Deuteronomy 32:35
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------May 29, 2019
Vertigo was something that JC had never experienced before. What he felt now wasn't that, but he hoped it was the closest he ever got to it. For the past week, whenever he tried to walk anywhere, he felt waves of dizziness crawl over him like a horde of insects. He still hadn't adjusted to using just one eye all of the time. It was possible, of course, to walk around with one eye closed. But to do it all the time, to put that much strain on just the one eye, it was taxing. So he had some minor dizziness and found himself being forced to sit.
This was in addition to regularly bumping into things, because in addition to having one eye completely bandaged up, the other was still obscured thanks to said bandages. Tomorrow would be the day that he'd switch from heavy bandages to just a protective eyepatch, but he couldn't worry about that now.
He had to worry about seeing over what was on his head, avoid the pitfalls in an apartment he still wasn't completely familiar with and hope he didn't fall down and almost lose his other eye.
That was the goal, anyway.
A goal quickly lost to him when his shin collided with the corner of Lucy's coffee table, sending ringing the bell that was his shin and sound the alarm in his brains that pain was here. Sure, it wasn't the exquisite pain he felt just a week and a half prior, but it was unexpected, and metal on bone. It was one of those modern, sleek numbers. Give it up for Lucy, she wasn't an old-fashioned kind of gal.
"Fucking. SHIT."
The words came out stilted and through his teeth in raspy tones. He turned his good eye towards the offending table, which sat on the floor and said nothing. It made no accounting for itself and just for being in the way, Joe kicked it over with his foot out of frustration. It tumbled over with a loud clang that filled the apartment.
He winced, realizing that he probably woke up Lucy, if not the entire floor.
He just wanted to get his medicine on his own. It was up on the shelves. He had it in his hands, and he was trying to make it back to the couch. And yet with his vision as obscured as it was, this was almost a Herculean effort.
Except, of course, Hercules had both of his eyes.
"Jesus Joe, it's too fucking early to redecorate."
Lucy came strolling in wearing a t-shirt and shorts, her bare feet padding the floor as she did so. She had something in her hand but he couldn't make out what. The shorts was only a guess, as she normally did so. Since she was in one of his shirts, she was swimming in cloth and could be going commando underneath for all he knew.
And such thoughts were best left for another time.
She turned the table back over as he sat down on the couch, pill bottle in hand. It was the pain medication he had, because he once again had a headache. If you guessed eye strain, you would be correct. He popped a pill in his mouth and swallowed it dry. She pulled one of the chairs in front of him and now he realized what she had in her hand. The first-aid kit. He groaned.
"Oh shut up, it's the last day."
"So let's just stop a day early and say we did it the whole week."
She ignored him and popped open the kit, revealing fresh bandages, antiseptic, all the things you might expect. Lucy had been acting as his nurse. It was a job she volunteered for and one he begged her not to take. He didn't want to be taken care of. He had been fiercely independent all of his life and outside of being in a hospital room, he didn't think his girlfriend should have to do things lik Lue this at home when she had her own life.
But anyone who knew Lucy Wylde knew that she was stubborn. So the only fight JC had left was some minor complaints, although he still hated every second of it.
It wasn't Lucy. He loved her and loved that she cared enough to do it. It was being helpless. It was knowing that this could all be for nothing because he still wasn't sure if he would have sight in his eye. He could get an infection tomorrow and still lose the eye. It was possible, even with Nurse Lucy trying to work her magic.
The feeling of being helpess, of being a victim...it was more damaging to his ego, to his mental state, than any loss in the ring could be. He wouldn't let anyone tell him otherwise.
"Could we at least wait until later?"
"I'm getting this shit done before coffee, that way if I have to puke I don't lose my coffee."
"That joke was funny yesterday too, Luce."
"Bite me."
She reached her pale fingers around to the side of the head and unclipped the hooks holding the cloth portion of the bandages tight, then gingerly unwrapped them from around his head. This was old hat for her. The first night she made all kinds of small mistakes, which included elbowing him in the nose and poking him in his good eye. Apologies were made, laughs were had.
