"Get the fuck out right now."

I keep hearing Kara's voice, echoing in the back of my head. That same phrase, repeated ad nuseam. I'm sick of it, that's what I am. The tattered couch I'm seated on reeks of piss and teeters on wobbly, broken legs as I push myself to my feet. I take a step forward, only for my foot to collide with the side of a bottle of vodka I could've sworn had something in it when I saw it last. Hindsight being 20/20, I guess I really should've seen that coming. Honor isn't exactly something I'd expect my new roommates to have much of. Shame, even less so.

I groan as the sound of the glass bottle rolling along the cold, dirty, wooden floor cuts through my internal monologue and embeds itself into every corner of my brain. It's too early in the morning for this. My shaking hands tremble harder as I bring them up to my head. I rub my temples with two fingers each and scan the room I'm standing. My new home. No matter how many times I blink, hoping that I'm going to wake up from some nightmare.

Broken glass, empty bottles and other debris litters the floor. A short, scrawny man who looks to be in his late forties lays on the floor just an inch or two from my toes, with a grimy shower curtain draped over his upper chest like a blanket. Track marks line his arms. He mutters something in his sleep that I can't hear, though I'm guessing it's nothing worth listening to even if I could. A bare lightbulb hangs down from the ceiling, flickering. I can't say I'm much better off, though.

My knees buckle. Before I know it, I'm back on the couch. It creaks loudly as I land, cringing.

How the fuck did I get here?

"I'm not having this discussion with you Kendall, you're fucking drunk."

Again, I hear her voice. Cunt.

I let my eyes falls shut, and bask in the darkness.

Jesus, I fell far.

It's funny, I never really thought about it until now, or if I did, I forgot about it. But I really have fallen far and I fell pretty damn quickly. It feels like just yesterday that a series of increasingly poor decisions led to me being homeless and friendless.

Boo hoo, poor me.

Christ, I'm being pathetic. Sitting here, reminiscing over the glory days that never were like there's something to be gained from wallowing in nostalgia and looking at my past through rose tinted glasses.

I force my eyes open once again and push myself up to my feet.

There's a ringing in my ears I don't remember having before I landed.

Probably not a big deal anyway.

I shake my head, hoping that would relieve me of the awful droning echoing in the deepest, darkest parts of my ear canal, to no avail. Of course. My eyelids feel heavy, and I finally start to wonder what time it is. Not like I can look out the window to see the sun or lack thereof; the blinds, the only part of the building that haven't been reduced to rot and rubble, are closed off to the world. I'd never see the sun again if I didn't want to, and right now that seems pretty appealing. Considering that the alternative is going out like myself. Like a worthless vagrant; another sob story for teachers of health classes to tell when discussing the evils of alcohol.

For some reason, that thought makes me laugh. Which forces the guy who was sleeping just by my feet to spring to life, gasping for air.

"Wha, what the fuck?"

His voice is coarse and gravelly, and the words fire out of his mouth like it was a machine gun. He hops up to a squatting position and pushes up against me. His skin is rough and his nails are long and unkempt and dig into my skin. I grab the wrist of the hand that he's pressing against my shoulder and twist it. He lets out a cry like a trapped coyote and whimpers, all the while I keep my hand and his locked in the same position.

"Lemme go!"

I inhale sharply through my nose, and I feel like I should be regretting it right now, looking at these surroundings but honestly, there's nothing there. I've been here too long.

I shake my head and return my attention to the trapped junkie who's now resorted to trying to claw into my hand with his free hand. Sighing, I glare at him. Then, without thinking, my foot shoots out and connects with his stomach. He expels all the air in his lungs in one gasp before falling over. His body crumples on the ground as he coughs and struggles to breathe. All except for one arm, the one I'm keeping in place.

"You want me to let go?"

My voice is cold, disconnected.

I am aloof.

I am in control.

He looks up at me and forces himself to smile. I can see his teeth in all their rotted, yellow misery.

