The Abyss Stares Into You

The wind glides across the horizon, trees in the distance cackling at the pain while I watch with my sneakers planted on the concrete. Sweat dripped down my brow, wiped away with the sleeve of my shirt while eyes shifted to the sun. I radiated in the heat, the orderlies watching me bask in the glow without lifting a finger, judging with scornful eyes and crossed arms.

Funny thing about that sun, let me tell you. While it burned my retinas, fried my pupils to a crisp, it reminded me of the thrill that comes from standing in front of that bloodthirsty crowd desperately clamoring for a victor. You can't know for sure whether or not you're gonna leave conscious or laid out on some stretcher, and that only adds to the appeal, doesn't it? It's enough to make you almost feel human, enough to quench that need you have for that intoxicating mix of violence and pageantry you can only get in that walk of life. Unfortunately for me, I had it stolen away, lost to suffer this mundane torture while the sun mocked me from above.

"Dude, hasn't your mom ever taught ya not to stare at the sun?" A small girl shoved me, a playful expression on her face. My visage turned; eyes quickly adjusting to the monochromatic prison yard situated firmly behind Blackthorn Asylum. An unfamiliar woman no taller than 5'5" bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, arching a brow.

"My mom never talked to me much," I muttered, annoyed with the other patient trying to talk to me now of all times. Couldn't she see I was busy? Doesn't she know I was going to master reading braille since my wrestling career was over?

"Oh, right. I heard a lot about you, yup," she answered, way too perky than she had every right to be. That is, 'til her tone quickly changed. "Always vying for attention, always looking for a shoulder to cry on. Pretty sad, actually."

"Who told you all that?" I asked her, my fists tightening at my sides, the voices of the other inmates— Err, excuse me, patients - chatting, grunts thrown in for extra flavor. My eyes watched them for a while, running back and forth on the cracked pavement, some of them playing three-on-three basketball. Others did exercises off to the side, push ups, squats, etc. They were all using their recess time to their full advantage, all dressed in ugly white jumpsuits, myself included.

"Scarlet," she answered quickly, my perception quickly flipping on its head. My eyes examined her, clad in a jumpsuit of her own to match the others. Her face was clean and unharmed, her innocence still residing in her eyes while her dark brown hair—

"Why are you staring at me like that?" To write a good description in my journal entry, I wanted to answer. "Do I have something in my teeth?" She flashed a wide, immature smile, clearly teasing me and getting a laugh in return.

"No, I... How do you know Scarlet?" I asked quizzically, wondering whether my suspicion was correct. That, or she knew the real Scarlet Annabel, if she even existed in the first place.

"I'm part of your conscious, silly!" she began. "You remember what your psychologist told you? Every single person you see in your hallucinations is a piece of you personified, basically. There's some mumbo jumbo about how it has to do with your relationship with your mother too, something about a 'super-ego.' Honestly, I think Freud was just projecting," she chuckled like she made the best psychology joke of all time. I shook my head back and forth quickly to wash away the thoughts, focusing on the important part.

"Wait. You're a piece of me? Scarlet's a piece of me?" I asked her, eyes widening at the thought. "Part of me is a... 14-year-old girl in grade school?"

"Hey. It's your head, buddy. Beats me," she shrugged, that innocence and hope resting just beneath her green hues. I imagined that's what she stood for. She was my immature side, the hopeful idealist locked inside my head. Meeting her for the first time was definitely a shock to the system, but the more and more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If there was ever a time where I needed hope, this was definitely it.

"Do you have a name?" I asked her, leaning against a fence, crossing my arms over my chest. "What do I call ya when I need to talk to you?" She thought about it, her fingers playfully scratching at her chin.

"Scarlet and them have been calling me Addy. So, I guess that means my name's Addison, right?" she asked, eyes looking my way for guidance. I hesitated. Was I supposed to give her a last name? Was I supposed to confirm what my subconscious mind supposedly labeled her already? Schizophrenia is really complicated, Doc. Can I trade my diagnosis for something simple like OCD?

