Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 1:47:20 GMT
OOC Note: Three titles - three perspectives - three-ish styles. Hope it's not too confusing.
“Do you think I enjoy doing this, Rosie?”
His voice turned husky and gruff like he’d become feral the second the old woman, Rosalita, had resignedly bent over the counter, lifted her nightgown, and presented her bare back at his command.
For Thirteen it would’ve been easier to see him as an animal this first time. Instead, it looked mechanical and practiced, watching him loop the leather belt around his fingers and clench a fist. It’d be easier to make sense of it later if he frothed at the mouth and spoke in grunts. Instead, he was patient, rolling his neck and marking out on her back where he planned to strike with his eyes as he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt.
He pulled his arm back and gritted his teeth.
“You called them, didn’t you?”
“No, Mister! I didn’t call!”
“Mister, what?”
“Mister Buchanan, Sir.”
Thirteen winced and shut her eyes tight. She couldn’t bear to look Rosie, “mum”, in the eye. Not through this. She could feel the belt lashing against the old woman’s skin even standing off to the side hearing each brutal crack of leather on flesh. It made Thirteen lift her fingers and plug her ears.
“Open your damn eyes.”
Firm hands shook Thirteen’s elbows and jostled her eyes open to square with his cross, angry expression as he glared at her.
“This is as much for you as it is for her. Right, Rosie?”
The old woman’s head nodded, or maybe it was severe trembling. Mr. Buchanan silently nodded his agreement and moved back behind Rosalita and raised the belt.
“This is discipline. You know how this works. You call immigration. I have to pull strings. When are you going to learn?”
He got in close and hissed into Rosie’s ear.
“For the last time, no one is coming for you. You, and your new little friend are here to stay.”
Thirteen had thought similar things since she’d met the two men in a jeep back in Brazil and flown with them here. She didn’t know where here was. She watched, in a public place, money trade hands, and suddenly she was being told to meet this man: Mr. Buchanan, who now slapped the belt hard across Rosie’s skin, and for the first time Thirteen met her expression and quickly looked away.
“This is for the kid too, you know? She’s your replacement. Sooner rather than later the way you’re going. Who’ll take care of you then if not me? You know how this works. I’m not against bribes, Rosie. I’m not against bribes if it keeps my labor cheap.”
No one’s coming to save me, 5-year old Thirteen thought. She knew it for certain then.
And the cracking of the belt went on like that, Thirteen cringing after each loud, reverberating crack, more than Rosalita was and it made her respect the older woman she’d barely just met even more before Mr. Buchanan wiped the sweat from his brow and complained about what they’d made him do. Thirteen waited to exhale as he exited the little servants quarters finally.
Rosie could barely stand, but she did anyway. She held the nightgown up and away from the severely reddened welts and gashes across her wrinkled skin and hobbled over to the little corner table with two chairs set up next to the wall and sat down out of breath. Thirteen followed behind her with tears welling into her eyes.
“But, Mum, you didn’t call anyone.”
“Ohhhhhh.”
Through a wince, barely a second to recuperate, Rosalita opened her arms to embrace her charge, coiling tired, shaking arms around Thirteen and drawing her in tight.
“I know, my little cariño. Mister Buchanan just has a temper.”
It’d been two weeks. Two weeks now living in the servant’s quarters, working with and for Rosie who wasn’t able to bend as well as she used to. Arthritic knees, dwindling eyesight. Rosie played them off. She couldn’t now. Her whole body shook like it threatened to break apart internally.
Thirteen sobbed quietly into Rosie’s shoulder. The weathered, tired old palm cupped the back of little Thirteen’s head and rocked her slowly. She blinked and embraced the child she’d never had, but felt like maybe this one was a blessing to what had otherwise been a lonely, painful life.
“What’s done is done.”
Thirteen’s fist clenched as she pulled away. She was small. She didn’t have much oomph behind it but she’d exit the hideaway guest house she and Rosie now called home together, kick down the damn door and make Mister Buchanan see how unfairly he’d just been. She gulped at the thought.
“But you didn’t you do anything wrong!”
“I did. Mister Buchanan is a good man. God has put him in charge, and we must respect that. He was only doing what he did for fear of losing us.”
“He should know how lucky he is to have us, mum!”
Rosie shook her head and eyed Thirteen with resolute patience and kindness.
“No, child. There’s no such thing—“
“—As luck!”
The outburst startles most everyone. It’s enough to raise one of my eyebrows behind the mask I’m wearing. The two men standing on the speeding London Underground car in front of the diminutive “Thirteen” discussing the merits of Piper Terry’s Coronation victory, and whether or not it was beginner’s luck or sheer skill, look at her like a crazy person.
She shrinks back apologetically.
“Sorry.” She sheepishly smiles, a hand awkwardly rubs the back of her neck, and she moves away to let them continue their conversation.
Strange, I smirk. She didn’t seem to bat an eyelash when they were debating if Piper Terry’s final opponent at the Coronation “used to be a dude”. She barely flinched when much of their conversation revolved around the conjecture of how long “Queen Piper’s” reign would last. Lost in thought. I want to know where she was.
I sit three rows back watching her every move whilst pretending to read the London Times. I’ve been following her since she left the gym and “Minded The Gap” onto the train. I’ve been following her for months if I’m honest. I’m the Kat she’s the mouse. And, tonight, I’ll be finally following her home.
It’s a curious thing to watch. I’ve seen this girl in the ring. I’ve watched her in the gym. I’ve watched how focused she is on any job set before her, no matter how big or small. I’ve seen her naked. This is one of the fittest women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Truthfully though, she wasn’t meant for the strip club where I first met her, where a woman who could bench them would intimidate the men sooner than arouse them. This one was born to fight, and she has spent years to define herself through the singular skill of combat.
And yet, to see her here, now, anywhere but in the gym, it’s like watching a flower gone to bed for the night. Something wilted, terrified even. Like she’s perpetually on the lookout for that lightning bolt that’s been aiming to strike her down since her first breath on this planet. I watch in spite of the set of eyes beside me obviously wondering what’s behind the mask I’m wearing.
No attention on me. That’s not what this is about. I avoid that urge, the one that’s gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past, the one that’s like a persistent voice echoing in the cage of my skull informing me the best thing to do for the fuckwit beside me is to rip his fucking arms off and beat him with them. Instead, I get up from my seat, fold my newspaper neatly and go and stand next to Thirteen. My ankles are sore.
Uncomfortably she takes a step away from me. Her doe-eyes blink when they see the mask and she lowers her face shyly.
Cute. Adorable. Here’s something so dangerous suddenly so vulnerable right before me. Like a shark hauled up on the beach. And, maybe, I think with a sidelong considering look at her, that’s how she wants to be seen. A Venus Flytrap, I hope. Something more than what it appears. That’s what I’m looking for. How could you not feel the need to want to destroy it, squash it, terrorize it and watch those eyes turn inwards? Reminds me of the first person I ever killed. Back then I didn’t remember names, didn’t do my homework. Now? My sights are set on her. I fix my gaze and watch her shrink under it, and find it funny how someone my height suddenly seems so tiny.
She’s like a coiled spring. I want to know how much that spring can be stretched. I want to know what happens if it breaks. She’s bundled in layers. It’s cold. But not as cold as you’d think looking at her. She’s deliberate. She wants to hide. Wants to vanish. A mouse down a very deep, dark hole. Out here in the real world apart from pushing her body to the limit she doesn’t want to exist. It’s written all over her even if she doesn’t think so. I wonder how quickly I could make her disappear and grant her wish.
And then she gets off the train at… whatever god-awful stop this is.
I wait a moment, let the crowd ebb and flow before stalking off after her. The mask isn’t enough to draw attention. Plain white. Porcelain almost. I get some stares, but most people keep to themselves out of habit. I float through the crowd never losing my mark. Thirteen. The Unluckiest Person on the Planet. Tonight? Maybe she gets lucky.
We’re on the street. She’s ahead of me but only by a few steps and I tuck my hands deep into the pockets of my long skirted pea coat and follow along as though invisibly tethered. What does a woman like this think about all day when she’s not working out, (which seems to be never)? Maybe that’s why she’s a gym rat. Maybe that focus keeps her mind off the fact she lost to a twenty-year old with knobby knees and a butter face. I wonder, if it’d been anyone else facing down Piper Terry, how it would have gone? Was it the uneven distribution of luck that Thirteen must struggle in constant debate over whether is real or not that affected the outcome of that match?
I’m sure there’s skill lurking in Thirteen’s opponent this week.
Just as I’m sure Piper Terry also has talent.
I’m also sure, had it have been me in that ring at the Coronation, I’d have just beaten Piper Terry with that ladder till she was twitching, then merrily wandered off without batting an eyelash.
Not my girl though. Not Thirteen. I can’t understand it for the life of me. Different strokes and all that, sure, but does it ever bother this mousy little number-named creature that she lost a match that should have been hers… to a bible-thumping generic blonde who doesn’t even know who she is, yet?
Thirteen’s devoted most of her life to getting stronger. Piper Terry got thrown into it with barely an inch of experience and walks out the champion.
