Post by The Hannahverser on Apr 17, 2016 2:11:37 GMT
Acts of Defiance and Daddy Issues
She was born 2 months preterm. She was so tiny you could fit her in the palm of your hand. Her mother lived long enough to cradle the baby once to her breast before the infection took over. One maternity nurse’s negligence led the baby to be listed as officially dead alongside her mother. No one gave the baby a name, and no birth certificate was drafted.
They thought the hand of God must have been upon that little girl when callous ignorance was overridden by the thorough oversight of one perceptive nurse. Sheer luck helped them find a heartbeat on the baby who had managed to stay alive on the mother’s fleeting body heat. The rest was a rush of kinetic movement to ensure the baby’s survival. Unofficially, she was born at 12:00 PM on February 29th, 1988.
She weighed one and a half pounds and spent the majority of her first months closely monitored and hooked up to a facial respirator. The unnamed baby became the maternity ward hero overnight and stayed that way. A name that merely short-formed her status was dispassionate, but allowed for an attachment that lonely little girl sorely needed. In spite of loving protest they called her ‘Premmy’ until they could settle on something official.
Milestones were set and she hurdled them. Within two weeks her temperature had stabilized. They’d removed the breathing apparatus by the end of the month when they were sure she would no longer apnea. By month two she was taking all feedings by mouth. All who met “Premmy” mutually agreed she was the luckiest baby girl in the world.
The father, once painstakingly tracked down, expressed grief at the loss of his wife and an inability to think of a name for his baby girl in the face of such loss. He hid his face, his knuckles were clenched and accepted the doled out sympathy with a bowed head. That one perceptive nurse who wondered why the father hadn’t been present during the birth also remarked to anyone who would listen that it looked more like disappointment than grief he was suffering from.
That same nurse would also predict that Premmy’s luck would run out the second her father took her home.
She was right.
Thirteen rarely thought of these things. There was never any reason to contemplate a narrative she wasn’t sure of, at least not until she found herself inside of an emergency waiting room realizing the woman she’d just driven there had died due to complications in childbirth. That narrative she’d put behind her pieced itself together once more in her mind and twisted her stomach into mourning knots.
“Can I see her?” Thirteen asked, neglecting her original plan of going to the gym for some last minute toning before the Line of Succession. She’d been looking forward to the match against Alexis Terry all week. Funny, in this one event itself pregnant with significance, Monarchy Wrestling and the life Thirteen had meticulously pieced together lost its immediacy.
No nurse could convey additional information to her. Thirteen’s continued affirmation that she knew the woman who’d just given birth was hardly a check on credentials, and didn’t prove next-of-kin. Thirteen left the hospital feeling like she’d lost a title match.
That night she strode out through the entrance before the roaring crowd packing the 02 Ritz ready to defend her Monarchy Championship. She carried bravado, she carried strength, she carried her title, and she carried the night all while her heart broke hoping for the best elsewhere in London, England.
As Alexis Terry sought to render her unconscious with a sleeper hold, Thirteen casually considered faking it. She thought about taking the dive, of selling an Alexis Terry victory before the match and the crowd could even wind up, and about getting out of that arena sooner than anyone would have expected.
A struggle happened in the ring that night that transcended the one the fans were gorging on. It was a struggle of importance and what mattered. There wasn’t a single second that struggle ceased to wage. In the end, the match victory barely registered for Thirteen.
The kicks into the back of Alexis Terry’s head during the Stretch Muffler held no anger toward a defeated Terry, but frustration aimed at a body, it didn’t matter which. Through gritted teeth, Thirteen hissed the news that there was a child recently born that stood a very good chance of incarnating the same life Thirteen had been living up till that moment, and there wasn’t a damn thing Thirteen could do about it.
‘Ain’t that a kick in the head’?
Her tears would be confused and hidden with her sweat that night. In truth, her fists clenched tight enough to threaten breaking skin on the inside of her palm the second Monarchy’s newly announced owner threatened her with another match. Thirteen hid the impatient roll of her eyes behind stray strands of dark, matted hair. It didn’t matter whose name was announced. It didn’t matter that Ryan LeCavalier looked ready to pummel her.
That night, Thirteen, for the first time in a long while, wasn’t sure she being a wrestler mattered anymore.
