As the voice called to her, she thought about the bottle that she kept hidden away. It was a way to prove she had the willpower to give them up entirely. It was different now. She saw and heard things that devastated her.
She texted her husband with a stern warning. She tried to call a friend but got voicemail. She was alone.
Now the siren call was louder than it's ever been.
Come on, that's what they're for. You're in pain, aren't you?
She could feel it in her bones.
She could feel in her heart.
She could feel it in her blood.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 8, 2016
Blood.
JC stumbled into his locker room, pressing his hand to his split lip as his own blood flowed freely between his fingers. He tasted the bitter copper in his mouth and spit it onto the floor. He would need stitches. He was sure of it. The lip may scar. The eyebrow probably wouldn't, but either way stitches were going to happen.
His head was on fire and he felt like he was breathing glass. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had Redemption beat. He was doing as he planned, but didn't count on being flipped backwards onto his head. That was something you couldn't plan for. By the time he gained his bearings, he saw the referee raising Redemption's hand.
He slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. He hoped it would do damage but in his current condition it was just enough to close it. He was disappointed when he heard a thud only slightly louder than normal. Even the effort to do that winded him. Instead, he opted to kick a nearby trash can and send it careening into the wall. It was a tiny tin wastebasket, so it didn't have the effect he wanted either.
JC was just the victim of one the harshest beatings he ever received in his sixteen-year career. Shaun Stewart, Lucy Wylde and their entourage decided that a 5-on-2 attack on the weakened Rogues was the best possible way to continue their war. JC wasn't really thinking about that at the time. His fight with The Violent Society could continue another day. The chance to advance in Quest for the Best was gone forever.
"Fucking Drake Munday. It doesn't make any sense. None. I'm better than him. That match was mine."
Suddenly, there was a swift rapping on his door. At first it didn't even register with him. Then it happened again and he was insulted that anyone would dare bother him now. Who could it be? Was Dynamo here to gloat? Would he be that stupid? It wasn't Trent. Trent wasn't in any condition to track him down and JC wasn't happy with him anyway. Suddenly, he had an epiphany. Maybe the Violent Society came back here to finish the job. His face was a bloody, mangled mess, but he wasn't about to be anyone's trophy. He grabbed a steel folding chair from the corner and held it like the bases were loaded and his team was four runs from the pennant.
He waited.
The knock came again.
"It's not locked. Come in if you're coming in."
The door opened and when he saw who it was he almost swung the chair anyway. It was that kind of night.
Instead, the staff physician had his arms thrown up in a comical expression of fear. JC wanted to toss the chair behind him to let out more anger. The problem was he went a little over thirty minutes against Redemption and lost more blood than he thought. His shoulder slumped and he let the chair fall to the floor. The physician took this as his cue to come inside and treat his new patient. He made a motion for his assistant to wheel in a cart.
"Just have a seat, JC, and we'll get you patched up."
JC did as he was told, just to get this night over with. The physician grabbed the chair he dropped, opened it and sat down. He was a balding man, probably in his fifties, with small round glasses on his face. He reached his gloved hand onto the cart for the necessary equipment: sutures and a needle. It could be worse. He had a cut on his hairline stapled shut once.
The assistant opened a bottle of water and began to pour it on the wounds to flush out the blood. JC felt the cool water mix with the hot, sticky blood as it peeled from his face and shoulder to the floor. He wondered how angry the janitor would be. Probably not nearly as angry as he was.
After the cuts had been cleaned, JC's temporary doctor examined the damage.
"It looks like we're going to need about two or three stitches for your upper lip and about four or five for your eyebrow. We can give you a local anesthetic to numb the pain."
"This isn't the first time I've been sewed up. Just get it done."
"If that's what you want. It's here if you change your mind."