And still, Thirteen goes through the training. Pushes herself even harder. Walks through every single day like she was being eroded slowly by time and pressure itself. What’s making her move? What’s she thinking?
I watch her step inside of a hospital and bundle herself up ever tighter. I follow.
The Buchanans had a big household. A big dinner table. A full fridge, and tonight they had dinner guests. Thirteen didn’t know what Mister Buchanan did for a living, As Rosie peeled carrots in the kitchen she informed 6-year-old Thirteen it was something very important, and made him a lot of money.
“Now go, my cariño, bring them their appetizer.”
Thirteen curtseyed politely with an obedient smile to the closest thing she had to a mother and plucked the steaming pot of soup off the stove and carried it with her head bowed. Thirteen had, Mister Buchanan pointed out the last time he’d been forced to discipline Rosie, been learning far faster than Rosie ever had.
Thirteen entered the dining room through the swing door with the steaming pot held in each hand and was about to speak when Mister Buchanan held up a hand for her to wait. The pot handles started to warm her fingertips as those seated at the table bowed their heads.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for this wonderful bounty you’ve given us, this roof over our heads, these wonderful friends, and the warm hearts we greet each day with. We pray your will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. And we thank you for the continuous bounty and blessing you’ve heaped upon us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
The family looked grateful. Thirteen stood wondering if she should mention how hot the pot was before Mister Buchanan motioned her over.
“Come on, come on.”
Thirteen set it down and listened as one of the guests down the elongated table stifled a laugh.
“This is a new girl then, Mike?”
Mike. Mike Buchanan? Thirteen looked to the mister sheepishly as he barely regarded her.
“Uhm, of course not. This is Rosie’s daughter.”
A chuckle shared. Thirteen stood uncomfortably at the side of Mr. Buchanan.
“I wasn’t aware Rosalita was ever pregnant. This one looks about… what? 5? Maybe 6? Damn she’s young.”
Mike Buchanan eyed his dinner guest with sarcastic contempt as he allowed Thirteen to serve some of the steaming soup into his bowl.
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing. Just admiring your long-sighted hires and acquisitions.”
Thirteen stepped back and let Mike Buchanan try his soup.
“Well-GAH. This is too fucking hot!”
He dropped the spoon loudly onto the side dish. The table went silent. Buchanan glared at Thirteen, his hand lifted from the table halfway between a fist and a backhand; it hovered there threatening to strike. Thirteen watched it fearfully. She’d seen this happen to Rosie when there were no guests. Her face turned to the side, eyes fluttering with preparedness for what came next.
Nothing. Mr. Buchanan wiped his mouth and sighed.
“No problem. We’ll just wait for it to cool off. You may go.”
Thirteen’s eyes hung on Mr. Buchanan as the conversation started back in around the table. He lowered his gaze and eyed her ominously. She gulped hard, bowed, dropped her eyes and hurried for the door.
In the kitchen she stood until Rosie turned and noticed the glum expression. Thirteen’s downcast eyes lifted to hers.
“Who’s Jesus, mum?”
Rosalita nearly guffawed at the thought.
“You know! My goodness, child, you say your prayers to him every night.”
“But they never come true.”
“Of course they do, cariño. Maybe not when, and how, you want them to. But I promise you, God answers every single prayer.”
“Even yours?”
“Even mine. Now come. Help me with the oven.”
Rosalita moved back to work, more like hobbled on weak knees. It was getting worse. Thirteen didn’t budge. Her eyes searched the floor, and Rosie stopped to look at her with disapproval.
“Come, child. This is no time to stand around.”
“Do you think Jesus will save Mister Buchanan?” Thirteen blurted. Rosie looked tired of the question as she eyed Thirteen.
“Of course. The Mister is a very god-fearing man. Of course Jesus will save him, and answer his prayers, and love him just as he loves you and I. Now come. Work to do.”
Thirteen didn’t budge. Her jaw set more tightly.
“Does Jesus love him more than us?”
Rosie could feel the exasperation rising in her.
“Child. Of course not. Now come. We’ll talk later.”
There were tears now. Thirteen shook her head, a deep pit in her stomach.
“Why does God let him hit you? Why doesn’t God punish him? Is it because he prays to Jesus?”
Rosie stopped, cross, her hand braced on the counter as much to alleviate the pressure on her knees from the constant standing as to worry about this corrosive line of questioning. Her eyes glared at the floor, not regarding Thirteen as she answered.
“Child, does the Mister ever strike you?”
“No.”
“Then you are the last one to ask such things. You don’t question. You do. Now come. Work.”
Thirteen paused and considered. She blinked furiously, deeply processing as Rosie tried to get the flow of the kitchen back to where it was. She opened the oven with a groan of pain from her back and looked inside. She peered back at Thirteen and felt the weight of impending questions.
“What is it, child?”
The oven door closed. Rosalita turned back to Thirteen not wanting another debate with a typically well-behaved child with one too many questions on her lips. Rosalita decided to nip it in the bud. Her feet dragged across the linoleum to the silently searching Thirteen, strained as she lowered to eye-level just for Thirteen’s sake and looked at her squarely.
“My dear, you think too much. Has the mister ever so much as laid a finger on you?”
Thirteen remained silent. Her head bowed down.
“Exactly.”
Rosie’s smile grew with reassurance.
“So then don’t worry when he raises his voice, or—“
“Sometimes, when you’re asleep, and no one else is home, he touches me.”
The air left the room. Rosie’s smile dropped, the color fled from her face and eyes became uncertainly defeated and her head turned to one side.
“He what?”
“Is Jesus still going to save me?”
The elevator beeps as it crosses each floor. It’s full of visitors, a few nurses and orderlies, Thirteen on one side of the divide and me on the other. She bought a bouquet of Carnations and has been staring at the floor the entire ride up. Still lost in thought. It’s when she hides wiping a tear from her eye that she notices me.
She blinks. I smile behind the mask knowing she recognizes me from the underground by the way her face drops. What was the tear for? I’d like to imagine it’s the thought for all her skill and training, none of it was enough to prove herself worthy of winning. Seems trite, but the thing that connects her and I is wrestling. She tucks the collar of her jacket tighter and looks upward to avoid looking at me. Now she’s got nothing else to think about but whom it is who’s been following her for at least 5 blocks.
The doors open and she exits the elevator in a hurry with a hidden glance over her shoulder. Her footsteps only increase when she realizes I’ve made no effort to hide that I’ve gotten off on the same floor she has. She pretends not to notice. I’d imagine her hands cupping the Carnations planter as she speeds up and enters one of the hospital rooms.
Of course, I follow.
“You realize my client’s jaw is wired shut on account of your physical activity last week, Miss?”
I entered in medias res, apparently. A man in a suit stands at the bedside of another man I don’t recognize and Thirteen looks incredulous. I stand back and listen.
“I—Well, I… I just wanted to—“
“You realize, Miss Thirteen, if that is truly your real name, that a court summons has been issued. You will be paying for the physical and emotional damages you’ve caused. By being here you’re effectively admitting guilt in the events that led to his injuries."
She’s stupefied. The Carnation quiver in her hand as she struggles to explain.
“He wanted to spar! I didn’t mean to kick him like that.”
“So you admit you assaulted him?”
“I—did. It—it was only a roundhouse kick, I know I kick really hard but… I mean, I can—“
“You knocked his teeth out. Do you have a history of anger issues, miss?”
“It was an accident! And I’m sure it was just the front row, I—“
“Now is not the time to be making jokes. Frankly, you’re in some hot water. This was deliberate assault. Once again, by your own admission, you’re aware that you have an extraordinary set of skills that make you classifiable as a lethal weapon anywhere outside of a wrestling ring?”
“Yeah, but—“
“Again. We now have witnesses. Both myself, and my client and, the masked… lady behind you.”
He frowns as he glances past Thirteen at me just noticing my arrival of folded arms and patient forbearance through an unprecedented exchange. Thirteen looks back at me with widened eyes. I’ve followed her here, and she must feel surrounded. I watch her swallow all of her words, eyes never leaving mine.
“I… just came to give Matt these flowers and wish him well…”
Nerves. Is she ever free of them? She gulps and turns back to the man in the hospital bed, Matt I’ve now learned and she steps forward offering the flowers to him. He makes an overt show of flinching.
“Miss, your presence here is unwelcome. We’ll see you in court where I can only hope for your sake you’re far more lucky than you have been everywhere else.”
I watch as she looks around even in spite of the tirade, and knowledge that she’s brought on herself a lawsuit, presumably for something she didn’t really even bring on herself. The mask continues to hide my smile as she nervously sets the planter of Carnations on a dresser far from the injured man in the bed.
“I’ll just set these here.”
Stifled tears. She’s hurt, wounded and making a hasty getaway. Her eyes are terrified and fixed on me as she rushes past. I give a shrug to what is presumably Matt’s lawyer.
“How much is this going to cost her?” My voice muffles from behind the mask.
“A lot.”
And then I turn to follow my prey. It’s a lot when you watch it first hand. Thirteen must’ve been born under the worst sign imaginable. I watch her hurry down the hallway and repeatedly press the elevator summons button, glancing back at me. I take my time. I glide down the hall as the doors finally open and she rushes in, pushing the button just as furiously for the doors to close. But I’m already inside as the doors slide shut.