It was the cloth bandages that obscured his good eye, so he at least had the vision restored there. It settled on her and when she caught him looking at her she just smirked.
"Good morning."
He said nothing. He wanted to look at her face instead of concentrate on her working again. The next thing was the tape, which held the main bandage over his actual eye in place. That was removed with a small pair of scissors, so as not to damages the stitches (which themselves would be taken out tomorrow) that repaired the cuts around the eye. She had no problem with that. With the tape gone, the bandage sort of peeled away.
That was a lot worse on the first night too. She really did come close to puking then.
"It's looking a lot better."
"You keep saying that."
"This time I mean it."
"You keep saying that too."
She rolled her eyes and grabbed her cell phone, which he was shocked she had with her, but apparently she carried in with the first aid kit. She turned on the camera and showed him his own face. He looked at his own eye and saw, really for the first time, what the damage was. There were a lot of cuts, many of which looked superficial. He noticed his eyelid had dissolvable stitches on it and vaguely remembered the reason. The eye itself was still mostly closed, as there was still some swelling and general puffiness.
But it certianly didn't look as grotesque as he imagined. Various shades of purple and yellow, but not the disgusting mess he assumed it'd be.
"See? Now shut up."
"Do you have any idea how..."
"Joe, I swear to God, if you start whining about how you don't want to be helped again..."
Clearly she wasn't in the mood for complaints. He wondered if she really understood. It was one thing to be laid up in a hospital bed. At least he was aware. At least he had his senses. But to be partially cut off from the world like this, to not know if he could even see again, let alone return to the wrestling ring again.
The truth was, he had announced a retirement plan, but he knew almost weeks later he wasn't going to stick to it. He just planned on going past his planned date and hoping everyone forgot he said anything. Who stays retired in wrestling, anyway?
And on the day he did retire, he wanted it to be by his own hand, not some masked idiot who got lucky.
"I'm sorry. I know you got a lot on your mind."
He looked up at her and realized his vision was obscured again. The bandages were back on. She slid off the chair and climbed into his lap, draping her arms around his neck. His hands went around her waist and he held her like that for a while.
"I'm not a very good patient, am I?"
"I've had worse."
"At least this was the last day."
"Yes. You can handle the eyepatches yourself."
She leaned in and kissed him, then slid off and headed to the kitchen area, where she immediately started working on her coffee. He didn't bother watching her go. It wasn't like he'd be able to see much anyway. He wondered how much of a view he would have when his eye was fully healed.
He thought about the reaction from the roster. Mostly indifference, while others mocked him. He almost had his eye puncutered and they treated it like it was nothing. This was his life. His livelihood, and the world moved on.
Joe hated that he even cared. He hated that he was wallowing in self-pity. He hated how he felt in general. This wasn't like him. Whoever was behind that mask would pay for that. Whether he had one eye, two eyes or no eyes, he was going to make sure of that.
The coffee machine began to percolate. Joe stood up from the couch and decided to follow the noise into the kitchen. Maybe if he kept close to Lucy, she'd drag him out of the darkness.
Or maybe he'd drag her into it.
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July 5, 2019
JC's body was sore from top to bottom, and he was positive it would be ten times worse in the morning.
He laid flat on his back on a bench inside the Carnage locker room at UGWC Wrestlestock, which only went to two people this year: himself and his girlfriend Lucy Wylde. That same girlfriend that happened to be his opponent. That same opponent that just unleashed all four of her finishes in a row and defeated him.
Oh the reactions he'd get when he got back to Carnage.
At the moment, that seemed too far away to care. His ears were ringing and every time he breathed he felt a new voice of pain cry out from somewhere in his torso and add its sound to the symphony that was growing within him. He wasn't injured, he knew that. He just hurt. He was sore. Tired and sore.
It was a good feeling, in a way. He got exactly what he wanted. A highly competitive match with someone he loved and respected. A match to draw more eyeballs to Carnage at a time when many fans had been telling him (particularly this weekend) that Paragon had been driving them away. A chance to prove he could still go after he nearly lost his eye and had an embarassing effort in CWF's Golden Intentions Rumble. For those reasons alone, he'd take the soreness.
