision blurred. The shapes that weren’t there dimmed, but they were still there.
“You okay in there?” And outside, was the voice of a man who shouldn’t be there.
So he punched it again.
And again.
And again, until the pain from his hand overtook the hallucinations of his mind.
He sat on the cold tiled floor, cradling his bruised and bleeding hand, heaving. He slowly regained his bearings, as a trio of knocks on the door caught his attention.
For a brief second, Krash feared it would be
His voice again, braying through the door.
Instead, it was Luis.
“I heard… The sounds of someone in distress. Could you assure me that you are alright, in your current state of being?” Krash rose, shakily, pale, and with his good hand, unlocked the door.
Luis’ face was twisted into concern. His eyes caught Krash’s mangled hand, and he frowned.
“Sorry.”
“No. It is… It is okay. Perhaps I was… Moving too fast.” Luis mumbled, eyes retreating to meet Krash’s.
“We… We don’t have to do anything if you are not comfortable, you know.” There as an offer unsaid, a branch left hanging. Perhaps another time, when he wasn’t in this condition, he might’ve accepted.
But Krash shook his head.
“I should go. It’s not you. I’m… I’m working through some stuff.” Luis hummed, but acquiesced, stepping back. He handed Krash his shirt, now crumbled.
“A man as handsome as you, should not be going through this kind of… ‘Stuff.’” Krash shrugged on his shirt, avoiding eye contact.
“No-one should.” Buttoning up the shirt, several buttons done in the wrong order, Krash made to leave.
“If you do manage to work through this stuff,” Luis noted, hesitating.
“Give me a call. We can… Try this again, perhaps?” Krash didn’t answer, as he slipped through the front door, letting it swing shut behind him.
-=-=-=-
He was certain he wasn’t going to sleep that night, too wrought with anxiety, with paranoia, with shame. Despite as much, he asked Violet to stay over, just for company, just so maybe with another body in the house that he could trust, sleep might come to him.
As Violet snored on the couch, Krash felt himself drift off to sleep once more, into that familiar, almost preferable void of nothingness.
And once again, he awoke, kneeling in a ditch, sand coating his sweating palms.
It was a windless night, a cloudless night. Possibly the calmest night he could’ve had, as he sat on the ridge of the ditch, wondering whether this was the start of the end of a hole.
Then a voice called out.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?” Violet called out, marching his way with a torch in hand.
“It’s fuckin’ freezing, you trying to catch a cold? The fuck’s going on?” She paused, shining the torch into the ditch.
“What’s with the… Sand hole?” Krash glanced at his sand coated palms, and began wiping them on his trousers.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? How could you not know?”
“I don’t know, Violet. I’ve just woken up out here, each night for the past three nights, kneeling in this trench with sand in my hands, and I don’t-” He paused, cutting himself off, as an idea occurred to him.
“Shit.” Violet squinted.
“What?” Krash’s hands went back into the sand, rummaging through the grains of dirt. He closed his eyes. He buried his hands, up to his wrists, and let the sand cocoon him.
It was familiar.
“Fuck.”
“What? Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Krash clicked his tongue, removing his hands from the ground.
“I… I think… A few days ago, you asked where I was, before… Before Baxter found me.”
“Yeah, so?” Krash pointed a finger into the hole.
“I think… I think I was here.” Violet stared, at the hole, then at Krash again.
“... In the sand?” She noted, disbelievingly.
“In this fuckin’ hole?” “I don’t think it’s a hole. I think it’s a grave.” Krash replied, voice low.
“I think- I think I died, Violet. And something brought me back, and I’m starting to feel like I wish it didn’t.” Violet didn’t know what to say.
Neither did Krash.
-=-=-=-
A brew of coffee heated between the two of them, as they sat in Krash’s kitchen.
Silence had reigned between the two, as Violet poured them both a hot drink, wordlessly handing over the whisky to Krash to top up his mug.
“How are you feeling? And tell me everything, okay?” Violet eventually asked, gently.
Krash shrugged, holding his drink close.
“Jus… Tired.”
“Tired?”
“Mm.” Violet sighed.
“Well, shit, if that’s all it is, we can get you in a good sleeping pattern. I’m su-”
“No, the other tired.”
“Other tired?”
Krash nodded.
“Not tired here.” He pointed at his head.