The lip was easy. It was a clean split right in the middle, and the needle was just going through skin. Only a few pinches and it was over. The eyebrow was trickier, as the cut was right over the bone. He tried to ignore the pain by concentrating on something else. The needle tore a hole in his already irritated flesh, pulling the suture through to close the wound. A small trickle of blood oozed down the bridge of his nose and the assistant took care of it with an antiseptic wipe.
As he felt the irritation of the needle hitting bone, he felt a wave of calmness sweep over him. He focused on that instead of the agonizingly slow medical procedure he was enduring. He felt at peace. It wasn't the pain. That bothered him but he could fight his way through it. He was sure the worst would come in the morning when he woke up. The peace came from spending a half hour battling an opponent who could take his best shots and deliver some more of his own.
He assumed part of it was the competition, but he felt that it might be something else. That part of him inside that he didn't like to talk about.
The bloodlust.
It just felt good hurting Redemption. It felt good kicking him in the face. It felt good dropping him on his head. The only thing that would have made it better would have been a victory. For now, he'd take what he could get. There was always the Network title. He could win that, defend it against three challengers and get another shot. Then he'd turn the tables on the world champion. Then he would prove he was the best.
He absentmindedly moved his tongue over the stitches in his lip. He traced the lines and temporarily relieved the itchy feeling that was already setting in. He noticed in his peripheral vision that the doctor was reaching up with scissors. With a snip, the hard part was over.
"That should do it, JC. I wouldn't recommend any fighting until the wounds heal up. As it stands now, they probably won't scar. I can't say the same if you re-open them. You don't have a match for a couple of weeks, right? Rest up and stay out of fights until then."
JC flashed a quick grin. There was malice behind it, but there was no way the doctor would be able to tell.
"I can't make any promises, doc."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She promised she wouldn't do this again.
It wasn't just to the man she married, it was to herself. This was her weakness. She regretted leaving it around.
Stupid.
Careless.
She hurt so bad.
Just take one, the voice told her.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 9, 2016
The bottle's label read, "Take one tablet every 4 to 6 hours while symptoms persist."
"Well, they fucking persist."
JC popped an aspirin into his mouth and chewed it raw. It was an old alcoholic's trick that he couldn't remember where he picked up. They used it for hangovers. He used it to cease the pounding in his jaw, which radiated throughout his entire skull.
"I'm going to make Lucy pay for this."
The hotel lobby seemed to be the only place where the WiFi reception was at its best. The desk clerk glanced up when he spoke, but decided to ignore him. He clearly looked like someone who should be ignored.
He sat alone checking sternly-worded emails from OWF management on his laptop. Chase Johnson wasn't happy that he tried to ruin Quest by taking out the world champion, but he didn't care. It's not like Chase Johnson wouldn't do anything if he remembered even a fraction of what happened the last time.
JC's mouth itched persistently. Simply rubbing the area with his tongue wasn't enough, so he was on edge as his body tried to stitch itself together. The stitches were dissoluble. He knew that they would fall apart in a matter of days as he healed, but he was impatient. He thought he might try to take them out himself to make this feeling go away.
His phone began to vibrate on the table near him. He glanced down and immediately saw a photo of his wife, letting him know who it was. While it was only one in the morning in Sacramento, it was four in the morning on the East Coast. Addiction ran late for anyone in New Jersey. That meant she stayed up, watched the entire show and took the time to process everything before calling. That meant she had time to think about exactly what it was she wanted to say.
He swiped "answer" on the smartphone.
"I'm fine, Stace."
He wasn't fine. His head ached, his wounds burned and he was in a foul mood. She could tell just from the tone of his voice that he was just trying to relieve her.
"Don't lie to me, Joe. I saw the show. I saw what happened."
"Yeah, I got beat up. It's not the first time."
"I wouldn't call that beat up. That was a mugging. Are you okay?"
As if on cue, he felt the laceration on his eyebrow throb. He let out an irritated groan.
"I needed stitches. Four for the eyebrow, two for the lip. Doctor actually thought I'd need more but it didn't look as bad when all the blo..."
He stopped himself, not wanting to bring up how bad he was bleeding.