It’s just her and I. She looks up at the red numbers counting down as I stand facing her. I can see the spring’s tension uncoiling. Is she finally going to snap?
“All right, who are you?”
She glares at me with something like a snarl. There it is. All business. I have no doubt in my mind we could fight right here in this elevator and I’d end up in the hospital room next to Matt back there. I shake my head as she gets close and intimidates. Everything about her demeanor has shifted in a heartbeat from nervous and mousy to confrontational ready to knock my head off. I shake my head calmly.
“Uh, uh.”
I gesture at her and let her eyes follow down towards the gun outline in my pocket aimed at her.
“I wouldn’t. Unless you’re feeling particularly lucky today?”
She gulps hard. There are those eyes again. It’s like this quiet resignation sinks in. She’s no stranger to this, it may as well happen everyday. She can’t see the smirk behind the mask I’m wearing. She shifts uncomfortably.
“What do you want?”
“Take me home. Your home.”
Another gulp. She nods. She’s done this before.
“Good girl.”
We spend the rest of the elevator ride in silence. I relax and lean against the wall; keeping her mind focused on the reason she’s now doing what I say.
Out on the street, as inconspicuous as though we were just two friends, she hails a cab at my quiet request, and off we go.
The cabbie doesn’t ask many questions. More silence. I never stop quietly staring at her. She is terrified.
“Are you going to kill me?”
She stares ahead, her nervous eyes darting to look at me out the corners and asks quietly under her breath. I wonder if it would be doing Piper Terry a favor. I wonder if it would be doing anyone a favor as I let her question hang over the silence amidst the humming of the cab’s engine.
“Maybe.”
Another gulp. Thirteen looks at me finally.
“Who sent you?”
I shake my head, more of a question to myself than an answer to her. There are people who would send someone like me after her? This is something I didn’t know.
The cab pulls up outside her apartment. The cabbie looks into the back at his fare: a meek and timid Brazilian Woman who must look ready for the firing squad and woman in a black fedora and expressionless white mask who may be the Goth Carmen Sandiego. I pay him. He definitely finds it strange. I can see him watching out the rear-view as we exit. I can see him straining to get a better look at what my hands are doing inside of my pockets. And I can see him deciding silently not to call in that one of the strange women he just gave a ride to looks to be holding the other at concealed gunpoint.
The cab door slams. He drives off, likely glad to be rid of the freak show. Thirteen looks up at the vanilla-colored brick building where she lives silently debating how much further she’s willing to go. I lean in close, make sure she knows I’m behind her, the gun end pointing into her back.
“Come on. Just a little further now.”
And that’s where the diary has to end.
What happens next, I’d rather there be no evidence of.
INT. THIRTEEN'S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Thirteen enters almost casually were it not for the Masked Woman following in behind her, one hand still in her pocket aiming the weapon; the other closes the door quietly behind them and locks it. Thirteen spins around to face the Woman in Black with a face full of determination and fearlessness. She’s ready to assail and accost, but the woman in the mask shakes her head.
She gestures with the outline of the gun on her pocket for Thirteen to sit in the armchair near the door. She does. The Woman in the Mask inhales deeply, and sits on the bench against the wall across from Thirteen and gives a loud, thankful sigh.
Thirteen eyes the Woman in the Mask who glances around Thirteen’s barely furnished apartment with disappointment. Thirteen frowns, and looks cross.
The bulge of the gun in the Woman in the Mask’s pocket looks more prominent. A beat of the two women eyeing one another. Thirteen is literally poised on the edge of her seat, at the ready to defend herself. She nods with her palms rubbing along the knees of her sweat pants.
Thirteen blinks at the unexpected question. She gulps nervously as she thinks of the wording.
The Woman in the Mask weighs her measured look heavily onto Thirteen, considering her answer. Thirteen shifts in her seat under the scrutiny.
Thirteen considers her words, and the luck she fears. Her shoulders slump, eyes saddened and searching through the carpet.
Thirteen frowns, her eyes drifting back up to her interrogator.
The gun juts once more from the Woman in The Mask’s pocket, and Thirteen silences. Her eyes drooping back down to the floor helplessly. A feeling she doesn’t enjoy, yet, for the moment can do nothing about. The Woman In the Mask cocks her head to one side and leans forward on the bench rife with impending intimidation.
Thirteen snorts softly with a shake of her head.
The question hangs. The Woman in the Mask’s voice has turned deep, husky and looming. Thirteen shrinks under it. The Woman in the Mask is satisfied by the reaction and straightens up.
Thirteen swallows hard and straightens her shoulder, thoughts racing visibly through her mind as her face darkens and she looks squarely at her would-be assailant.
Vitriol. Hisses. Thirteen stared at the Woman in the Mask across from her surprised at her seemingly boundless rage. The Woman in the Mask looked awkward. Seated on the bench like she’d just said too much. Thirteen’s frown lightened with consideration as she breathed in, relaxed, and looked thoughtfully towards the mask.
The Woman in the Mask sat silent, though Thirteen thought she could hear a mystified guffaw resound from behind the mask.
The Woman in the Mask’s head shook slowly with disbelief, the blue eyes never wavering from Thirteen.
Thirteen nodded an assent to herself.
The Woman in the Mask looked mystified and stunned as Thirteen eyed her more resolute then before. Thirteen’s chest thrust forward.
Thirteen swallowed softly. Not a gulp. She was stoic. Calm. Literal. The Woman in the Mask eyed her before sucking in her breath before she lifted her hand from her pocket. It was shaped like a gun.
She showed her hand shaped like a gun. Thirteen’s face dropped and grew angry.
Thirteen’s jaw set, and she lifted from her chair with clenched fists. Her body bristling. The Woman in the Mask eyed her and grew serious, parting her jacket open to reveal the shiny polished gun holstered inside her jacket. Her free hand patted it firmly.
Thirteen gulped. But her frown focused more on the bump of a tummy the Woman in the Mask was sporting under the loose-fitting jacket. Eyes behind the mask followed Thirteen’s.
Even Thirteen’s frown dropped. What was she dealing with? The Woman in the Mask’s demeanor shifted once more. She looked exhausted as she parted the jacket open further, no need to hide the fact of her pregnancy anymore.
A profound moment of silence between the women.
It dawned on Thirteen slowly. Her eyes moving up from the baby bump to greet the Woman’s.
Silence. The Woman in The Mask nodded slowly. So this was the woman who'd started this step back into wrestling. Bad Kitty she called herself on the phone. Thirteen considered, licking her lips, full of questions of her own.
The Woman in the Mask pointed to herself arrogantly.
Thirteen gulped, her face dropping with a quick nod.
There it was. Thirteen’s eyes drifted back up to meet the Woman’s who leaned her elbows across her knees and sat with her legs lewdly spread.
The woman, Bad Kitty, U, or D, the woman who’d left $13,000 in cash for Thirteen less than a month ago was here now. And she seemed to be assessing her newfound investment carefully.
The voice, suddenly, sounded defeated behind the mask. Hollow. Weak and resigned.
The words hung. Thirteen listened as The Woman in the Mask listed them off almost casually and callously. Like it just was. Like she, too, had a set of her own bad luck, but had learned a different way of living with the illness.
Thirteen searched blankly for some trace of a thread of where the woman was going. A beat. The Woman in the Mask looked downward quietly, and sadly.
She drifted off in thought, philosophically stroking the chin of her mask as Thirteen thought on what she was saying and had it slowly dawn on her.
She stood as she said so. Thirteen watched her brace her back like it were something alien to her, the pregnancy itself taking a toll on a body that had evidently not had the intention of bearing a child. Thirteen stood and moved to aid the Woman in the Mask, but she slapped her away like an old, stubborn woman Thirteen had once known.
Thirteen stepped back and watched the woman, Bad Kitty straighten out and angle herself for the door before turning back to Thirteen with an afterthought.
The woman hobbled gently back towards the door. Thirteen followed at a distance, uncertainly watching her newfound “benefactor” with dignified annoyance.
She snickered as she turned.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Right?! As if you didn’t have
A whole lot of shit already to contend with, I
Just sort of… Did it. Felt good too.
Another good sign I’m not exactly cut out for motherhood.
Too impulsive.
[she thinks about it a beat, then shrugs)
Ah well. Think of it as an another opportunity for
Character growth.
The Woman stopped before the door and glared seriously at Thirteen.
Coldly, she turned, and exited. Thirteen stood before the door moments longer before turning back to the empty apartment, and frowned.
A Tale of Two (Mental) Cities
Or
The Diary of a Madwoman: Kat and Mouse
Or
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Court Disaster, Misfortune and Unlucky Events
Or
The Diary of a Madwoman: Kat and Mouse
Or
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Court Disaster, Misfortune and Unlucky Events
“Do you think I enjoy doing this, Rosie?”
His voice turned husky and gruff like he’d become feral the second the old woman, Rosalita, had resignedly bent over the counter, lifted her nightgown, and presented her bare back at his command.