“But tired… Here.” And pointed at his heart.
Violet blinked.
“I don’t-“
“Violet, I can’t… I can’t feel.”
“Can’t feel… What?” Krash opened his mouth, then closed it. He waved a hand around his face.
“You can’t feel your face?”
“No. I can’t… Feel… Myself, anymore.”
“... I don’t know what you mean.” “I’m… I feel…” Krash’s face twisted into a grimace, fist clenching in frustration of knowing the term, knowing the word, but being unable to find it. In annoyance, he thrust his fist against the side of his head.
“Can’t-... I can’t-”
“Hey, woah, let’s… Chill the fuck out, alright? Don’t hurt yourself, you’re fragile enough as it is.”
In desperation, Krash pointed to his chest, right where his heart was.
“I can’t feel.” Violet frowned, suddenly understanding as a wave of clarity washed over her.
“It’s not a physical sense of not-feeling, is it?” “No.” Krash confirmed in agreement, resting his hands back on the counter. “It’s… Numb. There’s… There’s no connection. Connections. I can’t feel old ones. I can’t create new ones. I’m just… Empty, inside..” “I don’t-”
“I felt nothing, Violet. I feel nothing. At the arena, I saw Alyster, I saw someone I loved and cherished, someone I loved and cherished, someone I hadn’t seen in a year! … And when I laid eyes on him, I felt nothing. The- The connection is gone. To Alyster. To everyone. It hurts.” Violet stayed silent, as the words sunk in. As the meaning of what was truly happening, of what was truly afflicting her friend, sank in.
“I… Fuck.”
“I have all the gold in the world, and I would trade it all away if it meant I could see the face of a friend and feel something again. Before, when I looked into a crowd, I would see people, I would see faces, I would see friends. But… But now…”
“Now what?” “They’re just… Shapes. Meaningless bits of nothing. No connections, just vague figures, swaying in the wind, interchangeable. Nothing more than shapes.” Krash’s lip quivered.
“And they don’t mean a thing to-” He paused, huffing.
“They don’t- What the fuck is wrong with me?!?” The admission seemed to drag an indescribable sadness over the his mind, and his eyes involuntarily welled with hot, thick tears. His lips quivered with the sudden intensity of emotion, the tears streaming down his cheeks and plinking onto his trousers below. It was so strange to feel something after such a long period of numbness. It was overwhelming.
It was terrible. It was horrible.
He felt a pair of arms sling around his trembling body, pulling him into a loose hug. Violet had moved closer to him, but said not a word.
“Sometimes when it gets really bad, I feel – I feel like I’m back there.” Krash continued, voice shaking.
“Back in His hands. Something reminds me of Him, and it’s like I never broke free at all. And it’s times like that, that I wish I stayed gone, because it’s better than this. Only marginally so.” “Don’t say that.” Violet whispered.
“The grave, the hole outside, I figured out what it’s about. I don’t feel like me, so there must be the real me somewhere. I remember being in that hole, so maybe that’s where the real me is, the one that’s strong enough to get through this. Maybe if I dig him up, he can go fix things, and I’ll be able to stop existing.”
“Krash-“
“Or maybe if I finish burying him, Jeremy will leave me the fuck alone. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ll stop existing and-”
“Shut the fuck up.” He did.
“Look,” Violet began.
“I know, you’re traumatised. I thought as much when I rescued you that night, but I didn’t think it would’ve been this bad. Fuck, I mean, who wouldn’t be traumatized, right, after being kidnapped by a fucking wierdo like Jeremy.” Krash shuddered at the mention of
His name.
“And I’m going to tell you exactly what you need to do. You’re not going to want to do it, but it’s what has to be done. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you listening? Tell me you’re listening.”
“I’m listening.”
“Right. You’re going to have to face Jeremy, Krash.” Krash reeled back, breaking contact, staring at Violet in disbelief.
“Fuck off.”
“No. I’m serious. You’re going to have to face him, and confront him, and-”
“I don’t-”
“Shut the fuck up and listen to me, okay? Do you want to be like this for the rest of your life? A recluse, unable to enjoy the one thing you truly enjoy in the world anymore? Jumping at the shadows, hurting yourself at the slightest hint of Jeremy – Yeah, I fucking know. Alright? I fuckin’ know. Do you really want to be alone, for the rest of your life, afraid that someone else might turn out to be a Jeremy?”