And yet, something nagged at him.
He didn't get exactly what he wanted, because that would have been a win.
The door creaked open and Lucy slipped in, with fans actually trying to follow her in. He didn't move, hadn't moved since he came in here about half an hour ago. He hadn't seen Lucy since she left him in the ring, but given that the fans at UGWC loved her (and hated him just for opposing her, it seemed), he figured she was greeting her adoring public. It was better than Carnage, where people who didn't know what Carnage even was and were trying to change it tried to claim she was some outsider who didn't belong.
She pressed her back to the door, still dressed in full wrestling gear, her hair a mess, and sighed.
"I've wanted a shower for like, an hour."
"You're too nice."
He spoke out from the ice pack that currently was held over his jaw, so he was sure his voice was muffled. She came over and moved it, then leaned in and gently kissed him.
"I'm sure you don't think so now."
"Too soon, Luce."
She rolled her eyes and headed towards the shower provided for them, stripping away her outfit as she did so. He didn't bother lifting his head, as it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. His own shower could wait until the pounding stopped. Then he remembered that he had his pain medication was in his bag.
He sat up and the ice pack simply slipped off of him and smacked the concrete floor with a rattled thud. The pounding in his head continued, and his mind went back to the match. The loss. Was he really going to let a loss to Lucy Wylde, one of the best of her generation, bother him this much?
It's not her. There's no shame in losing to her.
No there wasn't. So what was it? What was gnawing at him.
As he grasped the bag in his hand, it came to him.
Michaels. Jack fucking Michaels. His comments about JC's "mediocre" run in Carnage. His supposed "mediocre" career. Nevermind the fact that JC was a five-time World champion and took that belt from people Jack couldn't beat on his best day. Will Prydor in his prime, not when he was at the end of his career. Jesse Williams, who statistics alone would say is one of the best there ever was. And JC beat him clean and ended his career.
2019 wasn't treating him kindly, sure. And he hadn't held singles gold, sure. But who the fuck was Jack Michaels to question his career path?
He's the world Champion, that's who he is.
JC stood straight up and felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. almost thought he heard a voice that time. Not his own inner thoughts, but an actual voice. He glanced around to see if maybe Lucy was in the room. But no, she was busy showering. With it just being the two of them, she didn't bother drawing the curtain. However, the pang of fear he had in his chest meant he couldn't focus on that.
It couldn't be that voice. No, that voice was controlled. He was taking his medication. He was in control. He made sure of it and if he didn't Lucy made sure of it. She was good for him. She was good to him.
She's making you soft.
There it was again. He felt lightheaded and immediately sat back down, a thump echoing but thankfully drowned out by the sound of running water. There was just no way. He was tired. He was tired and he was confusing his own inner thoughts, his own conscience or inner voice with that "dark passenger" he used to have when he was psychotic. That had to be it.
Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm right. You're too soft.
Soft. Too soft? The man who retired Redemption? Who won the Carnage tag team titles twice? Who spent most of 2018 in Carnage undefeated?
That was before Lucy. She's taking your edge. Your killer instinct. You need to get it back.
But...how? How could he get that back? If there's one thing he knew about that dark passenger of his, it did give him clarity when it came to his time in the ring. It knew how to make him violent. It knew how to give him the win. It knew how to make him vicious and unstoppable.
"It also made me almost kill my best friend, or are we forgetting that?"
"Joe, did you say something?"
Lucy peeked her head out. Joe turned back.
"Nothing. Just...head hurts."
"Well, the pain meds are with your regular stuff."
His "regular stuff." The medication that kept him normal. Stable. A functioning member of society.
Soft. Complacent. Mediocre.
Almost as if on autopilot, he reached into his bag and grabbed the anti-psychotic he was currently on. The other medication was fine, he was sure, but this one. This one...
Soft. Complacent. Mediocre.
He walked over to the small sink. He popped open the top with his thumb, applying just enough force to do it in one simple motion. It flew off and then clanged against the faucet, before bouncing to the floor.