I lower his arm to the ground, my hand still tightly clenched around his wrist. His eyes widen; I can't tell if it's in glee or fear. His arm lays spread out across the landfill that's covering the floor.

And then I stomp.

Right on his elbow.

About three or four or eight or maybe twelve times. It's easy to lose count.

I fade back into reality to see that I finally did let go, and that the junkie I just assaulted is writhing around on the floor, clutching his probably broken elbow tightly against the rest of his body. Then, I hear two things at once. Footsteps stomping down a flight of the stairs and heavy knocking at the door just at the bottom. I take one last look down at the fallen man and smile. This should be entertaining.

The source of the footsteps; a bearded man who looks to be 70 pounds soaking wet approaches the door and pulls it open. He then goes flying into the same stairway he came from, head and spine careening towards the sharp wooden edges. Heavy footsteps storm into my new home and I strike a fighting pose, ready to defend its honor. Or more accurately my spot taking up the whole couch.

Jesus, I need help.

That's when I see him.

Tommy Gunn.

I lower my hands and walk over to him. His eyes widen with curiosity as he looks down at me.

"You smell like shit."

I chuckle.

"Nicest thing I heard all day."

---

"Hello, Kendall."

This is a change of pace. Granted, anything is a change of pace once you've spent a month in a crackhouse but still, to go from nothing to the lavish office of the best psychiatrist Heyman's money can afford.

"Hello, Doctor Montenegro," I say in response, as sickeningly sweet as possible. He smiles, seemingly warm but underneath it I can sense an aloofness in his demeanor. I'm reading into things a little too much. I sigh and relax in the leather chair I'm sitting in. He drums his fingers against his desk and clears his throat.

And then, he says nothing.

He just folds his hands and lays them on the table. His eyes urge me to say something. Anything. And so I oblige.

"Umm..."

Something. Hey, he should've specified. Would've saved us this now awkward silence.

"Tell me about your job, Kendall. How's the life of a professional treating you?"

"Well, I don't really know the answer to that. It's been a while since I've actually, you know, done that job."

His eyes sparkle.

"Really?"

I nod my head yes.

"Interesting. And what have you been doing with this time off?"

"Destroying myself."

The smile drops off his face and all that's left in its absence is an unblinking stare. His expression a cross between disappointed and saddened. However, that's all only for a second as he readopts that smile and asks me yet another question.

"Oh? How so?"

"Drinking until I black out, mainly."

There's something a little surreal about this whole situation. This office, this catalog portrait of an office; his constantly shifting facial expressions and persistent emotional detachment underlying all of them; the chipperness of his voice as he asks about how I'm killing myself. I shift my eyes from him to the floor.

"Alcohol's your vice, huh? Would've figured you for self mutilation myself, but if that's what you're into I guess."

"Huh?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing."

"Right."

I cross my arms.

"I get the feeling you don't trust me."

What could've ever given that impression?

"Well, I am just meeting you, doc."

"You're going to have to trust me if we're ever going to help you. So, tell me about your work. I'm guessing your sabbatical is over now, am I correct there?"

"Well, yeah. I'm booked for a match this week. Aiding the newest member of this little conglomerate that, pretty much established my career if I'm being honest."

"And, how do you feel about this?"

"I don't know."

Now it's his turn to be caught of guard. It's noticeable. He takes a few seconds to recompose himself; to turn that dumbfounded look on his face back into the calm, collected, in control demeanor that hasn't ever really left his face until just then.

"You don't know?"

"Well, this is the first time in my career where I haven't felt confident in my ability to win a match. How could I be fucking confident? I haven't so much as thought about wrestling all throughout my binge and here I am, haven't trained in months, and I'm back. If there's anyone who's confident after that, they're fucking deluded."

His smile widens. His eyes scream to me: "I know more about you than you do."

"We're making a breakthrough here, but there's more to it than that."

"No. There isn't."

"Well, if that's the case," he says, pulling his hands apart and spreading his fingers out across the table. "Let's talk about something else. Kendall, tell me about your mother."

Oh.

"What the fuck?"