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Matthias Syn · (09-20-2024)

September 18th, 2024

I'm not sleeping again and the worst part is I am having side effects that they don't advertise. When I am able to finally shut my eyes, when I can finally stop hearing the sound of my eyelids blinking, I drift somewhere between the waking world and what can only be described as a fever dream. Never truly asleep, never really awake. A haunting reminder of a life lived on the edge.

I just keep seeing this aged cabin, in the middle of a decaying forest with a weather-worn red door. The once bright and vibrant scarlet hue fading to time and the elements. Scarlet, the color of my sudden malaise. The feeling gripping my spine, shooting a cold chill through to the depths of my very core. I stand, frozen in it.

RUN

My brain tells my legs but I'm curious. I have to know what sordid secret or secrets hide behind that door. I cant shake this feeling that I need to be there and that I need to be there soon.

The saddest stories are the stories lost to time and I'm sure that this lonesome cabin, in the middle of who knows where, could tell you plenty but there's one particular story, one unfinished, that draws me to this forgotten relic, buried in the foothills of some secluded mountain at the forest's edge. I've got to find it. I'm going to find it. I don't know how but I will.

I'm only ever able to take a step or two, no more no less. The sound of the sticks breaking beneath me with each foot fall and the red door help me to never lose focus. Always two steps. Then paralysis. A debilitating numbness leaving me powerless in this makeshift maze of the mind. A chipped and cracked cobblestone road that is completely out of place, behind me, that I don't remember taking. I just see it. I know it's there. I cant back up and I cant move forward more than a step or two. All that I can hear is my heart beating. Faint but fast, like footsteps fading into a hushed silence.

RUN

A deafening scream bellows through the rolling terrain, echoing through the recesses of my brain once I rejoin the waking world. That is all I hear now. A shriek. A sad wail and like my own personal subconscious alarm clock, I wake. Left to wonder. What the fuck is behind that door? Why is it calling to me?

I'm fully awakened by the vibration of my phone against the nightstand. Fowlston, of course. My head is pounding. The headaches are getting worse. I take a long drawn exhale before sliding my finger across the screen to answer.

Yeah, I barked.

Matthias, where are you? He asked.

In bed, sleeping until you bothered me, I snapped through a dry , gravelly voice.

I need you to be somewhere for me, he urged.

I have to be in Houston in two days, Doc. I can't be where it is that you need me to be. I insisted.

You can and you will, he said. After Houston, after this fucking wrestling thing, you're going to call me and I'm going to tell you where you need to go. Fowlston, snapped back.

Why not just tell me now? I asked.

Disconnect tone

He fucking hung up on me?

Piece of shit.

To Be continued

Here we go again. Two challengers to my Revolution Title that couldn't lace my fucking boots on their best day. Two bimbos who are more Romy and Michelle than Thelma and Louise. Living life selfishly, trying to find happiness in one short-term pleasure after another.

Two hollow shells, with empty heads having a ten minute dream in the passenger seat of life. Two shadows of their digital selves living in a world full of people wanting to be Instagram models or TikTok stars. Fake lips, fake tits, fake personalities.

Vilaro, with her recycled ideas. Boasting and bloviating about business acumen and ingenuity and how we should all bow at her feet and praise her because she made it in a man's world. BORING. VilaroFit. That'll be useful in your recovery. You two are so worried about each other when it's the Syn City Saint that you should be worried about. I am going to bash your fucking heads together. I listen to you both drone on and on about each other and your history in some fed that no one gives a shit about. Some fed that probably had to close its doors because it pushed the Summer Pages and Marisol Vilaros of the world up the card. The autistic Spice Girls. The Real Housewives of Who goes a shit.

What do you see behind closed eyes? What do you see when you're not selling gym memberships to the dregs of society?

I know what you'll both see at Relentless. You'll see Matthias Syn, sitting on top of the ladder, grabbing my Revolution Title, While I return the setting sun that are your hopes and dreams back to some desperate, lonely ocean.

I'll see you in Houston.

STATIC

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