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| Perfectly Flawed; -=Haunted=- | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Mar 7 2015, 06:39 AM (65 Views) | |
| Willie | Mar 7 2015, 06:39 AM Post #1 |
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-=Badd Breed=-
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Erik has evidently rather quickly made his way back into the Toyota Center, though he's not exactly in the bowels. He's in the atrium. Looks to be the mess hall, in fact, and he's still wearing the same attire he did when he "visited" Johnny Amazing in the parking lot. FIW t-shirt, ring gear, leather jacket with DANGER-KEEP AWAY sprayed haphazardly across the front. He's got a white piece of paper grasped in his grubby right hand. I wanna' share somethin' with you, Mark. I know you can hear me. High in the clouds like you are...Between things seen and unseen is where you'll find me, Cannon, so deep in your pain...you're not blind. Not completely. Mark...you'll see me there, and you'll listen. Even, as Fallout approaches, if it's the last thing you do in control of your own faculties.. He nods furtively. You told your sister that that belt there, that thing I wanna' take from you at Fallout is something I can brag about at parties. I didn't really honestly hear anything you said after that. One, because your voice annoys the fuck outta' me.. You're not alone there, Erik. Number two, because you couldn't be further from the truth. I said I wanted to share something with you, an' here it is. This-- Erik waves the paper at the camera--is one of the first fan letters I ever got when I started wrestling out in San Antonio. Right at the end, it says this. Erik holds it out in front of him, clearing his throat, and begins to read. Haltingly, but he reads. He can read?! 'Erik, you talk about all the dark things we all try to whisper. Suicide. Mental illness. Depression. Voices in our heads. Physical abuse. Self harm. We're afraid to talk about these things because they're a reality, as frightening as it might be. Not only do you say them, you SCREAM them. Your voice, your wrestling, is unstoppable and has saved so many lost souls from feeling so alone.' He pulls the paper away now and stares at the camera for a good three beats. His voice, Erik's voice, normally the raw, pit-bull like shout is getting to be a bit husky. Like he's getting choked up. I didn't respond. Not 'cuz I'm some kinda' self-inflated asshole, but...I didn't respond 'cuz I honestly didn't know how. I didn't get, my brain didn't process how to respond to that in a way that would measure up to how that made me felt. I still don't know how it made me feel, really. Like...what do you fucking say to that? Head goes down, and head shakes. Erik sits up on the table now, beckoning the camera to come close. Just so you know, Mark...Not all these scars came from barbed wire or tacks or steel chairs. These, here? These burn marks? Discolored flesh? Busted up and fucked nerve endings? Not all this happened in the ring. As he lists them off, Erik shows off a few of the deeper scars on his arms, elbows and shoulders. A couple on his wrists too. He also shows us a few discolored spots on his arms. Then Erik hops off the table and spreads his arms out wide. My name's Erik Holland and I self-harm. Yeah, busted, I'm a cutter. Since the age of 12. I'd cut myself with anything I could get ahold of. I'd do this, too. As we're processing this, Erik whips out a cigarette that was apparently in his jacket pocket and jams the usually-burning end onto one of the discolored spots on his arms. Jesus. I don't think any of us fans are sure how to react, really. Haven't done something like that, in...fuck, six years? I ain't cut for a long time either. I get cut up wrestling too often to want or need to do it myself. I do it for the simple fact that pain is something that makes my brain shut off. It keeps this.. He points to his brain now, and we should probably make a mental note that he's doing a 'finger gun' at it. ...From spinnin' around like a fucking top twenty four-seven, three-sixty-five, keeping me up days on end because I can't fucking stop thinking about...about...FUCKED up things. Sometimes I think I like pain a little bit too much. I welcome it, I feel comfortable in it, more comfortable than I feel in my own skin sometimes! You know why?! Because it doesn't do me any GODDAMN good to run from it anymore! Now he's getting very raw with his voice. I don't want to, and I can't. I...CAN'T. So I do this. I don't run from pain now, I run towards it. I run head-fucking-long into it! And I wrap my arms around as much pain and blood and violence and physical depravity as I can muster because I have to feel SAFE. I have to feel at HOME. And when I do THAT, I GET THIS!! Erik snatches up the paper, shaking it at the camera again, and then SHOVING the words on the printed page into the camera lens. Forcing us to deal with it. Maybe forcing himself to deal with it. I get TOLD...I'm a symbol. I get told...I SAVE people. And I get told that and I sit here like a fucking bump on a log thinking about it, because I want to go up to tell all these people that I've fuckin' been there. Whatever you're getting away from by getting high, getting drunk, disowning your own goddamn family...I've been there, Mark Cannon. I've been there, I've come back, I've got PICTURES. Sometimes I count 'em just to make myself...crazy... Erik laughs a little about that. I think he's way past there, ladies and gentlemen. So no, Mark. When you say I want that Fighting Spirit Title so I can show off ten pounds of leather and gold to the hobnobbers, the elite, the fuckin' suits and "beautiful people" that never gave any shade of shit about me ANYWAY?...you're full of crap. Because the girl, homeless, couchsurfin' at 14, wearing one of MY t-shirts to cover up all her scars? She's got more Fighting Spirit than you. The guy walkin' through school, puttin' up with more trashtalk and bullying and bullshit than he ever should JUST 'cause he's different, JUST 'cause he's a square peg sittin' in a round hole...HE'S got more Fighting Spirit than YOU. I DON'T have to explain why, because if you don't get it now...you don't get it. He points to the camera HARD, threateningly, twice. And then back at himself. Me. Them. We have Fighting Spirit. And it's because of that, that I'm marching into the Toyota Center at ReVolt and I am on the fucking warpath. And that pain that I am so comfortable in? That I find to be more of a home than anywhere I've been in the entire world? I welcome you to it, Mark Cannon. I reach out to you with it, I wrap you in it...and I'll fucking drag you through it face-first. You do not and never will understand it, understand ME, Mark Cannon...until you experience it. And WHEN YOU DO...I will connect with you, Mark Cannon. I will speak to you, I will touch you...through punishing you. BLUDGEONING you. And when I rip the Fighting Spirit Title from your twitching fingers...you know what the end result will be? What could possibly BE the result other than Mark Cannon now resembles a finely pureed pudding? Erik knows. He nods, a smile halfway between rage and sadness on his face. He purses his lips, as if to keep from crying, then speaks one more time. We'll understand each other. Erik pie-faces the camera and shoves it away. Static. Scene. |
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