11-07-2013, 09:00 PM
The following flashback precedes the first part of this saga by 24 hours.
Well, here I am again. Alone. Suffocated by the vast emptiness of this fucking rathole, the sun the only thing forcing my heavy, drooping eyes open for longer than a few seconds. My tear stained cheeks assure me that last night was no different than the one before. And the one before that.
Fuck, I'm pathetic. Wallowing here, flat on my back on this fucking dirty carpet, each morning/afternoon vowing to myself: "Oh, that's it. That's my last blunt, my last line, my last bottle. I'm gonna do something good today!"
I then follow that statement by doing all three in less than an hour after decreeing the opposite. Leaning over, the knot in my stomach forces all of the other contents out and onto the carpet, making a new stain in the battered, disgusting floor. With all of my might, I sit up. Okay, I can do this.
Grabbing the edge of the couch cushion; I manage to get myself up to my feet, wobbling on my toes and heels. Finally, I steady myself out, and stagger into the kitchen. My body aches, and the time calls for the only cure I know. Buckling with each step, my knees finally give out, and I topple over. A few short seconds, and I land face first on the white hard rubber top of the garbage can that left in the walkway.
Fucking karmic justice at its finest.
My mind begins to wander, and I don't even try to pull my head off the surprisingly comfortable lid, to every word I say in every promo. Each word grandiose and glamorous and yet, they come from my mouth. Thought up by my brain. I'm, I'm better than this, aren't I?
Or, am I just that good of a liar?
Lying. Add that to the list of my most admirable traits. I close my eyes, hoping to shake these thoughts by focusing on something, someone, any fucking thing so long as it keeps me away from this train of thought. I don't know if I'll beat it this time.
Then, I see her. Like her picture was printed on the back of my eyelids, the only thing I see when I close my eyes.
Victoria's bloody corpse lying on top of me. Eyes crying out in pain that her dead body couldn't communicate in any other way. Fixed on mine. Her, her face showing every emotion, imprinted on my brain. The woman I loved, that I still love. The last thing I ever saw in her face.
Agony. Shock. And the biggest kicker, betrayal.
I was wrong about a lot of things in my life. No error more great than thinking she was the one who turned on me, refusing to escape Heiman's grip. She didn't want to do this, but I did. In a moment of blind rage, I wanted to pull the fucking trigger and blow her brains all over the floor.
So I did.
A running gag, in this series of unfortunate events, so it seems. I want to do things, I don't think those things through, and I end up here. Each and every single fucking time. I'm pathetic, and I don't mean that in a way that an attention whore to get sympathy. I'm a fucking pathetic, impulsive, life destroying prick.
Those are the qualities I pride myself on TV in front of a bunch of screaming marks who claim to care about their favorite wrestlers, and can't see the bullshit I spew for what it is. Hell, if my dad was here, he'd kick my ass for half the shit I say.
No, fuck him.
Yeah, fuck him. I push my hands onto and pull my head off of the trashcan lid, its now warm plastic feeling odd against my freezing fingertips. Standing up, I lean against the wooden table near where I fell. Maybe not much lean, as much laying on the damn thing with my feet on the ground. My eyes barely hold themselves open, staring at the spinning ceiling.
Wait no, that's my head.
Where was I? Oh right, my many, many bullshitting qualities. Spilling guts to an audience of one, this should fucking be cathartic. Instead, all this is making me want to do, is get fucking plastered, and get to the place where I can tell my fucked up life story and glamorize the fuck out of it.
Hey kids! Do drugs and kill people!
Fuck, I miss being a fake communist. At least there, I could swallow the lies a little easier.
What's the point? Why do I have to go out and lie to people, act proud, and flaunt my addiction like it was the only thing that makes me interesting-
Oh wait, it is.
That's all I have.
That, and enough talent to do things under the influence.
Shit that doesn't sell tickets and get heat. Right, I have to lie. I can't be me, because me sucks.
These fucking hypocrites, though. I have them there. If I were to off myself tonight, Heyman would be giving a eulogy at my funeral, right next to a sniveling Sid Feder (freshly dug up from whatever grave his career rests in) and a Sebastian Duke trying to be strong.
Fuck them.
Fuck them all.
I'll show just how phony they all are. I'm gonna off myself.
That's what I'm gonna do today.
First, I got to get off this table. Rolling on the side of the table, I manage to tip the entire thing over, and land in a pile of spilled beer or urine. Tilting my head to the side, I sniff the ground.
Inconclusive. Not a good sign.
Exploding off the ground, not unlike how each and every muscle in my body feels like once I get to my feet. Trudging into the kitchen, I grab a can off the ground, popping the cap and setting it on the counter before pulling the drawer out and grabbing a knife. Setting in on the counter, I take the can.
One last drink.
I place the mouth of the can to my lips, and the bitter liquid hits my tastebuds.
And into the abyss I go.
Fucking pathetic, Luca.
Fuck you, Luca.