“… No.”
“Exactly. You have to confront your fear, face him, and beat his face in until he’s pissing blood. Until he goes home in a huff and tears down the shrine he made of you. Until he learns that he didn’t take a rabbit into his yard, he welcomed a wolf into his home, and now it’s going to fuck. Him. Up.”
“But-”
“But nothing. Listen up, and listen good. This is your one chance to fix yourself. I don’t think you’ll get another, so listen the fuck up. If you put off facing Jeremy, then you’ll never be able to regain that feeling of personal connections that you live for. As long as you keeps finding excuses to avoid facing Jeremy, you’ll keep burrowing yourself deeper into the pit of loneliness until the light fades away. I get it. You’re afraid. You’re scared. PTSD in all but name. But if you don’t try to put Jeremy down, you’ll never be ‘Krash’ again. You’ll never be the person you want to be again. You know what you’ll be? You’ll be a grey recolouring, an empty shell of a man, lost inside of memories that no longer effect him. You’ll be just… A shape.”
Krash rose his head.
“If you’re so horrified by the thought of your friends, your memories, being reduced to shapes, then what will you feel when you look in the mirror one day and the face staring back at you means nothing?”
“I-”
“Jeremy Best fucked around and found out. I beat him. I made that bitch eat his own hair. Now it’s your turn. Kill that zit-faced git, murder the thirty-year old manchild. Kill him, or you’ll never get better. End of story.” Krash contemplated, running a thumb over his wounded hand.
“You think… Beating him, burying him alive will make me feel… Like me again?” Violet shrugged.
“It’s worth a fuckin’ shot, ain’t it? What’s the alternative, do nothing and hope you get better? Spoiler, dude, you don’t. You never will. This disease, this parasite, it’ll keep eating at you until you’re a husk, and you’ll die cold, alone, with the warmth of a fire inches away, but unable to bring yourself to move closer. You’re throwing away a life raft while you’re swimming in shark-infested waters. Don’t make the mistake be yours – Make it be his. Show him what happens when you put a rat in a cage – They either die, or they lash out. And I’m no mortician, and you might not believe it, not with your little theory of a real Krash being buried in your backyard but you sure don’t look fuckin’ dead to me.” Krash glanced away, shamefaced.
“… I don’t want to see him again. How can I even face him, when just the hint of anything associated with him is enough to get me shivering?” “No, no, you’re thinking of it wrong. Look at me - Where is the Krash that betrayed the people he loved, that let his heart grow rotten and diseased to hold on to his APW Championship? That Krash would’ve shanked Jeremy in a back alley and left him to bleed into the gutter. I bet Jeremy doesn’t admire that Krash. I bet he doesn’t even know about the Krash that stabbed AJ Tornado in the back. He wants his ideal vision of you, the happy, charming, friendly idiot, when you and I both know there’s something way worse lurking beneath your surface. He took your charm, your ability to weave connections, your affinity for social networking. He took that away from you, and you’re going to kill him to get it back. But I fucking guarantee he didn’t take the bitter sociopath that donned a helmet and beat the aching piss out of Golden Rock.” For the first time, there was a feeling in Krash, one that wasn’t sadness or numbness. It was a hot, firey thirst for vengeance, for revenge, for blood and for bruises and for burning down a village to spite one home.
“He took everything that mattered from me.” He whispered, in an uneasy voice.
“And he left you with what you hate. Left you with the bits of you that you don’t like to acknowledge. Make that his mistake. Show him that he fucked up admiring the Heartbeat, the Maverick, when there’s a White Wolf waiting at the edge of the forest.” Krash looked at Violet, lips trembling.
Violet looked back at Krash, stern, face flushed.
Then, barely, Krash nodded.
Kill Jeremy Best. Bury him six feet under, like he once was.
If it helped, great.
If it didn’t…
Then at least he was doing something. He was making an effort.
The aftermath of everything that had happened over the past year… It wasn't something he would get over. It wasn’t something that would be solved with a snap. It was going to be a long process. But once he strangled the life out of Jeremy, he hoped that it was something that could start the process.
Things might get better.
It would take time, effort, and an obsessed fan buried face down in the dirt.
But it might get better.
And that was all that mattered.