For Thirteen it would’ve been easier to see him as an animal this first time. Instead, it looked mechanical and practiced, watching him loop the leather belt around his fingers and clench a fist. It’d be easier to make sense of it later if he frothed at the mouth and spoke in grunts. Instead, he was patient, rolling his neck and marking out on her back where he planned to strike with his eyes as he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his shirt.
CRACK
He pulled his arm back and gritted his teeth.
“You called them, didn’t you?”
“No, Mister! I didn’t call!”
CRACK
“Mister, what?”
CRACK
“Mister Buchanan, Sir.”
CRACK
Thirteen winced and shut her eyes tight. She couldn’t bear to look Rosie, “mum”, in the eye. Not through this. She could feel the belt lashing against the old woman’s skin even standing off to the side hearing each brutal crack of leather on flesh. It made Thirteen lift her fingers and plug her ears.
“Open your damn eyes.”
Firm hands shook Thirteen’s elbows and jostled her eyes open to square with his cross, angry expression as he glared at her.
“This is as much for you as it is for her. Right, Rosie?”
The old woman’s head nodded, or maybe it was severe trembling. Mr. Buchanan silently nodded his agreement and moved back behind Rosalita and raised the belt.
“This is discipline. You know how this works. You call immigration. I have to pull strings. When are you going to learn?”
He got in close and hissed into Rosie’s ear.
“For the last time, no one is coming for you. You, and your new little friend are here to stay.”
Thirteen had thought similar things since she’d met the two men in a jeep back in Brazil and flown with them here. She didn’t know where here was. She watched, in a public place, money trade hands, and suddenly she was being told to meet this man: Mr. Buchanan, who now slapped the belt hard across Rosie’s skin, and for the first time Thirteen met her expression and quickly looked away.
“This is for the kid too, you know? She’s your replacement. Sooner rather than later the way you’re going. Who’ll take care of you then if not me? You know how this works. I’m not against bribes, Rosie. I’m not against bribes if it keeps my labor cheap.”
No one’s coming to save me, 5-year old Thirteen thought. She knew it for certain then.
And the cracking of the belt went on like that, Thirteen cringing after each loud, reverberating crack, more than Rosalita was and it made her respect the older woman she’d barely just met even more before Mr. Buchanan wiped the sweat from his brow and complained about what they’d made him do. Thirteen waited to exhale as he exited the little servants quarters finally.
Rosie could barely stand, but she did anyway. She held the nightgown up and away from the severely reddened welts and gashes across her wrinkled skin and hobbled over to the little corner table with two chairs set up next to the wall and sat down out of breath. Thirteen followed behind her with tears welling into her eyes.
“But, Mum, you didn’t call anyone.”
“Ohhhhhh.”
Through a wince, barely a second to recuperate, Rosalita opened her arms to embrace her charge, coiling tired, shaking arms around Thirteen and drawing her in tight.
“I know, my little cariño. Mister Buchanan just has a temper.”
It’d been two weeks. Two weeks now living in the servant’s quarters, working with and for Rosie who wasn’t able to bend as well as she used to. Arthritic knees, dwindling eyesight. Rosie played them off. She couldn’t now. Her whole body shook like it threatened to break apart internally.
Thirteen sobbed quietly into Rosie’s shoulder. The weathered, tired old palm cupped the back of little Thirteen’s head and rocked her slowly. She blinked and embraced the child she’d never had, but felt like maybe this one was a blessing to what had otherwise been a lonely, painful life.
“What’s done is done.”
Thirteen’s fist clenched as she pulled away. She was small. She didn’t have much oomph behind it but she’d exit the hideaway guest house she and Rosie now called home together, kick down the damn door and make Mister Buchanan see how unfairly he’d just been. She gulped at the thought.
“But you didn’t you do anything wrong!”
“I did. Mister Buchanan is a good man. God has put him in charge, and we must respect that. He was only doing what he did for fear of losing us.”
“He should know how lucky he is to have us, mum!”
Rosie shook her head and eyed Thirteen with resolute patience and kindness.
“No, child. There’s no such thing—“
(------)
“—As luck!”
The outburst startles most everyone. It’s enough to raise one of my eyebrows behind the mask I’m wearing. The two men standing on the speeding London Underground car in front of the diminutive “Thirteen” discussing the merits of Piper Terry’s Coronation victory, and whether or not it was beginner’s luck or sheer skill, look at her like a crazy person.
She shrinks back apologetically.
“Sorry.” She sheepishly smiles, a hand awkwardly rubs the back of her neck, and she moves away to let them continue their conversation.
Strange, I smirk. She didn’t seem to bat an eyelash when they were debating if Piper Terry’s final opponent at the Coronation “used to be a dude”. She barely flinched when much of their conversation revolved around the conjecture of how long “Queen Piper’s” reign would last. Lost in thought. I want to know where she was.
I sit three rows back watching her every move whilst pretending to read the London Times. I’ve been following her since she left the gym and “Minded The Gap” onto the train. I’ve been following her for months if I’m honest. I’m the Kat she’s the mouse. And, tonight, I’ll be finally following her home.
It’s a curious thing to watch. I’ve seen this girl in the ring. I’ve watched her in the gym. I’ve watched how focused she is on any job set before her, no matter how big or small. I’ve seen her naked. This is one of the fittest women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Truthfully though, she wasn’t meant for the strip club where I first met her, where a woman who could bench them would intimidate the men sooner than arouse them. This one was born to fight, and she has spent years to define herself through the singular skill of combat.
And yet, to see her here, now, anywhere but in the gym, it’s like watching a flower gone to bed for the night. Something wilted, terrified even. Like she’s perpetually on the lookout for that lightning bolt that’s been aiming to strike her down since her first breath on this planet. I watch in spite of the set of eyes beside me obviously wondering what’s behind the mask I’m wearing.
No attention on me. That’s not what this is about. I avoid that urge, the one that’s gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past, the one that’s like a persistent voice echoing in the cage of my skull informing me the best thing to do for the fuckwit beside me is to rip his fucking arms off and beat him with them. Instead, I get up from my seat, fold my newspaper neatly and go and stand next to Thirteen. My ankles are sore.
Uncomfortably she takes a step away from me. Her doe-eyes blink when they see the mask and she lowers her face shyly.
Cute. Adorable. Here’s something so dangerous suddenly so vulnerable right before me. Like a shark hauled up on the beach. And, maybe, I think with a sidelong considering look at her, that’s how she wants to be seen. A Venus Flytrap, I hope. Something more than what it appears. That’s what I’m looking for. How could you not feel the need to want to destroy it, squash it, terrorize it and watch those eyes turn inwards? Reminds me of the first person I ever killed. Back then I didn’t remember names, didn’t do my homework. Now? My sights are set on her. I fix my gaze and watch her shrink under it, and find it funny how someone my height suddenly seems so tiny.
She’s like a coiled spring. I want to know how much that spring can be stretched. I want to know what happens if it breaks. She’s bundled in layers. It’s cold. But not as cold as you’d think looking at her. She’s deliberate. She wants to hide. Wants to vanish. A mouse down a very deep, dark hole. Out here in the real world apart from pushing her body to the limit she doesn’t want to exist. It’s written all over her even if she doesn’t think so. I wonder how quickly I could make her disappear and grant her wish.
And then she gets off the train at… whatever god-awful stop this is.
I wait a moment, let the crowd ebb and flow before stalking off after her. The mask isn’t enough to draw attention. Plain white. Porcelain almost. I get some stares, but most people keep to themselves out of habit. I float through the crowd never losing my mark. Thirteen. The Unluckiest Person on the Planet. Tonight? Maybe she gets lucky.
We’re on the street. She’s ahead of me but only by a few steps and I tuck my hands deep into the pockets of my long skirted pea coat and follow along as though invisibly tethered. What does a woman like this think about all day when she’s not working out, (which seems to be never)? Maybe that’s why she’s a gym rat. Maybe that focus keeps her mind off the fact she lost to a twenty-year old with knobby knees and a butter face. I wonder, if it’d been anyone else facing down Piper Terry, how it would have gone? Was it the uneven distribution of luck that Thirteen must struggle in constant debate over whether is real or not that affected the outcome of that match?
I’m sure there’s skill lurking in Thirteen’s opponent this week.
Just as I’m sure Piper Terry also has talent.
I’m also sure, had it have been me in that ring at the Coronation, I’d have just beaten Piper Terry with that ladder till she was twitching, then merrily wandered off without batting an eyelash.
Not my girl though. Not Thirteen. I can’t understand it for the life of me. Different strokes and all that, sure, but does it ever bother this mousy little number-named creature that she lost a match that should have been hers… to a bible-thumping generic blonde who doesn’t even know who she is, yet?
Thirteen’s devoted most of her life to getting stronger. Piper Terry got thrown into it with barely an inch of experience and walks out the champion.
And still, Thirteen goes through the training. Pushes herself even harder. Walks through every single day like she was being eroded slowly by time and pressure itself. What’s making her move? What’s she thinking?
I watch her step inside of a hospital and bundle herself up ever tighter. I follow.
(------)
The Buchanans had a big household. A big dinner table. A full fridge, and tonight they had dinner guests. Thirteen didn’t know what Mister Buchanan did for a living, As Rosie peeled carrots in the kitchen she informed 6-year-old Thirteen it was something very important, and made him a lot of money.