He turned on the faucet and watched, almost as if in a trance, as the water spilled onto the gray metal and ran down the drain. The voice's command, whether it was his own or some psychotic break he was having, was clear.
Pour them down the drain.
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I wasn't always like this.
I was normal once, I'm sure of it. I was a kid, growing up. I had parents. I had a brother who adored me. I had a decent family life. Then mental illness took that away. Bad weather took that away. I took that away.
My name is JC and I murdered my own parents.
Keep in mind, it wasn't by choice. It was the formation of what would later become by bipolar disorder, my hallucinations, the voice in my head I call my dark passenger, my psychosis. It was a gradual process that was triggered in one burst of violence. The first of many. And in that burst of violence, I drew my unsuspecting parents out into weather they had no business being in. Weather that killed them.
I had something that you never did, Lucas Silva, and I threw that away. People tried to excuse it. "No Joe," they'd say. "It's not your fault. It was a bad patch of ice." But when my brother looked at me he knew better. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew better. When I visit our dusty family home and see how empty it is, I still do. They're gone and it's my fault. The life I could have had, the family I could have known, is something I threw away because I have a lust for blood.
I had something that you never did, Lucas Silva, and I threw that away. People tried to excuse it. "No Joe," they'd say. "It's not your fault. It was a bad patch of ice." But when my brother looked at me he knew better. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I knew better. When I visit our dusty family home and see how empty it is, I still do. They're gone and it's my fault. The life I could have had, the family I could have known, is something I threw away because I have a lust for blood.
Others excuse my actions. I don't. I own up to them. I don't make excuses. My mistakes are mine. My actions are mine. My losses are mine. Just as my successes. Everything I've ever done in my career, in my life, that's all mine. I bought them. I own them.
And that's the difference between me and you.
You're not the Sandtown Kid anymore. I doubt Baltimore would claim you after your recent actions and quite frankly, it's time for you to grow the fuck up. You're just another punk who uses his past as an excuse. Who uses others' actions as an excuse for your own.
If only Will Prydor didn't get paranoid about you.
If only people saw you were just sticking up for Megan Harris.
If only JC didn't try to unmask you.
If. If. If.
There's always some excuse. Some excuse for why Lucas Silva is dumped on. It's never his fault. If the people are booing him, it's them that are wrong.
Maybe the people cheer me, in spite of what I do, because they know that even if I am a villain, I'm an honest villain. I've never lied to them. I may occasionally say or do things they don't like, but I'm honest. Being blinded was my own fault. Because instead of ending you when I had the chance, I let my hubris get the better of me and tried to reveal your face to the world.
Did I care who was under the mask? No. Still don't. It being you doesn't matter to me. Congratulations on trying to beat the system but you still crossed me and when that happens I make you a target. I paid the price for that and now it's time for you to pay yours. Did you really think that what you were going to do wasn't going to have consequences? That you were just going to try to rob a man of his fucking eye and it was all going to be okay?
They had to remove a half inch of glass from my eye. FROM MY FUCKING EYE. I heard it scrape against my orbital bone, you orphaned convict fuck.
I may have earned an attack with my hubris, but you overpaid and now it's time for your receipt. Let's not mince words either. This attack would be coming if I was 100%, 50% or if I could never wrestle again. One way or another, you were going to get yours, you understand me? You doing what you did leaves no scenario where you're walking away unscathed, Lucas.
I'm going to cripple you.
I'm going to leave you in your Baltimore home, away from all the friends you never had, with your ironclad contract. Broken and alone. More importantly, I'm going to steal this business from you. I'm going to make you sit at home and collect money while being unable to participate in something you hold dearly to your heart. I want that for you. I know you felt it before, and I know how much it hurt then. To be so close to Carnage, to be getting paid by Carnage, but to never be able to step foot in Carnage again. Just like you tried to do to me.
I want that for you forever. And when I break your spine, I'm going to have the people you grew up with cheering for me. They'll cheer me, a villainous monster, as I cripple you, a Charm City native.
And I'll own that too.