As she hurriedly collected her belongings and stuffed them into her travel bag, and rushed from her locker room to speed-walk the long hallway, Patrick Donnelly locked into stride with her as she rushed for the exit, his camera person struggled to keep pace.
“What a night, Thirteen. Congratulations on the successful title defense. We never got the chance to grab a comment from you before the big reveal. What are your thoughts on the impact of Tom Aldrich—?"
“What impact?” She stated absent-mindedly cut in, giving him a serious look of disenchantment. Patrick Donnelly’s tracks were cut short as he watched her quit the building in a rarefied huff.
Instead of immediately boarding her plane for Hamilton to take part in her scheduled four way match at 4CW’s Uprising in Hamilton, Ontario Canada she rushed once more to the hospital.
“What’s going to happen to the baby?” Thirteen demanded. For now, so went the news from nurses who’s priority it was to stabilize the newborn, she’d have to wait and see. She bit her lip and felt herself peering back in time.
Did it happen like this? Did her father ask after?
She hated the man who had dubbed her “Thirteen”. ‘Unlucky’, he’d spat at her. ‘Killed your mother’, he’d informed her whenever he had the opportunity. She could only see the memorized fragments of what looked like a dirt floor, of sleeping under a bench on said floor, of crawling out from under that bench and bowing whenever her father brought visitors over. The man she’d called father was not a salesman by trade.
He sold people. He sold her.
She could hear Patrick Donnelly’s words rearranging in her memory, asking her what her thoughts were on the impact of her father.
What impact, she mouthed coldly to herself with an icy glare out through the porthole window of the plane on her way to Canada. She found herself flip-flopping, condemning him in one breath and then tilting her head apologetically, justifying his actions in the maternity ward 29 years ago, as they strangely coincided more recently with her own.
What could he do in a waiting room but try to carry on with his life?
She felt guilty to put the death of a woman she barely knew and the baby she’d given birth to, all of it from her mind on account of a wrestling match. The struggle she’d fought in the 02 Ritz continued well beyond England.
This was her focus. This was her career, and it was her everything.
Her heart sank. This is going to happen all over again, isn’t it, she thought as she carelessly spat a chewed thumbnail onto the leg of the passenger beside her. She winced and nervously apologized, plucking it from his jeans even though he hadn’t noticed.
She fought in three matches that night. Her strikes didn’t hit as flush as they normally would, her oft relied upon quickness felt more like she were wading through molasses. It would’ve been four matches had Kelsi Ross not sidelined Ryan LeCavalier on her way down to the ring, and Thirteen felt confident that if she did pull out a victory over Ryan it would be through sheer luck.
She didn’t stay in Canada long to debrief and reflect after her split decision at Uprising. Her heart was beating entirely in London, in the maternity ward of Kingston Hospital.
She’d made an uncertain decision upon returning in the early morning.
Once again she rushed to the hospital for an update, and to let it be known to whom it may concern that she had full intention to adopt the baby as soon as it was deemed acceptable and safe to do so.
She offered a name as well: Rose. After Rosalita, a woman, the only woman, she’d been able to call mom in her life. A fitting tribute she’d thought long and hard about.
She didn’t spend time unpacking the events she’d just gone through. Line of Succession, for all it uncovered about the state of Monarchy Wrestling, she chose to push from her mind. Learning about her upcoming match bookings in both of the federations she belonged to would have ordinarily set her to furious work with research, with training, with preparation and match strategy.
Artemis Kaiser, death match specialist. Brutal workhorse. “Your Best Nightmare”.
Typically, Thirteen would’ve zeroed in and done her homework. She would’ve readied herself to wage war against a highly worthy opponent.
One you don’t fuck with.
She would’ve made it a point to get ready to go down to the ring to prove her father—Thirteen blinked that thought out of her head.
Tom Aldrich. Not her father. She shook her head to get that stuck thought loose.
Instead, she comfortably found the furthest back-burner on her proverbial mental stove and she set it all there.
She didn’t want to be a wrestler anymore, did she?
There were more important things to focus on now.
She felt herself less than 2 feet tall looking up at that man she hesitated to call father as he scowled down at her and issued a challenge, “I want to give you the opportunity to prove yourself. Let’s see if you can win when the deck is stacked against you.”
