Post by Rosa DeLuca on Sept 20, 2024 5:13:35 GMT
Rosa DeLuca sat at her kitchen table, staring at the crumpled letter in her hands. The late afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the room, but her thoughts were far away, back in Italy, where she had left behind not just a life but a legacy of hurt.
The letter had arrived this morning, an unassuming envelope bearing her family’s crest, and the sight of it had already set her on edge. She hadn’t spoken to anyone back home in years. Why now? As she read the words, the weight of it pressed heavily on her chest. Her father—once a towering, indomitable figure in her life—was in poor health. The message was brief, likely written by one of her relatives or an old family friend. No formalities, just facts. Her father was dying, and time was running out.
She read it again. And again.
You are no child of mine.
Those had been the last words he said to her. They rang out in her mind, a mantra of rejection she had carried with her since the day she left. After all the sacrifices she had made, the battles fought to become who she was, he had looked her in the eyes and told her she was nothing to him. Not a daughter. Not family.
She had fought tooth and nail to bury that part of her life. She had built a name for herself in the wrestling world, earning respect on her own terms. She had become stronger than the girl who once trembled under her father’s disapproving gaze, the girl who sought his approval and found only disdain. Yet here she was, with a letter in her hand, dredging up old memories and forcing her to make a choice she never thought she would face again.
Her eyes drifted to her phone sitting on the table. She could call, but what would she say? How do you speak to someone who had cast you out? She imagined his voice, weak now, perhaps humbled by illness, but that didn’t erase the venom he had spoken with years ago. There was no forgiveness here. Not for her, and certainly not for him.
The option of going back to Italy hovered in her mind, the thought of boarding a plane and standing in front of him, face-to-face with the man who had disowned her. She imagined the reunion—a tense, painful silence where all the words left unspoken would suffocate them both. Would he ask for her forgiveness? Would he even acknowledge what he had done? No. Rosa knew better than to expect an apology from a man like him. Even on his deathbed, her father’s pride would never allow it.
But the guilt of not going tugged at her too. Family was supposed to be important. It was supposed to mean something, even if that meaning had been twisted and broken for her. Despite everything, there was a part of her that longed to see him again, to confront him, if only to show him that she had thrived without his approval. She wasn’t the weak child he had cast aside—she had become strong, fearless, and successful. She had become Rosa DeLuca.
But as she weighed the options, she realized that going back wouldn’t bring her any peace. Facing him wouldn’t heal the wounds he had inflicted, and hearing whatever final words he might have for her wouldn’t change who he was. She had long since outgrown the need for his validation. And if she called? What good would it do to hear his voice again?
Rosa’s chest tightened as she made her decision. She would not go home. She would not call. The man lying in that hospital bed was no longer a part of her life. He had made his choice years ago when he told her she wasn’t his daughter, and she would stand by the one she made when she left.
There would be no forgiveness. Not from her. Her father’s health might be failing, but Rosa DeLuca’s resolve was stronger than ever. She would continue living the life she had built—without him.
She crumpled the letter in her fist, tossed it into the trash, and stood, feeling lighter somehow. The past was behind her. She had no need to go back.
O wise and powerful Athena,
Goddess of wisdom, strategy, and strength,
I call upon your guidance in this moment of challenge.
Grant me your sharp mind,
That I may see clearly the path to victory.
Bestow upon me your courage,
That I may stand unwavering in the face of adversity.
Like the shield of Aegis,
Protect me from harm,
And like the spear in your hand,
Let my actions be swift and true.
May your wisdom guide my every move,
May your strength fill my heart with resolve,
And may your favor lead me to triumph.
In your name, O Athena, I trust.
Let victory be mine,
Through wisdom, skill, and courage.
So be it.
The camera opens on Rosa De Luca standing in a dark alleyway, the Gladiatrix Championship belt slung over her shoulder. She’s dressed in her signature leather jacket and gloves, her eyes filled with cold determination. A dim streetlight flickers overhead as she slowly lifts the belt, staring at it for a moment before turning her gaze to the camera.
“This will be my first defense. My first time showing that I didn’t win this belt on a fluke. That I worked hard and I deserved to keep the belt. And I want to. The Gladiatrix Championship is important. Historic. This belt is the first second-tier belt in years and I want to give her a good outing as her first champion.” She gently taps the belt, her tone softer, but steady.
“Mimi Simpson, we keep facing each other.” Rosa shook her head. "Mimi Simpson… I know what you're after. You want this title. You want to prove you belong at the top, and I respect that. I understand the hunger, the desire to be recognized, to stand tall as a champion. But let me tell you something, Mimi… being a champion isn’t just about winning a match." She pauses, her expression softening as she speaks with sincerity. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know that the road to the top is never easy. You’ve worked hard to get where you are, and for that, I give you credit. But holding this belt... it’s more than just glory. It’s carrying the weight of every person who doubted you, every moment you had to push through pain and adversity.”
She pats the belt gently. “This isn’t just a title, it’s a responsibility. And when you step into that ring, I want you to remember that. You’ve got the talent, no doubt, but talent alone doesn’t make a champion. It’s the heart, the will to keep fighting when everything’s stacked against you."
She stands, holding the belt at her side, her tone still respectful but determined. "I respect your drive, Mimi, but I won’t just hand this over. I’ve fought too long and too hard to let it slip through my fingers. If you want to take this from me, you’re going to have to earn it, just like I did."
Rosa gives a small, encouraging smile. “I welcome the challenge, Mimi. But when that bell rings, just know I’ll be giving you everything I’ve got. Not out of hatred, not out of anger, but because that’s what it means to be a true champion."
She lifts the belt back onto her shoulder, her expression resolute but kind. "Good luck, Mimi. You’ll need it."