"Addison. Yeah, I guess... I guess if that's what Scarlet's been calling you, that's your name," I answered half-haphazardly, tilting my head. "Addy," I repeated, wanting to hear it out loud. "It sounds good to me, but... Why are you even here?"

"Oh! Scarlet and the guys back in that noggin of yours sent me out here to give you a warning," she began, her words suddenly a touch more professional. "You know this prison yard doesn't really exist, right?"

"I know," I answered confidently, exhaling at the thought. Addy looked genuinely surprised, her eyebrows raising. "You think I'd rather sit in that cell, brooding 'til my eyes bleed? No. I set myself on autopilot. Just enough to use the bathroom, not enough to acknowledge reality. I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing."

"And out of all the places in infinity you can dream up, this is what you choose? You decide to turn Blackthorn into a prison?" Her words were covered in confusion, not understanding my thought process. You would've thought a construct of my own imagination would know everything about me, right? It's never that easy.

"I don't even know what Blackthorn's really like, honestly," I chuckled, finding humor in the sad situation. "I don't even know whether or not it even exists. I mean, asylums closed down decades ago, right? All replaced with 'institutions'?" I asked, wracking my brain to try and remember. "Am I even here right now? Am I home, imagining the whole fucking thing from my couch while watching Flashpoint and eating Doritos? I don't even know! It's really fucked up, but I... I can't remember anything about this place, Addy. I remember... I remember leaving reality the second I realized they were taking me away again, the second I realized there was no hope. I went inside my head and I was afraid to come out, 'cause... 'Cause holy shit, my family's gone. Saylor's home, Alanna got taken away, Isabella's dead!"

Tears streamed down my face, so lost in this fantasy that I forgot why I even imagined myself here. "I guess I just... I guess I imagined I was in a prison because I thought that's what I deserved all this time..." Addy put a hand on my shoulder, worried eyes looking back into my own. She gave me a comforting smile for just a moment before it faded yet again, an uncomfortable look across her face. I spotted pity. Why did it always have to be pity?

"Take me somewhere else, Addy... Please... TAKE ME SOMEWHERE ELSE!!"


At the beginning of the week, Chuck Matthews asked me a simple question: What is your goal? It's a question I'm sure all of us need to solve sooner than later, but the fact is, I didn't have a response. I asked him what my answer should be, too cluttered inside my head with disorganized dribble to figure it out myself. He refused to give me an answer, urging that I needed to figure it out myself.

Now, my goal could've gone any number of ways. I could have reached for revenge, the easy solution that involved the systematic destruction of anyone who conspired to take everything away from me, or even anyone who agreed with the unjust punishment. On the other hand, I could've simply invoked the simple word 'chaos' as an answer, another path that would've been predictable as all hell, but no less justifiable.

Now, here's where it gets dicey. Part of me thought deeper later on in the week, thought that retrieving the EXODUS World Championship was all that I needed to be happy, but frankly that didn't feel nearly as satisfying either. I needed something more, something comprehensive, something that wrapped every complaint, every grievance, every problem I had and wrapped it all up in a little bow I could easily follow to the end.

No, I don't want to mold EXODUS in my image. Frankly, that's not even remotely plausible. Groups before me tried to do the same thing - with me as a soldier - and neither could get the job done. Me, I'm just one man. I'm just one person dissatisfied with where I am in my career path, disappointed that things aren't going my way. And that's when it finally hit me:

My goal is to retool EXODUS to work for me.

In every aspect, it's a road I can easily travel and a road where the goal is easily solidified at the end of the tunnel. See, Jon Collins pointed it out to me once I finally got my contract with the company back in commission, and it was the solution I needed:

I need to piss off the entirety of the company. I need to pick apart every single psychology in that locker room, throw out every insult in the book, tear away at their egos until I'm blue in the face. I need to do whatever it takes to make them understand that the only way to stop me is to ask for a match. Week after week, ExPro after ExPro, I let booking take care of itself, making sure I get paid each time I go out there instead of waiting at home without a match and without a check, all the while defeating as many people as I possibly can.