She blinked at the visual set before her mind’s eye. That’s not how it happened. That was at Line of Succession, that wasn’t her father that was… She gave another shake to her head, to a mind blurring two people awkwardly together.
What did Tom Aldrich know, anyway, she growled.
You can’t arrive a month and a bit after your federation has been operating quite smoothly without you and hold any candle of legitimacy or true ownership.
She shook the thought. Tried to anyway. She went out and bought paint supplies, some animal decorations and a crib she was sure would be a cinch to set up. In this endeavor she felt like the wind was pushing her along and guiding her every step unlike the constant slog uphill her wrestling career had been. She could feel her heart hopping and bouncing with a joy and defiance within her chest.
Screw Father… Tom Aldrich… or whatever.
Every flourish and sweep of the paintbrush in her hand along the wall sang and raged simultaneously, “I’ll show you, dad.”
Every snap and click of the constructible crib was Thirteen declaring that history would not repeat itself, she’d prove she could win in spite of a stacked deck.
She had no other career skills other than combat. What would she do for work, for money? She could still wrestle. But she’d have to relax. Could she? Could she so easily put something so integral to her being behind her? This baby had entered the picture for about a minute, wrestling was, and is her life.
She could walk away, right?
There was verve behind her every move, a sense of meaning she felt sure any involvement she’d had in wrestling couldn’t match. Two replica Monarchy Championship belts set neatly side-by-side on the dresser in her bedroom meant nothing in the face of the honor of leading a life out of grim darkness.
It wasn’t her baby. It didn’t have to be. Even if she’d made a verbal agreement with the “Bad Kitty”, it was an idea she’d gradually warmed to.
Thirteen the surrogate, Thirteen the responsible grown-up putting someone else before her own wants and desires.
She could do it.
She had to do it, because, she was positive no one else would.
No one had when she’d been born.
And then she sat in the office of Kingston Hospital’s Ms. Dawes who awkwardly brought Thirteen to the awareness that, as it stood, she wouldn’t be allowed to adopt the as-yet unnamed baby due to the vagaries of a profession that called its adherents to risk life and limb for title belts, glory and the destruction of anyone and everything.
Thirteen left the building like the match decision had been a no-contest; numb with a hint of anger bubbling beneath the surface as she drove back home to glare into the room she’d intended for the baby.
God of Anger, you say?
Thirteen resisted all those urges that insisted she dismantle what she had tried so hard to build inside of that room. Instead, she closed the door and took her fury out on her Mook Yan Jong leaving it toppled like a felled tree after thirty minutes of sustained anger and tear-filled punches.
The tears continued as she favored her left leg, the bruise already forming on the shin of her right as she limped, her knuckles bloodied as she pushed into her bedroom, leaned her palms on the dresser where the two fake Monarchy Championship Belts rested and glared down at them with resentment and angry sighs.
She felt 2 feet tall again. She looked up at Tom Aldrich, no… her father, or… she shook her head feeling a pained lump in her throat, the tears continued as he barked down at her, “You are not the best in this company. You have not earned that title.”
Her palms shoved the fake belts off either side of the dresser where both crumpled and slumped against the floorboards. She swallowed hard and thought those millions of thoughts you think when you can’t focus on just one. Her eyes lifted along the frame of the mirror to the plane ticket to Brazil lodged into the border.
The sight made her blink away the tears in order to see it more clearly.
If she had to confess one truth about her life, admit one fact, one fear, it would be that she’d never been back to Brazil since she’d left there against her will when she was 5. Sure, she’d done her homework, that’s what she did after all, and developed and modeled her fighting style to reflect a national heritage she’d held at arms length. She’d kept the culture as close at hand as she reasonably could. And she’d bought that ticket as some sort of reward before “Bad Kitty” had once again shown up to redirect her course and give birth to a baby.
Brazil. She’d never gone back since she’d been born because what would she honestly do, did she even accurately remember a single thing about her country of birth?
You can claim to hail from there, but had it ever been home?
Had anywhere ever been home?
She thought of that baby dangerously underweight in Kingston Hospital who’d never know the love that had gone into redecorating the second bedroom of a two-bedroom flat in East London.