“Now go, my cariño, bring them their appetizer.”
Thirteen curtseyed politely with an obedient smile to the closest thing she had to a mother and plucked the steaming pot of soup off the stove and carried it with her head bowed. Thirteen had, Mister Buchanan pointed out the last time he’d been forced to discipline Rosie, been learning far faster than Rosie ever had.
Thirteen entered the dining room through the swing door with the steaming pot held in each hand and was about to speak when Mister Buchanan held up a hand for her to wait. The pot handles started to warm her fingertips as those seated at the table bowed their heads.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for this wonderful bounty you’ve given us, this roof over our heads, these wonderful friends, and the warm hearts we greet each day with. We pray your will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. And we thank you for the continuous bounty and blessing you’ve heaped upon us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
The family looked grateful. Thirteen stood wondering if she should mention how hot the pot was before Mister Buchanan motioned her over.
“Come on, come on.”
Thirteen set it down and listened as one of the guests down the elongated table stifled a laugh.
“This is a new girl then, Mike?”
Mike. Mike Buchanan? Thirteen looked to the mister sheepishly as he barely regarded her.
“Uhm, of course not. This is Rosie’s daughter.”
A chuckle shared. Thirteen stood uncomfortably at the side of Mr. Buchanan.
“I wasn’t aware Rosalita was ever pregnant. This one looks about… what? 5? Maybe 6? Damn she’s young.”
Mike Buchanan eyed his dinner guest with sarcastic contempt as he allowed Thirteen to serve some of the steaming soup into his bowl.
“What’s your point?”
“Nothing. Just admiring your long-sighted hires and acquisitions.”
Thirteen stepped back and let Mike Buchanan try his soup.
“Well-GAH. This is too fucking hot!”
He dropped the spoon loudly onto the side dish. The table went silent. Buchanan glared at Thirteen, his hand lifted from the table halfway between a fist and a backhand; it hovered there threatening to strike. Thirteen watched it fearfully. She’d seen this happen to Rosie when there were no guests. Her face turned to the side, eyes fluttering with preparedness for what came next.
Nothing. Mr. Buchanan wiped his mouth and sighed.
“No problem. We’ll just wait for it to cool off. You may go.”
Thirteen’s eyes hung on Mr. Buchanan as the conversation started back in around the table. He lowered his gaze and eyed her ominously. She gulped hard, bowed, dropped her eyes and hurried for the door.
In the kitchen she stood until Rosie turned and noticed the glum expression. Thirteen’s downcast eyes lifted to hers.
“Who’s Jesus, mum?”
Rosalita nearly guffawed at the thought.
“You know! My goodness, child, you say your prayers to him every night.”
“But they never come true.”
“Of course they do, cariño. Maybe not when, and how, you want them to. But I promise you, God answers every single prayer.”
“Even yours?”
“Even mine. Now come. Help me with the oven.”
Rosalita moved back to work, more like hobbled on weak knees. It was getting worse. Thirteen didn’t budge. Her eyes searched the floor, and Rosie stopped to look at her with disapproval.
“Come, child. This is no time to stand around.”
“Do you think Jesus will save Mister Buchanan?” Thirteen blurted. Rosie looked tired of the question as she eyed Thirteen.
“Of course. The Mister is a very god-fearing man. Of course Jesus will save him, and answer his prayers, and love him just as he loves you and I. Now come. Work to do.”
Thirteen didn’t budge. Her jaw set more tightly.
“Does Jesus love him more than us?”
Rosie could feel the exasperation rising in her.
“Child. Of course not. Now come. We’ll talk later.”
There were tears now. Thirteen shook her head, a deep pit in her stomach.
“Why does God let him hit you? Why doesn’t God punish him? Is it because he prays to Jesus?”
Rosie stopped, cross, her hand braced on the counter as much to alleviate the pressure on her knees from the constant standing as to worry about this corrosive line of questioning. Her eyes glared at the floor, not regarding Thirteen as she answered.
“Child, does the Mister ever strike you?”
“No.”
“Then you are the last one to ask such things. You don’t question. You do. Now come. Work.”
Thirteen paused and considered. She blinked furiously, deeply processing as Rosie tried to get the flow of the kitchen back to where it was. She opened the oven with a groan of pain from her back and looked inside. She peered back at Thirteen and felt the weight of impending questions.
“What is it, child?”
The oven door closed. Rosalita turned back to Thirteen not wanting another debate with a typically well-behaved child with one too many questions on her lips. Rosalita decided to nip it in the bud. Her feet dragged across the linoleum to the silently searching Thirteen, strained as she lowered to eye-level just for Thirteen’s sake and looked at her squarely.
“My dear, you think too much. Has the mister ever so much as laid a finger on you?”
Thirteen remained silent. Her head bowed down.
“Exactly.”
Rosie’s smile grew with reassurance.
“So then don’t worry when he raises his voice, or—“
“Sometimes, when you’re asleep, and no one else is home, he touches me.”
The air left the room. Rosie’s smile dropped, the color fled from her face and eyes became uncertainly defeated and her head turned to one side.
“He what?”
“Is Jesus still going to save me?”
(------)
The elevator beeps as it crosses each floor. It’s full of visitors, a few nurses and orderlies, Thirteen on one side of the divide and me on the other. She bought a bouquet of Carnations and has been staring at the floor the entire ride up. Still lost in thought. It’s when she hides wiping a tear from her eye that she notices me.
She blinks. I smile behind the mask knowing she recognizes me from the underground by the way her face drops. What was the tear for? I’d like to imagine it’s the thought for all her skill and training, none of it was enough to prove herself worthy of winning. Seems trite, but the thing that connects her and I is wrestling. She tucks the collar of her jacket tighter and looks upward to avoid looking at me. Now she’s got nothing else to think about but whom it is who’s been following her for at least 5 blocks.
The doors open and she exits the elevator in a hurry with a hidden glance over her shoulder. Her footsteps only increase when she realizes I’ve made no effort to hide that I’ve gotten off on the same floor she has. She pretends not to notice. I’d imagine her hands cupping the Carnations planter as she speeds up and enters one of the hospital rooms.
Of course, I follow.
“You realize my client’s jaw is wired shut on account of your physical activity last week, Miss?”
I entered in medias res, apparently. A man in a suit stands at the bedside of another man I don’t recognize and Thirteen looks incredulous. I stand back and listen.
“I—Well, I… I just wanted to—“
“You realize, Miss Thirteen, if that is truly your real name, that a court summons has been issued. You will be paying for the physical and emotional damages you’ve caused. By being here you’re effectively admitting guilt in the events that led to his injuries."
She’s stupefied. The Carnation quiver in her hand as she struggles to explain.
“He wanted to spar! I didn’t mean to kick him like that.”
“So you admit you assaulted him?”
“I—did. It—it was only a roundhouse kick, I know I kick really hard but… I mean, I can—“
“You knocked his teeth out. Do you have a history of anger issues, miss?”
“It was an accident! And I’m sure it was just the front row, I—“
“Now is not the time to be making jokes. Frankly, you’re in some hot water. This was deliberate assault. Once again, by your own admission, you’re aware that you have an extraordinary set of skills that make you classifiable as a lethal weapon anywhere outside of a wrestling ring?”
“Yeah, but—“
“Again. We now have witnesses. Both myself, and my client and, the masked… lady behind you.”
He frowns as he glances past Thirteen at me just noticing my arrival of folded arms and patient forbearance through an unprecedented exchange. Thirteen looks back at me with widened eyes. I’ve followed her here, and she must feel surrounded. I watch her swallow all of her words, eyes never leaving mine.
“I… just came to give Matt these flowers and wish him well…”
Nerves. Is she ever free of them? She gulps and turns back to the man in the hospital bed, Matt I’ve now learned and she steps forward offering the flowers to him. He makes an overt show of flinching.
“Miss, your presence here is unwelcome. We’ll see you in court where I can only hope for your sake you’re far more lucky than you have been everywhere else.”
I watch as she looks around even in spite of the tirade, and knowledge that she’s brought on herself a lawsuit, presumably for something she didn’t really even bring on herself. The mask continues to hide my smile as she nervously sets the planter of Carnations on a dresser far from the injured man in the bed.
“I’ll just set these here.”
Stifled tears. She’s hurt, wounded and making a hasty getaway. Her eyes are terrified and fixed on me as she rushes past. I give a shrug to what is presumably Matt’s lawyer.
“How much is this going to cost her?” My voice muffles from behind the mask.
“A lot.”
And then I turn to follow my prey. It’s a lot when you watch it first hand. Thirteen must’ve been born under the worst sign imaginable. I watch her hurry down the hallway and repeatedly press the elevator summons button, glancing back at me. I take my time. I glide down the hall as the doors finally open and she rushes in, pushing the button just as furiously for the doors to close. But I’m already inside as the doors slide shut.
It’s just her and I. She looks up at the red numbers counting down as I stand facing her. I can see the spring’s tension uncoiling. Is she finally going to snap?
“All right, who are you?”
