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A Thousand Tiny Cuts; Mark Cannon
Topic Started: Mar 15 2015, 12:13 AM (25 Views)
Cannonboy
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Wrestler
[ *  * ]
Darkness. Lights up on an empty room with a lone steel chair in the center.

A figure enters with a crutch, his face covered in bandaids, with one big one over the side of his forehead. He walks with a bit of a limp and sits in the chair.

Cannon: How ya doin, Cody? Feeling good? Playing video games with Johnny and flirting with my sister? I bet you're having a ball.

Mark rips off one of the bandaids.

Cannon: I bet, you don't have to worry about the thousand tiny little cuts you get when your face is slammed into a mirror. I bet you don't think about how that mirror ended the only thing that gave fire in the morning.

He rips off another bandaid. This one reveals a slightly larger cut, not yet fully healed.

Cannon: A thousand little cuts. Enough to put me out. Enough to make Erik Holland champion. That's all it takes. No big revelations, no grand speeches, no monumental victory. Just one little cut. Then another. Then another. Then another.

He begins ripping off bandaids at a faster rate.

Cannon: Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another.Then another. Then it all sinks down.

Mark looks directly at the camera, his face covered in cuts, half still in bandaids.

Cannon: I looked in the mirror this morning and for the firs ttime, I didn't see any of my faces. Not the god of death or the god of light, or even the god of war. I just saw a man. I saw a man trying to figure out what else he can lose. My sister. My friends. My belt. I...I cut it all out because it made me strong, because it made me invisible.

Another bandaid gets ripped off.

Cannon: But clearly I wasn't invincible. Clearly, I still bled like a man. Do you wanna know why, Cody? Because I let myself indulge weakness. It always starts off small at first. A pang of nostalgia for my sister. A thought about what my friends are doing right now. A punch of sympathy when Erik takes a chair to the face. Tiny cuts. One little one right after the other. A slice of compassion, an edge of caring, a blade of forgiveness. I thought I'd cleaned myself of this meager, human things. But they crept in. AND I LET THEM!

He goes back to furiously ripping the bandages off his face. These wounds aren't quite healed yet. The blood drips down his face.

Cannon: You let one in. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another!

THe bandages are gone. Little rivulets of blood find their way down Cannon's face, outlining the contours of his face.

Cannon: I need to recover, Cody. I need to truly, purge myself of any sympathy, any light if I'm truly going to ascend to godhood. That starts with you, Mr. McGinnis. My foe. My devil. My punching bag. You will be the start of a new Mark Cannon. A man who has no feeling, a man who feels no pain, a man who isn't afraid to twist a man until he hears a SNAP.

He picks up a bottle of rubbing alcohol and unscrews the top.

Cannon: No more tiny cuts, Cody. No more holding back. No more men taking what's mine. From here on, I am the Faceless God.

He pours the bottle over his head, the wounds almost bubbling. He looks up, stone faced, the blood still dripping down his face.

Cannon: Bow down.
Posted Image
Credit: Lita Maivia

[align=center]1x Fighting Spirit Champion[/align].
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