Post by The Black Widow on Feb 23, 2023 10:47:52 GMT
Alone.
Often, alone was precisely how Brandy Cvetkova had lived her life.
She grew accustomed to it as a child. Professional wrestling had robbed her of the love a child was meant to feel from it's parents in their formative years. She was never abused physically, but the atmosphere of neglect and abandonment was almost tangible to her. Much as any child would, she wanted a connection -any connection- to the two people that brought her into this world. The lack thereof left her with an unusual type of loneliness.
By the age of nine she had gotten into her first fight in school. A boy named Jeff, who was a huge fan of professional wrestling, knew who her parents were. Her father had an especially bad reputation at the time, and he had done some violent and terrible things to the boy's favorite wrestler. An idea was hatched in Jeff's head to take Brandy's backpack and put it in a toilet; and so he did, going to great lengths to ensure it became fully immersed in the water. Jeff expected to see tears flow from Brandy's eyes, but instead he felt her years of penned up pain unleashed on him. It was a cheapshot by every measure that started the fight, but after she had busted Jeff's lip and knocked out two of his teeth, the fight was over.
She was the girl who had beaten up a boy. Aside from the suspension, her punishment: at that age, she became more of an outcast.
Alone.
The longer she lived her life that way, the easier it became for her to be alone by choice as opposed to circumstance.
Forming connections to people is hard.
As she sat in the drivers seat of her late nineties model Acura Integra -her foot propped against the open door as she smoked a cigarette- she couldn't help but think about how she arrived at this very moment in her life. The countless hours of training she had poured in to be the best she could be at a sport she harbors so much resentment toward. Oddly enough, those very hours of training were the one thing that brought her somewhat closer to her parents though. Those grueling hours of training hours of training had, in no small part, helped her to build a friendship with Stephen Terrella and Portia. Those countless hours of training, started many moons ago, had set her on the path to a collision course with, arguably, one of the top women this sport has ever seen.
"Fuck that fake bitch," she thought.
She flicks the ash off of the tip of her cigarette, watching it fall to the asphalt below. Brandy looks to her right, spying the door to the training facility Stephen Terrella had rented for the day. Stephen and Portia were late, per usual. More times than not their day would start at the crack of noon. "They're probably fucking, or hungover. Maybe both," she mused. She knew they were both terribly flawed human beings, but they were always open and honest about who they were. There were no false pretenses to navigate. Their imperfections were on full display for the world to see, and she appreciated that about them because it made her feel a sense of ease around them.
"Tara was probably up at five in the morning, baking crumpets for Angel and the kids. She probably patted each one on the head before sending them off to wherever for the day, and then finally a kiss for Angel. She'd be in the gym by nine at the absolute latest. So perfect and put together," she thinks to herself. "The stupid people love her for it only because that's what we're all supposed to be- perfect. But if the average American family only has 2.5 children, I wonder which one she'd lop in half to keep up appearances?" The absurdity of the thought brings a smile to Brandy's face as she ventures off into a daydream as to how that might play out.
Bzzzz
Bzzzz
The sound of her phone catches her off-guard, snapping her back into reality. She reaches over to grab it off the dash, turning it over to read the text. "Go figure," she says aloud to herself.
Suddenly a booming knock on the back window of the car startles her as Stephen and Portia walk up. Brandy quickly puts her phone face-down atop her pack of cigarettes.
"You ready" Terrella asks her.
"Yeah," Brandy says to him. "I was just about to text you to see how much longer you'd be."
"Sorry," Portia says to Brandy. "We woke up late."
"It's fine," Brandy tells them both. "I figured it was something like that. I wanted a cigarette anyway. Let me just grab my stuff and I'll be in in just a minute."
"I'll get us set up with the ring," Terrella tells Brandy. "All those times training with your old man, we ain't never been a team. We're going to need to figure out how this shit is gonna fucking work."
"Works for me," Brandy says. "I won't be long."
"Ok," Terrella says. He turns to Portia, telling her: "We should head in, babe."
Portia and Stephen start to walk toward the door of the gym. Brandy watches them in the side-view mirror as she takes one last drag off of her cigarette. Once they're near the door, she grabs her phone and fires off a quick text. She tosses her phone in her bag and gathers her stuff to go inside.