Once weeks have passed, once I've made a reputation, I target the EXODUS World Champion. I hammer him with words, I torture his mind, I do anything in my power to irritate and demoralize that fucker until his only retaliation other than walking to my house and pointing a goddamn shotgun at my head is to ask the upper brass for a match, and before I know it, I'm fighting the champ, goading them into putting the title on the line!!

It's simple, isn't it? Elegant, innovative, and that's just the basics. There are plenty more intricacies baked in the middle, believe me, so I have to thank you Jon. You helped me come up with it. You helped me clarify everything I wanted to do in this company in one simple to understand sentence. And hey, I finally took your advice for once. Isn't that great?

Once I hold the EXODUS World Championship, I'll use it as a gun. You'll all hear what I have to say, and you'll listen to every syllable. Once I reach that point, once I stay atop the mountain, I'll be invincible.

Magnus Gunner taught me that the World Championship meant power, and with great power comes the chance to completely alter the fabric of EXODUS itself. That, however, is a plan best kept to myself, lest I be ruining all the fun.



My cleared the sleepies from my eyes with my fists, flicking out the disgusting crust. Where am I? The place was splattered in pink paint, my stomach churning from the smell, flies cluttering up the place. I nearly stumbled on the wet floor, eyes darting to the center of the room.

A woman strapped to a fallen chair smashed her head against the hardwood floor. Paint dripped out of her head where she got the full brunt of the impact, pieces of brain matter dropped not too far beside her.

"That's not paint..." I mumbled, my eyes glancing around the room once again, spotting speckles of pink in every inch of the warehouse. I looked back at the woman, tilting her head towards me with my hands when I—

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted, bones easily snapping inside her neck, too frightened to pull her head clean off. Who was this girl? She looked familiar, her pink hair reminding me of Brytain Montgomery. She was dead. Two days dead, I'd guess. I quickly stood up, my body shaking while the flies kept flying around her body, some maggots biting at her ankles.

"What's the matter? Don't remember when you killed this bitch?" That was Scarlet's voice, wasn't it? Oh god, what the fuck did I do?! "Relax! It was just another fantasy! Besides, she deserved it. You shoulda seen her, jogging in a park. Alone. At night. It was only a matter of time before she died, so you gave her a favor, really."

"Hang on. This isn't... This isn't Brytain?" I asked her, my eyes looking back down, spotting her bright pink hair identical to the real thing.

"God no. I think her name was Steph. Stephine... Stephine with a Y? Eh, doesn't matter. That whore's dead as a doorknob and that's fantastic!" When did Scarlet change? She sounded more like a monster than ever, more sinister, more vicious. Was I becoming a monster too? Did I really do this?

"Soak it all up, Nick. This is what you're capable of doing in the real world. It's about time you start stepping your game up and destroying anyone who gets in your way, hm? Just like Stephine here," she assured, kicking her dead body with a laugh. "Become a monster, Nick. Become the monster the whole company fears and you've already won out of the gate."



So, since when did Christian Kane become the beacon of hope? 'Cause the last time I've checked, he's still the exact same man he's always been. I mean, look at him. The man who incessantly blamed me for my daughter Isabella's death, the man who taunts about his sex life to everyone who listens, is your source of hope? Are you serious? What, is this because he helped Sekigun? Is this because everyone who used to be in Sekigun either turned their back on the crowd or got beaten senseless by yours truly? Is it because the real beacon of hope - Chris Strike - is busy being an irrational little prick right now, all concerned about what the fuck the crowd thinks? You know how fucked up that sounds?

