Post by Emma Danielson on Sept 28, 2015 4:52:00 GMT
I know what kind of opportunity this is. I know what this match could mean. But…I can't help but feel like this is some sort of punishment for all of the mistakes I've made. I look at the five women in this match and I ask myself "Why do I have to prove myself against these people?" Shouldn't I be at the point in my career where I don't have to go through this gauntlet? Shouldn't I have done enough with my time as a wrestler that I don't constantly have to work my way up from the bottom of the barrel?
I should have. I could have. And yet…I haven't. Apparently not, in any case. The fact that I'm being given this opportunity at all it's more of a sign of respect for who I could've been, the friend I've been and not the wrestler. Now I'm supposed to tear you all down, to take your character flaws and dissect them, and mock you, and make you feel inferior. I'm supposed to rip you all apart because that's who I am. I'm the big mean monster, and I don't have any mercy in my body.
But then I look at last week, I look at the way Kayla Richards beat me. In my very first match on the big stage, in my first chance to prove myself a champion, I got beat the same way. I hit somebody else with a big move, and somebody else swept in, nailed me with their big move, and pinned me. It's been six years, six fucking years, and everything is the same. The same immature insults about my appearance, the same mistakes leading to the same losses, it's all coming back up on me like I'm trapped in some hellish labyrinth that I can't escape. It's a closed loop I am getting sick of, and if I don't break it soon I'm going to go insane.
That's why I need to win. That's why I need to be the first Shieldmaiden. I need to break the cycle, I need to end this perpetual hell, or I don't know what's going to happen to me. None of you need this the way that I need it. For you, it's just another opportunity at being the champ. For you, it's just about bragging rights or proving that you're as good as you said you are. This is just another match for you.
For me, it's everything.
And I don't care if I have to be at the Garcia Twins so badly the way you can tell them apart is which one's in a wheelchair and which one's just on crutches. I don't care if I have to shatter Crystal Hilton's nose so badly she can't show her face in public anymore I don't care if I have to drop Mercedes Vargas so hard on her head she thinks she's back in Buenos Aires. I don't care if I have to break Kayla Richards' neck and leave her lying for the EMTs. I don't care if I have to maul or mutilate any of you so badly you never compete again. That's not what's important to me. What's important to me is making sure that I can still go.
The rest of you all have fallback plans or are young enough that you could do something else. Not me. Fighting is all I've ever known. It's all I've ever been good at. There is no other option for me but being champion. This is the only life I've known for 15 years. And I'm going to keep going until it kills me. That's all I can see in my future. I won't fade away gracefully. And I refuse to let any of you be what ends me.
Rest assured, none of what I'm going to do to you is because I hate you. I might not like you, I might even think that you're obnoxious or pathetic or frustratingly childish. But I don't hate you. If there's one person I hate in this match, it's myself. I hate myself enough that I will not let myself stop. I won't give myself the satisfaction of being able to crawl away and curl up in bed, pretending none of it really gets to me. I am going to face this nightmare, and I am going to leave it broken and battered and bleeding and weeping in a corner. This is my therapy, this is how I help myself...
And it starts with hurting all of you.
There it is again. Humiliation, burning at the base of my neck, at the tips of my ears. The crew looks at me as I walk into the arena. Some of them seem surprised to see me. Why are they? People knew I was going to be on the pay-per-view, why are they...
They didn't expect me to actually show up? They're shocked I'm showing my face in public? What is it? Why won't anyone tell me? Because you're not asking them. You're too much of a coward, Emma. Flames and barbed wire don't faze you, but this? This is the stuff nightmares are made of.
There. The locker room. I'm in, the door's shut, and suddenly the noise of equipment being moved and things being arranged is nothing but a dull rumble outside. Thank God for that. Phone out, checking e-mails...at least that works like everyone else's. Just filtering through those spam mails again.
Let's see. Crap, crap, mass mailing, crap, this'll teach me to put my address down for anything...Dad? Why are you trying to get me to sign up for a dating website? Is this your subtle way of telling me "quit your job and get me some grandkids, dammit"? Fuck it, I'll rant at him later.
Headphones. Headphones will help. Music is a great distraction. That should take my mind off things. Okay, pump-up playlist. Get the blood flowing again...yeah. Ace of Spades makes everything better. Such a kick-ass song...
...I wonder how Jake is doing? Him and Kathy've gone through a lot lately, I should see if I can talk to them. But what about Andy? He might lose his shit, since he's doing his whole martyr for the cause act again. He's no good with groups like this, they always make him do stupid things...
Another e-mail. Someone tagged me in a photo on Facebook. Jesus, someone still has photos of me? I've got to see this...2 Has it really been twelve fucking years since high school? Of course it has, that's why you're so goddamn old. Still doesn't make it any easier to swallow. World's gonna pass you by. Oh God, that WAS the year Fallen came out. I listened to that album way too much for one human being in one calendar year. Still jealous of Amy Lee, that beautiful-voiced bitch.
...this is so much. God, this is all so much. Nobody's in here, thank God. They can't see me. Can't see the tears down my face, hear the sobbing, see them splattering on the concrete. Just me and my failures.
They're going to have to see me, though. I'm going to have to see them...and they're going to laugh, and you're going to break them. I'm going to break them. Stop talking about yourself like you're not here.
