Post by Dollface on Feb 24, 2014 21:41:31 GMT -5
So like, I don’t really know what to put here. I mean, really REALLY don’t know. Normally I’d make jokes or chat like we’re besties, but I don’t know what to say to you. You’re not a bad wrestler. You’re not a bad guy. No one has ever really had reason to go "Yeah, fuck Rick Majors. That guy's a DICK."
...and I think that’s it. You’re not a bad guy. I don't "get" you, and I understand how most of the others work. I understand what makes them tick, or maybe what's stuck in their gears, (or, in NCM's case, that there are just too many screws loose)...but I don't understand what happened to you.
You exploded into PCW as some kind of revolutionary, ready to buck the system and disestablish the establishment. All balls and brass knuckles, straight up go time. Then you went sorta weird into a hackneyed Anonymous schtick, conspiracy theorist enough to make all of those Guy Fawke’s mask wearing idjits show their real faces just so they could raise their eyebrows at you. I get that this industry can fuck people up, but just as often it doesn't. Anything can fuck you up. Going out to get your mail could get you dive tackled by a lowland gorilla (it totally happens, I saw a commercial about it last night!).
Then...well, you tried to get Grimm to kill you.
THAT escalated quickly.
Are memes still cool? Because, for serious, yo. You went from “DOWN WITH THE MAN” to “plz kill me Grimm srsly bro”. Yeah, I know, it’s not funny, it’s not a joke, blah blah blah. Humor is my coping mechanism, up to and including making inappropriate jokes at the expense of mental anguish.
Well, humor, candy, and whatever other substance happens to make me feel better. But what’re you gonna do, yanno?
Anyway. I just... I can’t. I can’t spend fifteen minutes on camera talking about how I’m gonna beat your ass, or about how ridiculous you are, or anything else. I just...feel bad. I feel really, really bad for you. I mean, all I actually want to do is buy you a puppy, but I’m not sure how you’d react.
I’m pretty sure you don’t like me. Then again, I’m not sure if you like anyone, I can’t really tell. But I like you. I think you’re a good person who got in over his head and everything got all muddy and strange. Sometimes when you get pulled under too far, it turns you all around and you don’t even know which way is up anymore.
When it’s all dark around you, it’s impossible to find the light again. Maybe... I don’t know. Talk to someone? What can I do to help? I’m not all fluff and nonsense, colors and candy. I know what it feels like. I know how it feels when your reality turns into a waking nightmare, and you can't tell the difference between what's real and what's just the hell in your own mind.
I don’t even know if you’ll watch this. I don’t know if it will make a difference. But I do know that when we get into that ring at Trauma 149, I am most definitely not going to try to kill you. No matter how nice you ask. But I don’t think you will - I’m no one to you. No one to take seriously, no one to see as an actual person, and certainly no one to talk to. I’m just PCW’s pretty pretty princess, right?
Yeah. Thought so. Believe me, or don't. It's your choice. Just keep in mind that I know what it's like, and maybe I can help you. Sometimes it just takes someone to show you they care, even a little. Sometimes it just takes a friend.
“Weak, bitch, just weak! Just hand me the title already!”
The words filter through the haze in her mind as Maize’s bulk presses her into the mat. Cruz’s hand unnaturally loud as it slaps down once, then twice - raw frustration finally powering her body to react.
Kelli leans over the sink in the deserted women’s locker room, the brushed metal drain gleaming dully up at her. The crowd’s noise echoes deep into the Arena, the night’s show continuing apace as though nothing unusual had happened.
Her body still not entirely under her own control, she can hear her opponent’s mocking laughter as he lifts her bodily to her feet. A brief flash of regret for her smaller size rises through her and is gone; distracted from thought by the pain of Maize’s needlessly tight grip, Cruz’s count echoing hollowly in her ears.
Afraid to meet her own eyes in the mirror, she impatiently brushes at the tears rolling down her face, smearing color everywhere even as rainbow hued droplets spatter the sink below. Kelli’s stomach twists uncomfortably, her mental discomfort taking the place of every ache and pain from the match she just endured.
The count strikes four, a tingle of relief at the sudden cessation of pressure as Maize releases her, relief that turns to shock at the sharp, stinging pain in her face. The noise of the crowd is enormous, building to a throbbing roar in her ears as she locks eyes with Maize just before everything distorts and warps in her mind’s eye, Iska’s icy voice booming through the confines of Kelli’s skull.
He will not touch us.
-A thin, gauzy nightgown of baby pink flutters against the heavy darkness as a large hand shoves it roughly above her waist. Crushing pressure between her childishly plump thighs, a sharp pain followed by a relentless, rhythmic burning.-
We will not allow it.
-She struggles with all her might, certain nothing could possibly follow the sensation of her insides being torn apart but death, fighting for her young life. A high pitched shriek makes it past the large mitt covering her mouth, the pressure on her face released just long enough let her breathe, that small relief cut short by a bruising blow caught across the cheek as everything goes black.-
Never again, Kelli. Never again.
Her arms trembling, knuckles going white with the strength of her grip on the glazed white porcelain, Kelli swallows hard against the bile rising in her throat. Clenching her eyes shut, she desperately tries to wrench herself away from the distant past and phantom pains of memory, focusing instead on holding onto her own mind.
A frenetic blur of motion, colors smearing together with the massed sounds of the crowd, heard as if through a long tunnel. Like harsh strobe lights, Kelli’s memory flashes in and out of clarity, no sense able to be made of the confusion. A choked sob bubbles forth, her hand rising to her cheek again, her entire body trembling now. So distraught is she, that she fails to notice the figure peering in at her, nor is she aware of their approach. Two large hands settle onto her shoulders, Kelli immediately startling and dropping into a defensive crouch, spinning in place to view her assailant.
Battered, bruised, and a bit more the worse for wear, he crouches down in front of her. Nothing but compassion and concern in his eyes as his hands reach slowly towards Kelli as she stares wide-eyed in fading panic. Still struggling to regain her mental equilibrium (in so much as she ever has any), Kelli blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I didn’t think you’d ever come back. I didn’t even know where you were!”
“I’m here now. YOU are here now. Be here with me, Kelli. You aren’t in the past, you are SAFE. I’ll keep you safe.”
Calm radiating from him, he draws her in, his arms wrapping around her protectively. She’s content to stand there for several moments and absorb the offered comfort like a flower basking in the warm rays of the sun.
One hand deftly smoothing tangles out of her bright pink hair, Q smiles down at his friend, reading her calmer minset in her more relaxed posture. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“We’re... we’re in the women’s locker room, Q.”
“Are you telling me I’m not pretty enough to be in here?” He pulls back, affecting a mild affront, tossing his long blonde hair over one shoulder in a theatrical display of fabulousness.
“Well, no, but...” Kelli finally smiles, dissolving into helpless giggles.
“THAT’S more like it. Come on, sugar. Sounds like there’s a Stormm rolling in, and I don’t think you want to miss your chance to dance in the rain.”