Impulsively, Thirteen packed a travel bag with shaky hands, dismissive of the blood accidentally smearing from her knuckles onto yoga pants, or workout shorts, onto sports bras and her boxing shoes.
She had to leave this place with it’s trigger points for memories she didn’t want to turn into false narratives. And as she stone-faced stood at the airport terminal trading in her plane ticket to Brazil for a plane ticket to Calgary, Alberta Canada, in that moment she felt certain she’d never go home again. Not to London. Not to Brazil.
Dear Dad,
I’m afraid--
She’d began in the midst of the flight, then crossed it all out with a frowning shake of her head wondering why the bizarre substitution of Tom Aldrich for “Dad” had taken over in the first place.
“Creepy,” she shuddered at the thought and decided to crumple the paper before she went past the point of no return.
She laid low in Canada, at least that’s what she had convinced herself she was doing. She had to occasionally work herself back down to the reality that even with one Championship belt, she was not a household name. Tom Aldrich had a point, didn’t he?
She had to prove herself.
Didn’t she?
She took the near two weeks of unbooked time from either of her signed federations and recommitted herself to the one thing that never should have stopped being her passion. She took the time to up her game.
She practiced drills; falls, rolls, leaps, and throws and wondered through the memorized exhilaration if she actually really could love a baby as much as she loved being in the ring, of competing, of pushing herself and her opponent past perceived physical limits.
The baby wasn’t hers, after all. It was a verbal agreement, which doesn’t exactly constitute a binding contract. And who the hell was Bad Kitty anyway other than a failed wrestler who’d slipped up one too many times and found herself knocked up and out of a business she’d apparently been brought up into and knocked herself out of permanently.
Wasted opportunity, Thirteen hissed to herself through gritted teeth at the now deceased former financial backer who’s name hadn’t been Bad Kitty at all, while she pounded her gloved fists into a heavy punching bag.
It felt like nursing herself back to some semblance of sanity, or at the very least the only life she knew. She felt more like herself as she did laps in the pool. She did her research into each of her opponents for the upcoming Sunday night gauntlet she’d run.
“The Terror” Devin Hawk, and “The God of Anger” Artemis Kaiser.
Both masters of violence. If one didn’t kill Thirteen, the other one surely would.
Odds like these, a deck, once again stacked with or without Tom Aldrich’s acknowledgement, was how she’d made her name in the first place.
Thirteen rolled her neck, squared her shoulders and fired blow after blow after blow and realized her lapse into planned parenthood for what it was: folly.
Or maybe not.
The battle continued to wage in her mind whether she wanted it to or not.
What did she want?
To prove herself?
To be some baby’s savior?
To knock the stuffing out of Artemis Kaiser so, at least for the time being, she could shut her father—Hard, solid blink to shut that thought from her mind.
TOM ALDRICH.
Not dad.
An angry sigh helped her refocus.
What mattered?
Her mind kept bulldozing over one answer in favor of another.
What mattered more than anything out of the detritus that was her current mental state, she reasoned, was that she needed to seriously reevaluate her priorities if this was even in question.
If the thought of writing Tom Aldrich a Dear John/Dad letter and just opting out of everything she’d signed on for, ever dreamed of, all because she’d found something else to hope and care for was truly worth replacing the goal, and mode of reaching that goal that had always been there:
Wrestling. It was the go-to answer, the guarantee, the driving force, her raison d’etre, the primum mobile…
Then maybe she wasn’t worthy.
On the Friday leading up to the weekend that would feature both Monarchy: Live and Uprising, Thirteen decided to fly home and face the only challenge she could currently confront.
She’d decided quite confidently that if only one of her opponents managed to kill her and make her stay down on Sunday, then it was worth it to beat the odds and get back up.
While others swore by anger and violence, blood and carnage, Thirteen swore by defeating expectation, beating the odds and succeeding at the one thing she’d ever proven herself at least moderately worthy of.
On the way, she called ahead and let Patrick Donnelly know she’d try to make up for her lack of comments with something more substantial. She spent her time on that plane doing some last minute watching of Artemis Kaiser’s gruesome, bloody highlight reel.
She did her best to learn Artemis’ bio as if it’d actually come up during the match and prove useful unless Artemis flew off the handle, things went off the rails through unforeseen circumstance, or some Thirteen-trademarked bad luck arrived at the worst possible time.