Eyes open. Cried on your phone again. Wipe them off, phone back in your pocket, check your bag and get to work. If you're in here getting ready, it'll be some snide jabs, nothing more. If they catch you weeping...no. Can't let them see you bleed.
Gotta make them see their own blood first.
I should have. I could have. And yet…I haven't. Apparently not, in any case. The fact that I'm being given this opportunity at all it's more of a sign of respect for who I could've been, the friend I've been and not the wrestler. Now I'm supposed to tear you all down, to take your character flaws and dissect them, and mock you, and make you feel inferior. I'm supposed to rip you all apart because that's who I am. I'm the big mean monster, and I don't have any mercy in my body.
But then I look at last week, I look at the way Kayla Richards beat me. In my very first match on the big stage, in my first chance to prove myself a champion, I got beat the same way. I hit somebody else with a big move, and somebody else swept in, nailed me with their big move, and pinned me. It's been six years, six fucking years, and everything is the same. The same immature insults about my appearance, the same mistakes leading to the same losses, it's all coming back up on me like I'm trapped in some hellish labyrinth that I can't escape. It's a closed loop I am getting sick of, and if I don't break it soon I'm going to go insane.
That's why I need to win. That's why I need to be the first Shieldmaiden. I need to break the cycle, I need to end this perpetual hell, or I don't know what's going to happen to me. None of you need this the way that I need it. For you, it's just another opportunity at being the champ. For you, it's just about bragging rights or proving that you're as good as you said you are. This is just another match for you.
For me, it's everything.
And I don't care if I have to be at the Garcia Twins so badly the way you can tell them apart is which one's in a wheelchair and which one's just on crutches. I don't care if I have to shatter Crystal Hilton's nose so badly she can't show her face in public anymore I don't care if I have to drop Mercedes Vargas so hard on her head she thinks she's back in Buenos Aires. I don't care if I have to break Kayla Richards' neck and leave her lying for the EMTs. I don't care if I have to maul or mutilate any of you so badly you never compete again. That's not what's important to me. What's important to me is making sure that I can still go.
The rest of you all have fallback plans or are young enough that you could do something else. Not me. Fighting is all I've ever known. It's all I've ever been good at. There is no other option for me but being champion. This is the only life I've known for 15 years. And I'm going to keep going until it kills me. That's all I can see in my future. I won't fade away gracefully. And I refuse to let any of you be what ends me.
Rest assured, none of what I'm going to do to you is because I hate you. I might not like you, I might even think that you're obnoxious or pathetic or frustratingly childish. But I don't hate you. If there's one person I hate in this match, it's myself. I hate myself enough that I will not let myself stop. I won't give myself the satisfaction of being able to crawl away and curl up in bed, pretending none of it really gets to me. I am going to face this nightmare, and I am going to leave it broken and battered and bleeding and weeping in a corner. This is my therapy, this is how I help myself...
And it starts with hurting all of you.
There it is again. Humiliation, burning at the base of my neck, at the tips of my ears. The crew looks at me as I walk into the arena. Some of them seem surprised to see me. Why are they? People knew I was going to be on the pay-per-view, why are they...
They didn't expect me to actually show up? They're shocked I'm showing my face in public? What is it? Why won't anyone tell me? Because you're not asking them. You're too much of a coward, Emma. Flames and barbed wire don't faze you, but this? This is the stuff nightmares are made of.
There. The locker room. I'm in, the door's shut, and suddenly the noise of equipment being moved and things being arranged is nothing but a dull rumble outside. Thank God for that. Phone out, checking e-mails...at least that works like everyone else's. Just filtering through those spam mails again.
Let's see. Crap, crap, mass mailing, crap, this'll teach me to put my address down for anything...Dad? Why are you trying to get me to sign up for a dating website? Is this your subtle way of telling me "quit your job and get me some grandkids, dammit"? Fuck it, I'll rant at him later.
Headphones. Headphones will help. Music is a great distraction. That should take my mind off things. Okay, pump-up playlist. Get the blood flowing again...yeah. Ace of Spades makes everything better. Such a kick-ass song...
...I wonder how Jake is doing? Him and Kathy've gone through a lot lately, I should see if I can talk to them. But what about Andy? He might lose his shit, since he's doing his whole martyr for the cause act again. He's no good with groups like this, they always make him do stupid things...
Another e-mail. Someone tagged me in a photo on Facebook. Jesus, someone still has photos of me? I've got to see this...2 Has it really been twelve fucking years since high school? Of course it has, that's why you're so goddamn old. Still doesn't make it any easier to swallow. World's gonna pass you by. Oh God, that WAS the year Fallen came out. I listened to that album way too much for one human being in one calendar year. Still jealous of Amy Lee, that beautiful-voiced bitch.
...this is so much. God, this is all so much. Nobody's in here, thank God. They can't see me. Can't see the tears down my face, hear the sobbing, see them splattering on the concrete. Just me and my failures.
They're going to have to see me, though. I'm going to have to see them...and they're going to laugh, and you're going to break them. I'm going to break them. Stop talking about yourself like you're not here.
Eyes open. Cried on your phone again. Wipe them off, phone back in your pocket, check your bag and get to work. If you're in here getting ready, it'll be some snide jabs, nothing more. If they catch you weeping...no. Can't let them see you bleed.
Gotta make them see their own blood first.
Well howdy there pardner.