"...once I got cleaned up."
"Don't think I didn't hear that. But I'm not going to lecture you about your job being unsafe. You know how to handle that sort of thing better than I would. Are you feeling fine?"
He thought he should choose his next words carefully.
"Well, I'm not very happy with tonight's outcome, if that's what you mean."
"You know it's not."
"What do you want from me, Stace? I'm sore as hell and I lost one of the biggest matches of my life. That's before My Chemical Romance showed up to play their greatest hits on my face."
He heard a chortle from the other end, as she clearly found his Dynamo-inspired nickname for the Violent Society entertaining.
"Well at least you've still got your sense of humor."
There was now a pause, as if this time it was Stacy trying to choose her words carefully.
"And me."
He couldn't help but smile. It was good to know that even on his worst night he had someone he loved to make it a little better. At least he had that.
"So what's next?"
"Next, I get a Network title shot by winning this battle royal, I guess. It's not ideal but I can work my way up to a rematch. But that's not until the first."
"Does that mean you're coming home?"
There it was. It was the question he was dreading because he knew exactly how he would answer it. He sighed as quietly as he could, but he didn't doubt that she heard it. She backpedaled a bit.
"I just meant that there's no reason to stay in California for three weeks when you could come back here and keep me company. It's hard running a gym on my own and Michael keeps coming up with all these ideas. I can only tell him to wait for you so many times."
"The problem, Stacy, is that I do have a reason to stay in California."
"You'd better not say what I think you're going to say."
"If you know, then why'd you even ask? I have to prove to those clowns that they can't do this to me and get away with it. Not only that, but they could try this again with Trent or the others."
"Are you sure that's the reason? Are you sure that you don't just want to hurt them? I saw what you tried to do after your match."
"I was..."
He didn't know how to phrase what he wanted to say. There was really no way to get around it. He lost the match and decided if he couldn't advance to the quarterfinals, Redemption couldn't either. If Trent hadn't interfered, Dynamo would have a BYE to the semis right now. Stacy at least partially changed the subject.
"Is Trent okay?"
"I honestly don't know. I know he went to the local hospital to get looked at. I've texted but he's probably not aware of his surroundings right now. He needed more stitches than I did."
"I can't believe he would do something like that. You're lucky he did. You could have done something you would regret."
"I wouldn't have regretted it."
There was silence from Stacy's end for only a few moments, but it felt like months.
"You can't mean that, Joe. I didn't marry a man who loved hurting people. You said you were there for competition. Just tell me the thing with Redemption was your emotions getting carried away. Please."
He could hear her trying to keep her composure over the phone. He was positive she was crying, even if he couldn't see her. He hated himself a little. He hated himself more for what he planned to say next.
"I wanted to hurt him, Stace. If you want to know the truth, I want to hurt Stewart, Lucy and that whole bunch of idiots even more."
"Joe..."
"Let me finish, because it's not going to hurt any less if I don't."
When he heard silence, he continued.
"Do you remember when we met?"
No answer. He heard stifled sobs on the other end and tried to pretend he didn't.
"I do, like it was minutes ago. But you had a problem then. You were there with your sponsor and I figured it out immediately. Stacy, I have a problem too. I have this urge inside of me. It's this rage that builds up over time. When I step into the ring and throw people around, it relieves it. It's like an outlet for all of my aggression. I know how terrible the word sounds, but sometimes I call it a bloodlust. It's been a problem, especially after I came back."
Now she wasn't even trying to hide the fact she was crying. He was breaking her heart. After a few minutes of listening to the most agonizing sounds he ever heard in his life, she calmed herself down.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this way."
She sniffed, and he guessed that she was wiping her eyes the sleeves of her pink robe. He had a pretty good idea that she was wearing it while she sat in the front room watching him on TV. She always did. He felt sick to his stomach knowing he was causing her pain.