A much calmer, resolved Thirteen nibbled at her thumbnail, but didn’t bite it.
She felt ready for anything at this point, and she had already made it clear to her other opponent for the evening, that if death was to come for her, she’d be ready be for that, too.
Back at her apartment, Thirteen avoided the closed spare bedroom door knowing it was one she didn’t, at least for the time being, wish to open. Inside of her bedroom she picked up the replica, imitation, fake Monarchy Championship belts she’d spilled and noticed with dismay as she did something lurking, stuck back behind the dresser.
The second her hands gripped its surface she knew what it was and pulled it free of it’s hiding place.
The Monarchy Title, the real one; no imitation, no fakery. It almost smiled at her with a wink as the silvery surface glinted in the artificial light of her room.
“It was here the whole time?” She frowned to herself, and looked comparatively to the two custom-built duplicates she had placed back on her dresser, which, with the addition of the legitimate title created an almost ridiculous triumvirate of championships all saying the same thing.
She brought all three belts with her to meet Patrick Donnelly who remarked at the farcical nature of it. She responded with a serious look that insisted she was ready to work for the promo time.
And the camera turned on.
PATRICK DONNELLY: Hello Monarchy fans, once again with you is myself, Patrick Donnelly, freelance reporter covering today, Monarchy Wrestling’s own Monarchy Champion: Thirteen. Thirteen, you look lovely as always, thank you for agreeing to speak with me.
Thirteen nodded to him amicably, and smiled with grace to the camera.
THIRTEEN: Of course, Patrick. Thank you.
Patrick eyed the similar belts draped on Thirteen, one on each shoulder, and one around her waist, with bemused confusion.
PATRICK DONNELLY: Now, Thirteen, I suppose, aside from the actual questions I have prepared, I should probably ask you what’s going on with THREE Monarchy Championship belts…?
Thirteen shared Patrick’s smile momentarily before looking serious as he extended the microphone to her.
THIRTEEN: Well, it’s really simple, Patrick. I wanted to be real, and up front with the fans of Monarchy Wrestling about my title reign so far. One of these belts is the real belt, the real Monarchy title. I lost this belt accidentally the very night I won it. You want to question the legitimacy of my reign, look no further than the simple fact that I had to spend $10,000 of my own money to replace the belt I lost, and have only recently found.
PATRICK DONNELLY: So, which one’s the real belt?
Patrick asked with a smirk, enjoying the mystery. Thirteen looked serious.
THIRTEEN: Does it make a difference?
Patrick stammered uncertainly.
THIRTEEN: It shouldn’t. My legitimacy as a wrestler has never been in question. I’ve shown up each and every night set to perform in the ring to the best of my ability. And each and every night I’ve done just that. You can naysay my reign all you want. You can claim I never really won the belt fairly.
PATRICK DONNELLY: Our newly revealed owner, Tom Aldrich, of course claimed just that at Line of Succession.
THIRTEEN: I know. And, realistically, why argue? He has a point; at least as far he sees things. I beat Piper Terry in a lumberjack match. That happened. The match was in my favor. I can’t change that. The next week I defeated Leon Cashmere clean and even in a singles match. Again, if Tom Aldrich wishes to claim my reign illegitimate in spite of that fact, then so be it. I won’t argue.
PATRICK DONNELLY: So, are you agreeing with Tom Aldrich that you’ve still not proven yourself worthy of wearing that, well, THOSE titles?
Thirteen thought about the question a moment, her eyes searching the floor.
THIRTEEN: I offered to face Leon Cashmere for this belt. I offered to put the title on the line even if it was a fake belt in the name of legitimacy, and fair play. At that time, our unrevealed head booker and owner decided not to yield to that request. Or, perhaps, he did, and my defeat of Leon Cashmere should have laid any concerns to rest. Did it matter that the belt was a fake? My name was still listed as champion in spite of this knowledge. I’m not here to argue, Patrick. I’ve brought two fake belts with me, one was a gift from a friend…
She thinks deeply a moment, in remembrance.