Rosa walks away calmly, the Gladiatrix Championship glimmering as the screen fades to black.
The letter had arrived this morning, an unassuming envelope bearing her family’s crest, and the sight of it had already set her on edge. She hadn’t spoken to anyone back home in years. Why now? As she read the words, the weight of it pressed heavily on her chest. Her father—once a towering, indomitable figure in her life—was in poor health. The message was brief, likely written by one of her relatives or an old family friend. No formalities, just facts. Her father was dying, and time was running out.
She read it again. And again.
You are no child of mine.
Those had been the last words he said to her. They rang out in her mind, a mantra of rejection she had carried with her since the day she left. After all the sacrifices she had made, the battles fought to become who she was, he had looked her in the eyes and told her she was nothing to him. Not a daughter. Not family.
She had fought tooth and nail to bury that part of her life. She had built a name for herself in the wrestling world, earning respect on her own terms. She had become stronger than the girl who once trembled under her father’s disapproving gaze, the girl who sought his approval and found only disdain. Yet here she was, with a letter in her hand, dredging up old memories and forcing her to make a choice she never thought she would face again.
Her eyes drifted to her phone sitting on the table. She could call, but what would she say? How do you speak to someone who had cast you out? She imagined his voice, weak now, perhaps humbled by illness, but that didn’t erase the venom he had spoken with years ago. There was no forgiveness here. Not for her, and certainly not for him.
The option of going back to Italy hovered in her mind, the thought of boarding a plane and standing in front of him, face-to-face with the man who had disowned her. She imagined the reunion—a tense, painful silence where all the words left unspoken would suffocate them both. Would he ask for her forgiveness? Would he even acknowledge what he had done? No. Rosa knew better than to expect an apology from a man like him. Even on his deathbed, her father’s pride would never allow it.
But the guilt of not going tugged at her too. Family was supposed to be important. It was supposed to mean something, even if that meaning had been twisted and broken for her. Despite everything, there was a part of her that longed to see him again, to confront him, if only to show him that she had thrived without his approval. She wasn’t the weak child he had cast aside—she had become strong, fearless, and successful. She had become Rosa DeLuca.
But as she weighed the options, she realized that going back wouldn’t bring her any peace. Facing him wouldn’t heal the wounds he had inflicted, and hearing whatever final words he might have for her wouldn’t change who he was. She had long since outgrown the need for his validation. And if she called? What good would it do to hear his voice again?
Rosa’s chest tightened as she made her decision. She would not go home. She would not call. The man lying in that hospital bed was no longer a part of her life. He had made his choice years ago when he told her she wasn’t his daughter, and she would stand by the one she made when she left.
There would be no forgiveness. Not from her. Her father’s health might be failing, but Rosa DeLuca’s resolve was stronger than ever. She would continue living the life she had built—without him.
She crumpled the letter in her fist, tossed it into the trash, and stood, feeling lighter somehow. The past was behind her. She had no need to go back.
O wise and powerful Athena,
Goddess of wisdom, strategy, and strength,
I call upon your guidance in this moment of challenge.
Grant me your sharp mind,
That I may see clearly the path to victory.
Bestow upon me your courage,
That I may stand unwavering in the face of adversity.
Like the shield of Aegis,
Protect me from harm,
And like the spear in your hand,
Let my actions be swift and true.
May your wisdom guide my every move,
May your strength fill my heart with resolve,
And may your favor lead me to triumph.
In your name, O Athena, I trust.
Let victory be mine,
Through wisdom, skill, and courage.
So be it.
The camera opens on Rosa De Luca standing in a dark alleyway, the Gladiatrix Championship belt slung over her shoulder. She’s dressed in her signature leather jacket and gloves, her eyes filled with cold determination. A dim streetlight flickers overhead as she slowly lifts the belt, staring at it for a moment before turning her gaze to the camera.
“This will be my first defense. My first time showing that I didn’t win this belt on a fluke. That I worked hard and I deserved to keep the belt. And I want to. The Gladiatrix Championship is important. Historic. This belt is the first second-tier belt in years and I want to give her a good outing as her first champion.” She gently taps the belt, her tone softer, but steady.
“Mimi Simpson, we keep facing each other.” Rosa shook her head. "Mimi Simpson… I know what you're after. You want this title. You want to prove you belong at the top, and I respect that. I understand the hunger, the desire to be recognized, to stand tall as a champion. But let me tell you something, Mimi… being a champion isn’t just about winning a match." She pauses, her expression softening as she speaks with sincerity. “I’ve been in this game long enough to know that the road to the top is never easy. You’ve worked hard to get where you are, and for that, I give you credit. But holding this belt... it’s more than just glory. It’s carrying the weight of every person who doubted you, every moment you had to push through pain and adversity.”
She pats the belt gently. “This isn’t just a title, it’s a responsibility. And when you step into that ring, I want you to remember that. You’ve got the talent, no doubt, but talent alone doesn’t make a champion. It’s the heart, the will to keep fighting when everything’s stacked against you."
She stands, holding the belt at her side, her tone still respectful but determined. "I respect your drive, Mimi, but I won’t just hand this over. I’ve fought too long and too hard to let it slip through my fingers. If you want to take this from me, you’re going to have to earn it, just like I did."
Rosa gives a small, encouraging smile. “I welcome the challenge, Mimi. But when that bell rings, just know I’ll be giving you everything I’ve got. Not out of hatred, not out of anger, but because that’s what it means to be a true champion."
She lifts the belt back onto her shoulder, her expression resolute but kind. "Good luck, Mimi. You’ll need it."
Rosa walks away calmly, the Gladiatrix Championship glimmering as the screen fades to black.
Well howdy there pardner.