"You know what you have to do, Joe. You have to quit."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I'm not. Quit. Go to Mr. Johnson's office, let him know that you changed your mind and you don't want to be there anymore. If you have these rage issues then quit this job, come home and we'll get you some help. You don't need wrestling."
"Stacy, I can't just quit. Wrestling is what I do."
"Wrestling is what you did. You own a gym now. You're married. You have a life. You were there for a tournament and that tournament is over now. Maybe after you get some help you can go back next year."
What she said wasn't unreasonable. It's not like he would be missed. Dynamo, Green and Trent could find another big name to fill his seat on the Inner Circle's roundtable. Maybe The Phoenix. Maybe Lorenzo Demarco. But he knew he couldn't. Stewart and Wylde had to pay for what they did. He saw no other alternative.
"I can't do that. I'm sorry, but I can't. It's not just this rage, it's the fact that I still have a chance to validate my entire career here. If I can move up to a World title match..."
"It's always going to be something else. You'll lose that match and think, 'well they have this big match or this big event that I can prove it myself at.' And while you wait for that opportunity, you'll hurt more people. First it'll be those people that beat you up. Then you'll find a new Violent Society to attack. Then another. Then another. It has to end. You have to stop or someone has to stop you."
His next statement was slightly arrogant and completely inappropriate.
"I don't think there's anyone who can stop me."
"I can."
It would be a laughable statement coming from anyone else. If he couldn't stop himself, she would need some sort of bombshell to get him to give up the business now. Luckily for her, she was fully armed and all systems were go.
"I'm not going to stay married to a violent man. You'd better think about what it is you want to do. Be ready to make a tough choice Joe. If not, I'm gone. We're done."
He didn't know what to say. She didn't explicitly say "divorce" but it was clear that's what she meant. Was it really that bad? Were his violent tendencies so bad she couldn't look the other way? He didn't like the fact that she was so willing to give up on him after he stuck by her during her relapse. But they were younger then. Maybe patience is the first thing to go in old age. He replied with the only thing he could.
"Don't give up on me yet, Stacy. I'm not a lost cause."
"I know that, Joe. But I can't watch you destroy yourself like this. I love you too much to watch it happen."
"I love you to.."
He heard the line go dead. Suddenly his lacerated face didn't hurt as bad as he thought.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This hurt a lot worse than she thought it would.
The bottle was in her hand now. It begged to be open.
"I'll just take one. Just one to numb everything. Then he'll be back and we'll talk. I won't have to take anymore."
No. She couldn't do that to herself. She couldn't do that to him.
It wasn't that bad. They would fix it.
Wouldn't they?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 15, 2016
He didn't know how to fix this. On one hand, he had a pretty good idea on how to send a message to The Violent Society and get some much-needed vengeance at the same time.
On the other, Stacy made it pretty clear where she stood with the entire situation.
He sat on a bench at the Van Ness station in San Francisco, as he waited on one of the SFMTA's historic streetcars to come by. He didn't care about sightseeing. He just wanted something to do to kill time. Most of the gyms near the Oracle Arena required memberships to even lift weights for a day.
He hated California.
He also hated the situation his wife was putting him in. He made it very clear on night one that wrestling was what he loved. So what if he retired five years ago? So what if he was happy without it? He wanted to be the best. He understood all of her concerns, he knew why she was upset, but he wished she would see things from his point of view.
He also wished she would answer her phone.
"Fuck. Pick up the fucking phone already."
A woman quickly covered her young daughter's ears as they walked by, but he didn't notice. He was growing more than a little irritated with Stacy, which is something he wasn't used to. After all the shit she pulled when she was recovering, he found it more than a little hypocritical that she was being so strict about this. Of course, all the trouble they went through was probably why she was being so strict.
She was addicted to painkillers, specifically, hydrocodone, before they met. She finally got clean a couple of weeks before their initial meeting. After the relationship cemented itself around seven months in, she had a relapse. It was bad. She was getting the pills from a dealer and he didn't know where the dealer got them. He probably stole them. It took another seven months to get her completely clean again.