She glares at me with something like a snarl. There it is. All business. I have no doubt in my mind we could fight right here in this elevator and I’d end up in the hospital room next to Matt back there. I shake my head as she gets close and intimidates. Everything about her demeanor has shifted in a heartbeat from nervous and mousy to confrontational ready to knock my head off. I shake my head calmly.
“Uh, uh.”
I gesture at her and let her eyes follow down towards the gun outline in my pocket aimed at her.
“I wouldn’t. Unless you’re feeling particularly lucky today?”
She gulps hard. There are those eyes again. It’s like this quiet resignation sinks in. She’s no stranger to this, it may as well happen everyday. She can’t see the smirk behind the mask I’m wearing. She shifts uncomfortably.
“What do you want?”
“Take me home. Your home.”
Another gulp. She nods. She’s done this before.
“Good girl.”
We spend the rest of the elevator ride in silence. I relax and lean against the wall; keeping her mind focused on the reason she’s now doing what I say.
Out on the street, as inconspicuous as though we were just two friends, she hails a cab at my quiet request, and off we go.
The cabbie doesn’t ask many questions. More silence. I never stop quietly staring at her. She is terrified.
“Are you going to kill me?”
She stares ahead, her nervous eyes darting to look at me out the corners and asks quietly under her breath. I wonder if it would be doing Piper Terry a favor. I wonder if it would be doing anyone a favor as I let her question hang over the silence amidst the humming of the cab’s engine.
“Maybe.”
Another gulp. Thirteen looks at me finally.
“Who sent you?”
I shake my head, more of a question to myself than an answer to her. There are people who would send someone like me after her? This is something I didn’t know.
The cab pulls up outside her apartment. The cabbie looks into the back at his fare: a meek and timid Brazilian Woman who must look ready for the firing squad and woman in a black fedora and expressionless white mask who may be the Goth Carmen Sandiego. I pay him. He definitely finds it strange. I can see him watching out the rear-view as we exit. I can see him straining to get a better look at what my hands are doing inside of my pockets. And I can see him deciding silently not to call in that one of the strange women he just gave a ride to looks to be holding the other at concealed gunpoint.
The cab door slams. He drives off, likely glad to be rid of the freak show. Thirteen looks up at the vanilla-colored brick building where she lives silently debating how much further she’s willing to go. I lean in close, make sure she knows I’m behind her, the gun end pointing into her back.
“Come on. Just a little further now.”
And that’s where the diary has to end.
What happens next, I’d rather there be no evidence of.
INT. THIRTEEN'S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Thirteen enters almost casually were it not for the Masked Woman following in behind her, one hand still in her pocket aiming the weapon; the other closes the door quietly behind them and locks it. Thirteen spins around to face the Woman in Black with a face full of determination and fearlessness. She’s ready to assail and accost, but the woman in the mask shakes her head.
WOMAN IN THE MASK
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
She gestures with the outline of the gun on her pocket for Thirteen to sit in the armchair near the door. She does. The Woman in the Mask inhales deeply, and sits on the bench against the wall across from Thirteen and gives a loud, thankful sigh.
WOMAN IN THE MASK
AHHHHHHHH. That’s better.
I’ve been on my feet far too long.
AHHHHHHHH. That’s better.
I’ve been on my feet far too long.
Thirteen eyes the Woman in the Mask who glances around Thirteen’s barely furnished apartment with disappointment. Thirteen frowns, and looks cross.
THIRTEEN
Are you—?
Are you—?
WOMAN IN THE MASK
Uh, uh. I’m asking questions.
And you’re answering honestly.
Then we’ll see what happens.
Is that understood?
Uh, uh. I’m asking questions.
And you’re answering honestly.
Then we’ll see what happens.
Is that understood?
The bulge of the gun in the Woman in the Mask’s pocket looks more prominent. A beat of the two women eyeing one another. Thirteen is literally poised on the edge of her seat, at the ready to defend herself. She nods with her palms rubbing along the knees of her sweat pants.
WOMAN IN THE MASK
Tell me, why didn’t you cut a promo this week?
Tell me, why didn’t you cut a promo this week?
Thirteen blinks at the unexpected question. She gulps nervously as she thinks of the wording.
THIRTEEN
I—I didn’t want it to go wrong again.
I—I didn’t want it to go wrong again.
The Woman in the Mask weighs her measured look heavily onto Thirteen, considering her answer. Thirteen shifts in her seat under the scrutiny.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Explain.
Explain.
THIRTEEN
(Her eyes look downcast)
Any thing can happen. A shorted fuse. An
errant lens cap. Anything can happen. I could
be stricken with the gift of tongues inexplicably
the day of the promo shoot, or mute, or
CLOWNS could storm the set and kill everyone.
I didn’t want to test my luck.
(Her eyes look downcast)
Any thing can happen. A shorted fuse. An
errant lens cap. Anything can happen. I could
be stricken with the gift of tongues inexplicably
the day of the promo shoot, or mute, or
CLOWNS could storm the set and kill everyone.
I didn’t want to test my luck.
Thirteen considers her words, and the luck she fears. Her shoulders slump, eyes saddened and searching through the carpet.
THIRTEEN
The way I see it, who gives a damn if some runner-up
Talks trash about the champ on camera. I’d rather
Save my energy for the training leading up to the match
And give the champ the match of her life.
The way I see it, who gives a damn if some runner-up
Talks trash about the champ on camera. I’d rather
Save my energy for the training leading up to the match
And give the champ the match of her life.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Interesting. I’m sure you’ll get back on the horse in no time.
Interesting. I’m sure you’ll get back on the horse in no time.
Thirteen frowns, her eyes drifting back up to her interrogator.
THIRTEEN
Who—
Who—
The gun juts once more from the Woman in The Mask’s pocket, and Thirteen silences. Her eyes drooping back down to the floor helplessly. A feeling she doesn’t enjoy, yet, for the moment can do nothing about. The Woman In the Mask cocks her head to one side and leans forward on the bench rife with impending intimidation.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
How bad do you want to smash the shit out
Of Piper Terry this week?
How bad do you want to smash the shit out
Of Piper Terry this week?
Thirteen snorts softly with a shake of her head.
THIRTEEN
Is this some sort of “undercover Promo”
Thing, or something? Did Monarchy send you?
Because this is pretty elaborate--
Is this some sort of “undercover Promo”
Thing, or something? Did Monarchy send you?
Because this is pretty elaborate--
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Do you see a fucking camera?
Do you see a fucking camera?
The question hangs. The Woman in the Mask’s voice has turned deep, husky and looming. Thirteen shrinks under it. The Woman in the Mask is satisfied by the reaction and straightens up.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Now answer the damn question.
Now answer the damn question.
Thirteen swallows hard and straightens her shoulder, thoughts racing visibly through her mind as her face darkens and she looks squarely at her would-be assailant.
THIRTEEN
I want to win. To prove I can do it. Not just against her.
She's just one opponent. I want to prove myself to myself.
I want to win. To prove I can do it. Not just against her.
She's just one opponent. I want to prove myself to myself.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Oh come on. Don’t give me that hackneyed, spoon-fed
“Face-Heel” storyline bullshit. This bitch is mustard,
and you know it. She’s a cunt. A worthless Terry like the
rest of them. She’s done nothing but decide to be honorable,
then choose to disrespect. She has no business being in a
wrestling ring, and she knows it. She doesn’t know who she
is other than a “Terry”. She’s a flip-flopper. She likes this now,
1 month down the road will be a different story. She’s a 20-year
old luck-of-the-draw who stole a win from a woman who has
earned the belt she now covets. That’s you, by the way, Ms. Unlucky.
This one? The Pied Piper? She has no fucking clue what she’s even
doing in a wrestling ring the moment her head manages to emerge
from her aunt’s ass. You can see it. It’s written all over everything
she does. She’s got not skill, no charisma, no magnetism, and her
victory is the spoil of the hard work you put in to wresting that belt
off that hook at the Coronation.
[the sound of the teeth gritting behind the mask for emphasis)
And she won’t stop fucking gloating over an immensely LUCKY
fucking break. Why, may as well call it the continuity of lucky
fucking breaks she’s seemingly enjoyed since she popped out of her
ugly momma’s snatch. I can see it on you. You hate every inch of
snobbish entitlement “Generic Blonde 97004” Piper represents.
Everything about her must eat away at everything you fucking stand
for. Doesn’t it? You from the school of hard knocks, and she from the
school of over-priced superkicks. Which, by the way, ain’t that fucking
super when you’re standing across from a fully trained mother fucking
kickboxer who’s used to knocking her shin off solid fucking objects.
This match probably looks great on paper, but come on, one kick from
you will spin this damn bitch’s head around so many times they’ll finally
realize she’s not talented, she's just possessed. And that’s the other thing.
She thumps her bible because it serves her. But where will her God be
when you’re bouncing her damn skull off the canvas, huh? She’s the
Donald Fucking Trump of wrestling. Says this, means that. Has the
pedigree of a sea snail in that ring, and you can’t sit there all cute-like and
not tell me you don’t have full damn intention of kicking her teeth out
worse than you did that guy back At the hospital. Can you?