Often, alone was precisely how Brandy Cvetkova had lived her life.
She grew accustomed to it as a child. Professional wrestling had robbed her of the love a child was meant to feel from it's parents in their formative years. She was never abused physically, but the atmosphere of neglect and abandonment was almost tangible to her. Much as any child would, she wanted a connection -any connection- to the two people that brought her into this world. The lack thereof left her with an unusual type of loneliness.
By the age of nine she had gotten into her first fight in school. A boy named Jeff, who was a huge fan of professional wrestling, knew who her parents were. Her father had an especially bad reputation at the time, and he had done some violent and terrible things to the boy's favorite wrestler. An idea was hatched in Jeff's head to take Brandy's backpack and put it in a toilet; and so he did, going to great lengths to ensure it became fully immersed in the water. Jeff expected to see tears flow from Brandy's eyes, but instead he felt her years of penned up pain unleashed on him. It was a cheapshot by every measure that started the fight, but after she had busted Jeff's lip and knocked out two of his teeth, the fight was over.
She was the girl who had beaten up a boy. Aside from the suspension, her punishment: at that age, she became more of an outcast.
Alone.
The longer she lived her life that way, the easier it became for her to be alone by choice as opposed to circumstance.
Forming connections to people is hard.
As she sat in the drivers seat of her late nineties model Acura Integra -her foot propped against the open door as she smoked a cigarette- she couldn't help but think about how she arrived at this very moment in her life. The countless hours of training she had poured in to be the best she could be at a sport she harbors so much resentment toward. Oddly enough, those very hours of training were the one thing that brought her somewhat closer to her parents though. Those grueling hours of training hours of training had, in no small part, helped her to build a friendship with Stephen Terrella and Portia. Those countless hours of training, started many moons ago, had set her on the path to a collision course with, arguably, one of the top women this sport has ever seen.
"Fuck that fake bitch," she thought.
She flicks the ash off of the tip of her cigarette, watching it fall to the asphalt below. Brandy looks to her right, spying the door to the training facility Stephen Terrella had rented for the day. Stephen and Portia were late, per usual. More times than not their day would start at the crack of noon. "They're probably fucking, or hungover. Maybe both," she mused. She knew they were both terribly flawed human beings, but they were always open and honest about who they were. There were no false pretenses to navigate. Their imperfections were on full display for the world to see, and she appreciated that about them because it made her feel a sense of ease around them.
"Tara was probably up at five in the morning, baking crumpets for Angel and the kids. She probably patted each one on the head before sending them off to wherever for the day, and then finally a kiss for Angel. She'd be in the gym by nine at the absolute latest. So perfect and put together," she thinks to herself. "The stupid people love her for it only because that's what we're all supposed to be- perfect. But if the average American family only has 2.5 children, I wonder which one she'd lop in half to keep up appearances?" The absurdity of the thought brings a smile to Brandy's face as she ventures off into a daydream as to how that might play out.
Bzzzz
Bzzzz
The sound of her phone catches her off-guard, snapping her back into reality. She reaches over to grab it off the dash, turning it over to read the text. "Go figure," she says aloud to herself.
Suddenly a booming knock on the back window of the car startles her as Stephen and Portia walk up. Brandy quickly puts her phone face-down atop her pack of cigarettes.
"You ready" Terrella asks her.
"Yeah," Brandy says to him. "I was just about to text you to see how much longer you'd be."
"Sorry," Portia says to Brandy. "We woke up late."
"It's fine," Brandy tells them both. "I figured it was something like that. I wanted a cigarette anyway. Let me just grab my stuff and I'll be in in just a minute."
"I'll get us set up with the ring," Terrella tells Brandy. "All those times training with your old man, we ain't never been a team. We're going to need to figure out how this shit is gonna fucking work."
"Works for me," Brandy says. "I won't be long."
"Ok," Terrella says. He turns to Portia, telling her: "We should head in, babe."
Portia and Stephen start to walk toward the door of the gym. Brandy watches them in the side-view mirror as she takes one last drag off of her cigarette. Once they're near the door, she grabs her phone and fires off a quick text. She tosses her phone in her bag and gathers her stuff to go inside.
Well howdy there pardner.