He was in so deep at that point that he knew he had to stand by her.
Now he was considering doing something very stupid and wondered if she'd stand by him. He had plans for The Violent Society, and they would be carried out live in front of the entire world. He wanted to make sure she wasn't part of that audience.
He pressed "CALL" again on the phone, holding it up to his ear as San Francisco residents carried on their meaningless small talk nearby.
"Hi, you've reached Stacy Lee. I'm either working at the gym or spending time with my foxy husband..."
He gave a half-smile, but he hated that he was listening to a recording of her voice and not the real thing.
"...So if you really want to talk, leave a message and I'll ring you back. Bye!"
The exaggerated "bye" at the end finished and he heard a beep. He cleared his throat and continued.
"Stace, it's me again. I'm not digging the silent treatment, hon. I think we need to talk before tonight's show. Please call me back. I love you."
He did. He meant every word. He also meant to hurt someone tonight. A long talk could change that, if she would ever answer her phone. He knew this could be a watershed moment for him.
Suddenly he didn't feel like riding the trolley anymore. He got up from the bench and instead began to walk back in the direction of the hotel, once again trying to call her. On one hand, it would feel really good to just go home, embrace his wife and forget his brief and meaningless return. On the other, he really wanted Shaun Stewart's blood on his hands.
He remembered the last time he was at a crossroads. He had the chance to do the right thing and he didn't. It cost him a relationship. It was the moment he slipped deeper into this persona he created and didn't bother looking back.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If she took it, there was no turning back.
She stared at the small, white Vicodin tablet in her hand.
Just take one, the voice told her.
She took one.
"But what if it doesn't stop hurting?"
Then take a few more.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
June 15, 2009
"And here's the wind up and the kick...OHHH!!! Right in the 'schnozzola' by the one, the only, JC! AHHHHH!! The crowd goes wild! That was so great. Let's watch it a few more times!"
JC sat in The Rogues' locker room with Dude Job, replaying footage that aired earlier in the night. JC acted proud of it, but inside he thought he might live to regret it. Trent was elsewhere, preparing for their tag title defense against El Plaga later in the night.
On the TV, his brother Eric, better known to the wrestling world as GI, held up a blown up photograph of himself nailing DJ with a finisher. In the footage, JC sent his boot through the picture and into his brother's face.
"I can't believe he fell for this, man. You're obviously the smarter brother out of the two."
"That's my brother. He doesn't give up. It's an annoying character trait."
"Eh at least he's consistent. We've kicked his butt at every turn though, and you'd think he'd learn already."
"He's delusional. He thinks he can make a difference. He doesn't realize that I'm making that difference. I'm bringing change to the OWF."
"Don't you mean we're bringing change to the OWF?"
"Of course."
That's not at all what he meant. The Rogues were a means to an end. He still remembered how Trent destroyed Matt Jackson and held the other half of the tag belts hostage to form this little union. He was beginning to like him, but he still didn't trust him yet. Trent just liked violence. How committed to this cause was he? He hoped his mind would change after their defense tonight, their first as an actual team since March.
The footage ended and JC turned off the TV. If he was honest with himself, he was already sick of looking at it. He loved his brother. He was one of the only people had in his life and he was pushing him away. But wasn't it Eric's fault? Isn't he the one who showed up unannounced with some mission of "saving" him? JC was doing just fine before GI stuck his nose in his business. This was Eric's fault. It had to be.
He didn't need to be "saved". The OWF did. He would continue that goal with El Plaga and his own brother if he had to.
"Aw, but I had fifteen more boot to the head puns."
"I'm done. I don't really care if you are or not."
"Harsh. What the hell crawled up your ass?"
JC turned around and faced Dude Job. He wasn't in the mood for his sarcasm. When you kick your only living blood relative in the face, it's not something you take very well.
"Listen..."