No, you're not the embodiment of hope. You're the personification of hatred, not me. You're the reason why I couldn't stand side by side with the Sekigun after all, don't you get it? Can't you get it through your thick skull that you're the reason why I refused to come to the meetings, why I refused to simply wait when Jon Collins needed me?

I couldn't stand side by side a man who insults my daughter at every chance he gets. I can't get past the thought that you fucked my wife's sister. And I can't get passed the thought that everyone and their mom's suddenly think you're some amazing hero that's gonna save us from the 'evil' Chris Strike now that everything's back to 'normal'!

YOU are the reason I knocked out Adrien Cochrane! YOU are the reason I hospitalized Lexy Chapel, why I choked Heather Halliwell, why I started this fucking rampage to begin with!! You're the reason people like Savannah and 'Salaryman' think they can
'repent for their sins' ever since you decided to play nice with others, and it's all bullshit!

You think they cheer you on because you're doing the right thing? No, they'd cheer either way. To them, you'll always be Christian Kane, and no matter what you do, no matter what you say, they just can't have enough of it. No, but go ahead. Keep on thinking you made a difference, keep believing Jon's bullcrap. It's just real funny to me that the man who stood up to the man and told him the truth that night, back when you wore a mask and he tried to get through to you, turned into such a lapdog who turned his back on every little thing he used to believe in.

Oh, I'm sorry, you didn't believe in anything but treating people like absolute jack shit and fucking anything with a vagina you could find. How original, am I right? 'Cause I've never seen that personality trope before.

And you know, I guess I should thank you. You're one of the main reasons why I decided to start being myself. I mean, seeing you act like a cookie cutter good guy really made me positive that I didn't wanna be like you after all. Seeing you act like a little bitch, going out and acting like you and Strike were bros after he NAILED YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A RAILROAD SPIKE really put things into prospective, get it?!

'Cause there's no fucking way I'd be friends with a fucker like that after he ruined my face, no. There's no way I would've respected the man after he sent me down a spiral which I could never escape from, after he permanently scarred my face to make me look like a fucked up bleach blonde jackass who doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. I'd hate him more than anything else in the world, Christian. I'd do everything in my power to make him suffer, and I'd do whatever I could to make him feel the same pain I felt, the same emotions I had to deal with hundredfold!!

This isn't funny anymore, Christian... Not at all. If you wanna be a hero, you need to understand you can't point in my direction and laugh at what happened to my daughter. You can't laugh at how Wulf almost burned down my house, how they took away Alanna, how they put me in an asylum, it doesn't work that way.

You won't listen to me, will you? No, you'll keep at it, I'm sure. I'm sure Jon Collins and anyone else in charge will turn a blind eye too, like they always do. They'll just think that I deserved it, that I'm expected to be bullied from the 'beacon of hope.'

Is this really what we expect of people nowadays? Are we so blind to bullying as a culture that it just becomes okay? Yes, because that makes sense. It makes a lot of sense, of course! How come I didn't see it before?

No one, not one person, decided it'd be a good idea to tell you to shut up. Not one person. No, they all joined in like sheep who don't even know what they're talking about. They brutalized me. I'm the victim. I was verbally abused by the whole fucking EXODUS locker room, and now's my chance to get that payback I desperately crave!

I wanna make sure you remember this. I wanna make sure you remember every move, every punch, every knee to the head. I want you to remember the beating I'm about to give you and that ringing in your ears 'll be oh so natural. I want you to remember that the Sekigun ain't gonna come out to save you, and it's as simple as that.

So, c'mon. Hit me with your best shot. 'I killed my daughter,' you're gonna say. You're gonna say 'I'm a joke,' and throw out this whole tired routine I heard a million times on Twitter, yeah? No, I didn't think you were capable of anything thought provoking either, it's okay. I get it, I do, but when the 'joke' knocks you out cold, pins you to the mat, well...

What does that make you?

Christian Kane... Give me a favor. Be original. Be yourself, not what Jon Collins told you to be. And whoever wins, you're not leaving that ring on your own. I promise...