Oh come on. Don’t give me that hackneyed, spoon-fed
“Face-Heel” storyline bullshit. This bitch is mustard,
and you know it. She’s a cunt. A worthless Terry like the
rest of them. She’s done nothing but decide to be honorable,
then choose to disrespect. She has no business being in a
wrestling ring, and she knows it. She doesn’t know who she
is other than a “Terry”. She’s a flip-flopper. She likes this now,
1 month down the road will be a different story. She’s a 20-year
old luck-of-the-draw who stole a win from a woman who has
earned the belt she now covets. That’s you, by the way, Ms. Unlucky.
This one? The Pied Piper? She has no fucking clue what she’s even
doing in a wrestling ring the moment her head manages to emerge
from her aunt’s ass. You can see it. It’s written all over everything
she does. She’s got not skill, no charisma, no magnetism, and her
victory is the spoil of the hard work you put in to wresting that belt
off that hook at the Coronation.
[the sound of the teeth gritting behind the mask for emphasis)
And she won’t stop fucking gloating over an immensely LUCKY
fucking break. Why, may as well call it the continuity of lucky
fucking breaks she’s seemingly enjoyed since she popped out of her
ugly momma’s snatch. I can see it on you. You hate every inch of
snobbish entitlement “Generic Blonde 97004” Piper represents.
Everything about her must eat away at everything you fucking stand
for. Doesn’t it? You from the school of hard knocks, and she from the
school of over-priced superkicks. Which, by the way, ain’t that fucking
super when you’re standing across from a fully trained mother fucking
kickboxer who’s used to knocking her shin off solid fucking objects.
This match probably looks great on paper, but come on, one kick from
you will spin this damn bitch’s head around so many times they’ll finally
realize she’s not talented, she's just possessed. And that’s the other thing.
She thumps her bible because it serves her. But where will her God be
when you’re bouncing her damn skull off the canvas, huh? She’s the
Donald Fucking Trump of wrestling. Says this, means that. Has the
pedigree of a sea snail in that ring, and you can’t sit there all cute-like and
not tell me you don’t have full damn intention of kicking her teeth out
worse than you did that guy back At the hospital. Can you?
Vitriol. Hisses. Thirteen stared at the Woman in the Mask across from her surprised at her seemingly boundless rage. The Woman in the Mask looked awkward. Seated on the bench like she’d just said too much. Thirteen’s frown lightened with consideration as she breathed in, relaxed, and looked thoughtfully towards the mask.
THIRTEEN
There’s a lot of faces I could superimpose onto
Piper this Sunday in the ring. A lot of people
She reminds me of, and stirs up awful memories about.
There’s a lot of good reasons I could have to want to inflict excessive pain.
(a beat of further thought)
Her moves are textbook, her form is flawless but lacking her own
Personal touch. She’ll grow that organically as she, herself grows.
You said that. She’s twenty. Young. And here I am with
An opportunity to show her grace, and strength,
And hopefully show her some things she doesn’t know yet.
There’s a lot of reasons to look forward to pinning her. To winning.
To shutting her up. To sticking her face behind a protective mask
Or whatever it is you’re hiding behind. But
No. I don’t hate this person. I’m happy for her success.
And I’m happy to test myself against her.
There’s a lot of faces I could superimpose onto
Piper this Sunday in the ring. A lot of people
She reminds me of, and stirs up awful memories about.
There’s a lot of good reasons I could have to want to inflict excessive pain.
(a beat of further thought)
Her moves are textbook, her form is flawless but lacking her own
Personal touch. She’ll grow that organically as she, herself grows.
You said that. She’s twenty. Young. And here I am with
An opportunity to show her grace, and strength,
And hopefully show her some things she doesn’t know yet.
There’s a lot of reasons to look forward to pinning her. To winning.
To shutting her up. To sticking her face behind a protective mask
Or whatever it is you’re hiding behind. But
No. I don’t hate this person. I’m happy for her success.
And I’m happy to test myself against her.
The Woman in the Mask sat silent, though Thirteen thought she could hear a mystified guffaw resound from behind the mask.
THIRTEEN
You don’t come out of the atmosphere she’s grown up
In and not have a deep-seated need to succeed.
It’s understandable why she behaves as she does.
And I have no question as to her qualifications. I have
no reason to doubt her worth. LIMITLESS tends to produce
champions. She’s that. I understand her enough to not
hold a grudge against her success, regardless of how that
success is interpreted. And I have no reason
to want to deliberately make her life difficult.
You don’t come out of the atmosphere she’s grown up
In and not have a deep-seated need to succeed.
It’s understandable why she behaves as she does.
And I have no question as to her qualifications. I have
no reason to doubt her worth. LIMITLESS tends to produce
champions. She’s that. I understand her enough to not
hold a grudge against her success, regardless of how that
success is interpreted. And I have no reason
to want to deliberately make her life difficult.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Right. If she were dangling from a cliff, you’d help her up.
Even though, you realize, immediately thereafter she’d
Just kick you right over the edge herself without batting an
Eyelash.
Right. If she were dangling from a cliff, you’d help her up.
Even though, you realize, immediately thereafter she’d
Just kick you right over the edge herself without batting an
Eyelash.
THIRTEEN
Maybe. That won’t stop me from doing it if I have to.
Maybe. That won’t stop me from doing it if I have to.
The Woman in the Mask’s head shook slowly with disbelief, the blue eyes never wavering from Thirteen.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
And what happens when she beats you?
And what happens when she beats you?
THIRTEEN
If. If she beats me. I’ll get back up.
And I’ll try again. Stronger. Better
Faster than I was, and ready to beat
Her the next time. I refuse to take my opponent
Lightly as you apparently have. This will be a fight.
My skill against hers. Luck, if it shows up, well…
If. If she beats me. I’ll get back up.
And I’ll try again. Stronger. Better
Faster than I was, and ready to beat
Her the next time. I refuse to take my opponent
Lightly as you apparently have. This will be a fight.
My skill against hers. Luck, if it shows up, well…
Thirteen nodded an assent to herself.
THIRTEEN
Then so be it.
Then so be it.
The Woman in the Mask looked mystified and stunned as Thirteen eyed her more resolute then before. Thirteen’s chest thrust forward.
THIRTEEN
Is she the one who sent you? Because, frankly,
If you’re going to keep pointing that gun at me
On her behalf, then you may as well pull the trigger now.
I’m not afraid to die.
Is she the one who sent you? Because, frankly,
If you’re going to keep pointing that gun at me
On her behalf, then you may as well pull the trigger now.
I’m not afraid to die.
Thirteen swallowed softly. Not a gulp. She was stoic. Calm. Literal. The Woman in the Mask eyed her before sucking in her breath before she lifted her hand from her pocket. It was shaped like a gun.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
It’s just my hand. See?
It’s just my hand. See?
She showed her hand shaped like a gun. Thirteen’s face dropped and grew angry.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Seriously. I fucking love you.
You actually fell for that. And why?
You’d even take ME seriously. Never underestimate
someone, right? What’s that, the first Rule of Fight Club
where you come from? So honorable. So sweet.
Innocent. That’s strength you just can’t train,
or be born into. I admire that about you.
Seriously. I fucking love you.
You actually fell for that. And why?
You’d even take ME seriously. Never underestimate
someone, right? What’s that, the first Rule of Fight Club
where you come from? So honorable. So sweet.
Innocent. That’s strength you just can’t train,
or be born into. I admire that about you.
Thirteen’s jaw set, and she lifted from her chair with clenched fists. Her body bristling. The Woman in the Mask eyed her and grew serious, parting her jacket open to reveal the shiny polished gun holstered inside her jacket. Her free hand patted it firmly.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
But I do have a gun.
But I do have a gun.
Thirteen gulped. But her frown focused more on the bump of a tummy the Woman in the Mask was sporting under the loose-fitting jacket. Eyes behind the mask followed Thirteen’s.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
And I have something else, too. As you can now see.
And I have something else, too. As you can now see.
Even Thirteen’s frown dropped. What was she dealing with? The Woman in the Mask’s demeanor shifted once more. She looked exhausted as she parted the jacket open further, no need to hide the fact of her pregnancy anymore.
THIRTEEN
How far along are you?
How far along are you?
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Six months. I’m afraid it’s terminal.
Six months. I’m afraid it’s terminal.
A profound moment of silence between the women.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Why didn’t you go to Louisiana like I asked you to
In my note?
Why didn’t you go to Louisiana like I asked you to
In my note?
It dawned on Thirteen slowly. Her eyes moving up from the baby bump to greet the Woman’s.
THIRTEEN
You’re…
You’re…
Silence. The Woman in The Mask nodded slowly. So this was the woman who'd started this step back into wrestling. Bad Kitty she called herself on the phone. Thirteen considered, licking her lips, full of questions of her own.
THIRTEEN
I wanted to get as far from anywhere anyone could possibly
Come looking for me. I wanted out of people’s pockets.
I wanted to forget. London, England seemed like a pretty good
Place to start fresh, where people wouldn’t come looking for me.
I wanted to get as far from anywhere anyone could possibly
Come looking for me. I wanted out of people’s pockets.