Before he could continue, the door opened without warning. As if mentioning his name summoned him from the ether, Eric stood in front of them. He wasn't happy. His face, which looked to be slightly swollen and red from getting booted earlier, was scowling. No, he definitely wasn't happy.
"Speaking of the fucking devil..."
Eric looked at Dude Job as if he were an insect. He had a fire in his eyes that JC couldn't remember seeing in the past. GI fought guys that infuriated him. Guys that made him salty even years after the fact. He didn't look at any of them the way he looked at JC and Dude right now.
"Tell your puppet to leave before I kick his head in again."
"You gotta be fucking kiddi..."
JC placed a hand on DJ's shoulder. It wasn't forceful, which was uncharacteristic of JC these days.
"Could you give us a minute?"
Dude Job looked at JC uneasily, like he was insulted that he was being asked to leave his own locker room. He let it go.
"Oh yeah. Totally. I'll see myself out. Scream if you need me. Although with this weak ass little bitch you probably won't even need me."
DJ turned toward the door and shoved his way past Eric, making sure to bump his shoulder as hard as possible on the way out. GI ignored him and instead walked up to his brother. At 6'4", GI wasn't that much shorter than JC, but he was a lot leaner. It allowed him to perform some crazy aerial offense through the years. JC noticed the size difference, even if there was virtually no height difference.
Eric was smart, he knew to close the gap between them in case JC decided to strike again. JC had no intention of doing it again. There were no cameras here. What good was making a statement if there was no one to receive it?
Eric reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded up paper. He threw it in the face of his brother. It bounced off the tip of JC's nose and fluttered to the floor.
"What's this?"
"Read it and find out. Let's call it an early Christmas gift."
JC was very aware that when he booted his brother in his face earlier tonight, it was only a week removed from his thirtieth birthday. Trent and DJ found it hilarious. JC used it to send a message to GI and anyone else that opposed him. He kept an eye on his only brother as he reached down and grabbed it.
He unfolded the paper and looked it over. At the top, it clearly read "LETTER OF RESIGNATION." At the bottom, the signatures of Eric Lee and OWF President Chase Johnson.
"You got your wish. What was it you said, 'do yourself a favor and quit'? I'm quitting. You can have 'your' company back."
He stared at the notice like it was some cryptic puzzle he didn't know how to solve. He didn't actually want GI to leave. He just wanted him to leave him alone. He wanted to continue on his plan to purify the OWF without his brother getting involved. How could they repair their fractured relationship if he wasn't around?
This wasn't the first time the two had been at odds. There were several times in which Eric got a little too arrogant or JC, back when he was Joe Cool, acted irrationally. Brothers fight sometimes, but the thing that kept Joe and GI together was that the fights ended quickly and they went back to normal. How could that happen now?
"Look, when I said 'quit', I didn't actually..."
"You didn't mean quit? You booted me in the face, Joe. You made fun of me a week after my birthday. You told me you don't want me here. Weeks ago you tried to attack my knee with a fucking lawn dart. You had one of your lackeys throw a fireball in my face. I think you did mean it."
"I'm trying to do something important here."
"You can. No more foolish GI standing in your way. Take away everything that makes wrestling the greatest job in the world. I don't care. I'm done."
"Done?"
"I'm not just leaving the OWF."
That news shocked JC. Did he really just force his own brother to give up his dream? This was spiraling downhill fast and he didn't like it.
"You're not actually leaving wrestling, are you? If you have to leave the OWF, just go to another promotion. I hear NLW's hiring."
"Wrestling's not fun for me anymore, Joe. You did that."
JC felt stupid. He felt like he should have known it would lead to this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that GI never would give up. He expected the two would eventually fight one on one and that would resolve whatever issues they had. One big fight and they could get back on track. Even if he couldn't ever recruit GI to his cause, maybe he could get him to compete somewhere else and let him work.
He certainly didn't want him out of wrestling entirely. He didn't want him to give up the thing he loved most over something like this. He lowered his head and handed the paper back.