THIRTEEN: At any rate, I suppose what I am really doing is showing that my worth is not defined by wearing a real belt, a fake belt, or a belt at all unless it’s to hold my pants up. Our owner can question my legitimacy all he wants, he’s still booking me in non-title matches against completely worthy competitors. Take this week, for instance. I’m facing Artemis Kaiser. As I stated prior to meeting Alexis Terry at Line of Succession, Artemis was the one who defeated Alexis Terry a few weeks prior, by all rights she should be challenging me for this belt at Monarchy: Live this Sunday.
PATRICK DONNELLY: Are you—
THIRTEEN: I don’t think I need to spell it out, Patrick. I’m willing to put this belt on the line on Sunday. I’m willing to face those consequences. Call it a game of chicken to our owner who has every right to challenge my claim to this belt, or any belt if he really wishes. Don’t sell one specific opponent because of status, like he’s not doing the same push that he claims was given to me. Alexis Terry? This is his expertise in booking on display. If he really wants to watch me defend this belt, I’ll accept whatever terms he feels necessary. A threeway match, a handicap match, a royal rumble?
He wants the deck stacked? I’ll do it for him. But, if I purposefully stack the deck in favor of my opponent, whoever it is, and if that opponent wins, will Tom Aldrich then, similarly, accuse that person of not proving their worth? Or does he have a grudge against only me in particular?
PATRICK DONNELLY: I really don’t think that Tom--
THIRTEEN: Hear me out, Patrick. You can call it an act of defiance if you want, but our erstwhile owner wasn’t around to decide what to do with what was deemed an illegitimate champion in Piper Terry in the first place. So the locker room decided it amongst ourselves. I’m not playing at disrespect. I’m grateful for my position in this company. I’m just illustrating that when push comes to shove, I’m willing to shove right back.
Tom Aldrich can’t question me one night and not follow up until a month later. I’m willing to defend this belt now, today, and yesterday if I have to. I’m facing some of the biggest challenges of my career on Sunday. What better time than now to truly prove myself, if that’s what needs to be done. Artemis Kaiser deserves this belt just as much as I do, just as much as Ryan LeCavalier does.
The only thing Artemis has to do is beat me for it and she can consider herself the Monarchy Champion. She should have no trouble, if she’s truly capable, or WORTHY, to defeat me. I’m not afraid of losing this belt, Patrick, because I know I can win it right back. Take your pick, I have three title belts, one of which I paid to replace out of my own pocket, and I’ll gladly concede it, all of them, if it lays my critic to rest and helps him focus on quality bookings for the betterment of Monarchy Wrestling as a whole, not to settle a grudge he alone holds.
PATRICK DONNELLY: No offense, Thirteen, but it sounds like the grudge you’re accusing Mr. Aldrich of having, might actually be your own.
Thirteen is mindful, with a nod of her head, finally, at least for now, free of the unfortunate muddling and confusing of her father’s identity with that of Tom Aldrich.
THIRTEEN: Perhaps it is. And I can accept that. The point still stands, regardless. I’m willing to put this belt on the line because I’ve come to this company to be the best that I can be. I can’t honestly claim to be better than anyone, because so many any given Sundays could alter those claims. I feel like, this week more than any other week, I could cut back-to-back promos for my opponents and get away with saying roughly the same thing.
PATRICK DONNELLY: By both your opponents you mean—
THIRTEEN: My opponent in 4CW’s Uprising, Devin Hawk is as bloodthirsty as they come. Artemis Kaiser is a woman also as bloodthirsty as they come. It’s almost interchangeable, isn’t it? I’m prepared for hell this weekend on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. And both my opponents better bring it, because I’m ready to. I’m not going to insist on my skill. And trying to prove I’m better won’t matter if this comes down to spilling blood.
So I’m putting my title on the line. Because as far as I see it, a true champion is defined not by the title itself, but by the risks she’s willing to take to keep it. My worth will not be defined by a win or a loss, but how I’ve chosen to carry myself in this company. This Sunday could prove to be Artemis Kaiser’s night, and I’m not afraid of that. If Jan Van Der Roost is willing to put his job on the line for his place in this company, then I, too, am willing to take a risk with a title I’m told I’ve not proven my right to hold.
Thirteen squarely stares into the camera.
THIRTEEN: I suppose the challenge, then, is on Tom Aldrich to either make it happen, or not. And on Artemis Kaiser to follow through… or not.
The camera cuts.