I wanted to forget. London, England seemed like a pretty good
Place to start fresh, where people wouldn’t come looking for me.
The Woman in the Mask pointed to herself arrogantly.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I came looking for you. I wanted to see if you were who I hoped you were. I found you. I can always find who I'm looking for.
I came looking for you. I wanted to see if you were who I hoped you were. I found you. I can always find who I'm looking for.
THIRTEEN
Apparently, “Bad Kitty”.
Apparently, “Bad Kitty”.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
And you took the cash.
And you took the cash.
Thirteen gulped, her face dropping with a quick nod.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I guess that means you’re in someone’s pocket.
I guess that means you’re in someone’s pocket.
There it was. Thirteen’s eyes drifted back up to meet the Woman’s who leaned her elbows across her knees and sat with her legs lewdly spread.
THIRTEEN
What do you want?
What do you want?
The woman, Bad Kitty, U, or D, the woman who’d left $13,000 in cash for Thirteen less than a month ago was here now. And she seemed to be assessing her newfound investment carefully.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I believe in you.
I believe in you.
The voice, suddenly, sounded defeated behind the mask. Hollow. Weak and resigned.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
You make me want to say my prayers; eat my vitamins,
And train real hard. You make me believe that hard work
Still means something. You stand for something I never could.
You make me want to say my prayers; eat my vitamins,
And train real hard. You make me believe that hard work
Still means something. You stand for something I never could.
THIRTEEN
There’s always hope for redemption, or—
There’s always hope for redemption, or—
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
No. There isn’t. This? My little gun game?
Tip of the iceberg. I’ve killed people. I see what
You mean about coming here to London. It’s
A good place to hide. I came here with cold, hard
Cash and no questions asked. I traveled off the grid.
Because if I didn’t. The second I let authorities know
Of my whereabouts I’d be detained. And all of it would
Come pouring out. And they don’t give time off for good
Behavior to people like me, Thirteen.
No. There isn’t. This? My little gun game?
Tip of the iceberg. I’ve killed people. I see what
You mean about coming here to London. It’s
A good place to hide. I came here with cold, hard
Cash and no questions asked. I traveled off the grid.
Because if I didn’t. The second I let authorities know
Of my whereabouts I’d be detained. And all of it would
Come pouring out. And they don’t give time off for good
Behavior to people like me, Thirteen.
The words hung. Thirteen listened as The Woman in the Mask listed them off almost casually and callously. Like it just was. Like she, too, had a set of her own bad luck, but had learned a different way of living with the illness.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
We’re not so different, you and I. Whereas
You’re some bizarre bad luck lightning rod, I’ve never
Seen anything like it by the way. It’s exquisite.
(a beat as she considers with stress)
My bad luck, however, is something I’ve entirely created
For myself. I have enemies, too. One’s who want
more than a pound of flesh.
We’re not so different, you and I. Whereas
You’re some bizarre bad luck lightning rod, I’ve never
Seen anything like it by the way. It’s exquisite.
(a beat as she considers with stress)
My bad luck, however, is something I’ve entirely created
For myself. I have enemies, too. One’s who want
more than a pound of flesh.
Thirteen searched blankly for some trace of a thread of where the woman was going. A beat. The Woman in the Mask looked downward quietly, and sadly.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I’m having this baby.
I’m having this baby.
THIRTEEN
Congratulations.
Congratulations.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
No. I told you. This is terminal. I don’t know
How it’ll go down, but, the life ahead of me is
No place for a child. This kid doesn’t need me for
A momma. I fuck things up. Almost habitually.
Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance…
No. I told you. This is terminal. I don’t know
How it’ll go down, but, the life ahead of me is
No place for a child. This kid doesn’t need me for
A momma. I fuck things up. Almost habitually.
Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance…
She drifted off in thought, philosophically stroking the chin of her mask as Thirteen thought on what she was saying and had it slowly dawn on her.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I’ve been watching you. Following you. You’re legit.
Yeah? You’re someone who inspires right action because
You live rightly. You got horrible fucking luck, but… you’re a good
Person. I want my little girl to learn from a good person.
Not a bad person.
I’ve been watching you. Following you. You’re legit.
Yeah? You’re someone who inspires right action because
You live rightly. You got horrible fucking luck, but… you’re a good
Person. I want my little girl to learn from a good person.
Not a bad person.
THIRTEEN
You want… me… to raise your child for you?
You want… me… to raise your child for you?
THIRTEEN
Don’t you… like… have to have a lawyer, or... I… Uh…
Don’t you… like… have to have a lawyer, or... I… Uh…
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Isn’t it great? The woman with the worst luck
On the planet gets another unexpected pile of
Shit dropped on her lap. And you? You’ll deal.
You always deal.
Isn’t it great? The woman with the worst luck
On the planet gets another unexpected pile of
Shit dropped on her lap. And you? You’ll deal.
You always deal.
THIRTEEN
I… but. This isn’t, like, this hasn’t been legalized, or—
I… but. This isn’t, like, this hasn’t been legalized, or—
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I told you. My life decisions have forced
Me to fly under the radar. Maybe you’ll
Get the kid as she floats in a basket down
The Jordan river? Who the fuck knows.
I’m telling you this as a courtesy.
I told you. My life decisions have forced
Me to fly under the radar. Maybe you’ll
Get the kid as she floats in a basket down
The Jordan river? Who the fuck knows.
I’m telling you this as a courtesy.
She stood as she said so. Thirteen watched her brace her back like it were something alien to her, the pregnancy itself taking a toll on a body that had evidently not had the intention of bearing a child. Thirteen stood and moved to aid the Woman in the Mask, but she slapped her away like an old, stubborn woman Thirteen had once known.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I got it, I got it.
I got it, I got it.
Thirteen stepped back and watched the woman, Bad Kitty straighten out and angle herself for the door before turning back to Thirteen with an afterthought.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Oh yeah. Seeing as we’re friends now,
I had $13,000 more deposited into that shiny new
Savings account you set up.
Oh yeah. Seeing as we’re friends now,
I had $13,000 more deposited into that shiny new
Savings account you set up.
THIRTEEN
How—
How—
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I’m fucking spooky, that’s how. There’s more.
There’s always more. I made a small fortune
Breaking human beings in half before the
Catastrophe child birth started to bear down
On me.
I’m fucking spooky, that’s how. There’s more.
There’s always more. I made a small fortune
Breaking human beings in half before the
Catastrophe child birth started to bear down
On me.
THIRTEEN
Who’s the father—
Who’s the father—
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
A fuckwit. Forget him. I found you.
A fuckwit. Forget him. I found you.
THIRTEEN
Oh. Thank you.
Oh. Thank you.
The woman hobbled gently back towards the door. Thirteen followed at a distance, uncertainly watching her newfound “benefactor” with dignified annoyance.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
OH YEAH! One more thing.
OH YEAH! One more thing.
She snickered as she turned.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
I’m starting to sound like Columbo here, but
I’m the one who signed your name on the dotted
Line over at 4CW’s Uprising.
I’m starting to sound like Columbo here, but
I’m the one who signed your name on the dotted
Line over at 4CW’s Uprising.
THIRTEEN
THAT WAS YOU?!
THAT WAS YOU?!
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Right?! As if you didn’t have
A whole lot of shit already to contend with, I
Just sort of… Did it. Felt good too.
Another good sign I’m not exactly cut out for motherhood.
Too impulsive.
[she thinks about it a beat, then shrugs)
Ah well. Think of it as an another opportunity for
Character growth.
THIRTEEN
But their show is taped almost immediately after Monarchy: Live!
On Sundays… I’ll have to get right on a plane after my match..
But their show is taped almost immediately after Monarchy: Live!
On Sundays… I’ll have to get right on a plane after my match..
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
Win or lose, too. Damn I’m a bitch, hey?
Think of it as an audition for your
Foray into impending motherhood.
You gotta be like a juggling artist.
Win or lose, too. Damn I’m a bitch, hey?
Think of it as an audition for your
Foray into impending motherhood.
You gotta be like a juggling artist.
THIRTEEN
You can’t do that. Who the hell do you think you are?
You can’t do that. Who the hell do you think you are?
The Woman stopped before the door and glared seriously at Thirteen.
THE WOMAN IN THE MASK
If you don't like it you can end the contract. It’s not written in stone.
Prove that skill is trumped by circumstances, and bad luck.
Prove that while you’re laying on your back on Sunday watching
Queen Piper prove she’s better than you cause you can’t hack it.
If it’s too much for you, than I chose unwisely, and you don’t belong
In a wrestling ring anymore than she does. There. Not to
Put too much on your plate.
Good luck at Monarchy: Live!.
If you don't like it you can end the contract. It’s not written in stone.
Prove that skill is trumped by circumstances, and bad luck.
Prove that while you’re laying on your back on Sunday watching
Queen Piper prove she’s better than you cause you can’t hack it.
If it’s too much for you, than I chose unwisely, and you don’t belong
In a wrestling ring anymore than she does. There. Not to
Put too much on your plate.
Good luck at Monarchy: Live!.
Coldly, she turned, and exited. Thirteen stood before the door moments longer before turning back to the empty apartment, and frowned.
Fade Out.