"Eric, I'm..."
He looked back up as Eric snatched the paper away.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't know what else to say. He didn't feel he was in the wrong. He didn't plan to stop doing the things he was doing. If GI challenged him again he'd boot him in the face again. The only thing he could do was apologize. He meant it. He was sorry the situation was as bad as it was. He repeated it again, his voice a bit lower as a bizarre feeling swept over him. He would realize later that it was shame.
"I'm sorry."
He stuck a hand out, perhaps to end this with a simple handshake between siblings. Eric studied his brother's face, looking to see if he meant it. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like the two could reconcile, even after everything that's happened in the past month.
"That's the thing. Even if you were, I wouldn't be able to tell."
JC knew what was coming and dreaded it. Eric shook his head to cement his stance. It was over. He ruined the one good thing he had in his life.
"It's too late. You got what you wanted Joe. GI is done. We're done. I came here hoping to make you see how wrong you are, and it's hopeless. You like to call yourself 'the cure'. The only thing you've managed to 'cure' so far is the notion I had that I could save you. I was wrong. You're a lost cause."
Eric didn't give his brother a chance to reply. He turned around and left the room, leaving JC alone. It was something he would get very used to in the next two or three years. By refusing his brother's salvation, he doomed himself to becoming irredeemable.
He claimed he wanted this, but now that he had it, he wished he could take everything back. He mumbled something quietly, but it seemed much louder in the empty void he felt he was in.
"I'm sorry."
That was the last time he ever spoke to his brother.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She wished she said nicer things to Joe when they spoke last.
She knew she took too many. She lost count.
She felt dizzy. She felt serene.
She also knew her cell phone had been buzzing repeatedly in the hallway where she dropped it.
It could be one of two people.
Why did he have to hurt her?
Why won't he stop calling?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
April 16, 2016
"Why won't she answer her phone? It's been a week now."
If there's one thing JC didn't like about being a wrestler again, it was being on the road with his wife at home. He had been married before, of course, but that was during his ICW days and he kept ICW's headquarters stationed in East Rutherford. He was home practically every week. This was different. This was new.
He didn't like it.
He was back in Jersey City, on his way home in a cab that was surprisingly nicer than the cabs he was used to. It was almost like a normal car. He informed his driver prior to taking off that he didn't want any chit chat, so the younger woman simply kept her mouth shut and did her job. He wasn't in the mood, especially not after Addiction.
It went exactly as he thought it would. He knew that Lucy's pride would overtake her cowardice and he would make her pay for her sins. He knew that Stewart's darkness would fade if JC threatened someone he cared about, then he got the blood he wanted. That's something JC prided himself on: his ability to know what makes others tick and use it to his advantage.
He also knew Stacy would be angry if she saw it. She apparently did, because her only communication in a week was a single text message.
Come home now. We need to talk.
That was sent mere minutes after he got backstage, so he quickly went to the airport to see about getting a last minute fight. He considered staying in California until the PPV. It was probably a better idea to get this resolved, one way or another, instead of letting her stew for another two weeks. He didn't like the constant sunny weather in California anyway.
The cab pulled up outside of their home. He was able to pay with his card so he didn't have to bother with cash. As he stepped out, the cab driver got his attention.
"Did the payment not go through? I'd have to go inside for some cash."
"No, I just overheard you back there and thought you might want some free advice."
He climbed the rest of the way out of the cab and turned around to peer in the window.
"No."
He shut his door and made his way to his porch. This wasn't the home he grew up in back in East Rutherford, but it was good enough. He kept that empty home for years after he moved out because it was where he grew up. He eventually signed it over to his brother (through a legal intermediary) and didn't know or care what he did with it.
He opened the door and saw that the lights were mostly out, except for the faint glow coming from their bedroom. He turned on a lamp.
"Stace, I'm back. You wanted to talk, so I'm home until Quest. Let's work this out."
She didn't respond. He saw their car parked in the garage when he pulled up, so he knew she was here.
"Are you awake?"
He left the sitting room and made his way down the hall, noticing that a closet was wide open. Items were scattered on the floor, including a shoe box. He bent down and noticed a small plastic bag next to it, but it was empty. Confused, he lifted up the overturned box and that's when he saw it.
It was a small, tan plastic bottle. There wasn't a label, but he didn't need one to guess what was inside. He popped the cap and poured a few into his hand to confirm his suspicion. Vicodin. He knew whose it was because it was unlabeled and he kept his medicine in a lockbox.
The real question was, where did she get it? How long did she keep it hidden away? How did he miss it during his multiple sweeps of the house?
He couldn't have missed it. These had to be new. He was sure of it.
A buzzing on the hardwood floor shook him out of his trance. Next to their bedroom door, her cell phone flashed and shook on the ground. Why was her phone on the ground? Did she just throw it down to ignore him?
He looked and saw a photo of Trent Steel. Trent was calling Stacy? Why?
He had a lot of questions and he planned on getting answers. He didn't care if she was awake or not. It was his turn to get angry. He swiped ignore on her phone. Trent could wait. Now was the time to deal with his wife and make sure she wasn't using again.
He pushed open the bedroom door, prepared to wake her up and give her an earful.
Every angry word he had planned melted away when he saw her. Her top half was hanging off the side of their bed, with her legs still sprawled on top. Her head was turned away with her neck at an awkward angle.
She looked dead.
He dropped her phone and rushed over, He climbed onto their bed, before gently pulling her up from the floor. He then moved so that her back rested against his knees. At least she was breathing. That was a good sign. Now using his own phone, he dialed 911. It took too long for someone to pick up, but finally someone did.
"911, what is your emergency?"
He tried to speak and found that his throat was incredibly dry.
"911, what is your emergency? Hello?"
"My wife. I think she's overdosed on pills."
They asked for his address. He gave it.
"Stay on the line, sir. We're sending someone out there right now. I need some details for the paramedics once they arrive. Do you know what it is she ingested?"
"Yes, Vicodin. I found the bottle when I got home. It had no label but the pills..."
"Yes, I'm aware of the writing. Do you know how many she took?"
"Too many. I wasn't here. I don't know the exact number."
"Is she breathing? Can you give me any other details on her condition?"
She was still breathing, even now, but it was shallow and slow. He cradled her and noticed with a sick realization that her skin was cold and clammy. This was not good.
"She's breathing, but it's not normal. It's like..."
He struggled to get the words out, but he finally did.
"It's like she's having trouble getting the air in and out. She's also really pale and her skin is cold."
"Okay sir, I have paramedics coming. They're only a few minutes away from your location. Just keep her elevated and stay on the line so you can keep giving me updates until they arrive."
"Sure. Fine. Please, just get here."
What he wanted more than anything else was to cry. He couldn't remember the last time he did. If he could just produce a single tear, he thought it might help, somehow.
When he failed to generate the appropriate reaction to grief, he went to his default: rage.
Someone did this, the voice inside him stated bluntly. It wasn't wrong. Someone was responsible for Stacy's condition. The problem was that it wasn't anyone he could hunt down and assault. It wasn't even the fault of the woman who lay in his arms, frail and close to death.
He did this. He triggered a relapse because he allowed himself to relapse. He tried to force his rage to subside as he focused on the love of his life. He whispered a single statement to his wife. It wasn't a statement of prayer, or hope, but a forceful demand.
"Stay with me. I can't lose you."
He noticed the shudder in his voice and swallowed before continuing to talk to his unresponsive better half.
"I'm sorry."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She was feeling sorry for herself and this is what happened.
What would Joe think when he found her?
If she could only crawl from the bed to the phone.
It was a thousand miles away.
She decided to sleep it off. Maybe sleep would help. She was so tired now.
She thought she heard the door click, but was too far away to tell for sure.
She slept.
