Post by Deleted on Jan 10, 2021 5:57:41 GMT -5
“We are not special. We are lit from within by a single candle flame and when that flame is blown out and all light leaves our eyes it is the same as if we never existed at all. We don't own our life. We rent it.”
― Dennis Lehane, Since We Fell
Amber’s Apartment
Atlantic City, NJ
07.01.2021
8:32pm
For the longest time, Amber knew she had no real reason to return to Atlantic City.
If she were to be brutally honest with herself, something that had become a far more regular occurrence recently, she could argue that she hadn’t had a lot of reason since 2017. Yet here she was- on the same balcony, in the same plastic chair missing an arm rest, leaning on the back legs that promised more and more each day to give way beneath her, watching the same stars not yet obscured by neon depravity wink as though they shared in her little secret.
These four walls had grown comfortable, and she hated them for it.
A cold breeze rustled through her oversized hoodie, tangling the already messy shock of red hair she’d been too lazy to pull into a ponytail. Even the wind was taunting her now, like it knew that she’d kept coming back here cause it was safe… it was quiet… most importantly though, it was lonely.
Walking in the front door of the two bedroom on the fifth floor- you’d have thought no one lived there outside the couple of dishes drying on the sink, the muddy footsteps she’d only half heartedly tried to get out of the doormat and the faint indent of a body in the mattress barely obscured by carefully lain sheets.
She’d deliberately never made this place feel like ‘home’ because she’d never intended to be here this long- just another stop on the ever shifting roads, another hidey hole that she might use to disappear when the world became too demanding of her time and energy. Another place she’d leave in memories left to fade.
Three years and yet another cigarette craving later and she’d found herself back between the same fucking walls, back to hiding away as though this place were still the sanctuary she’d once… loved? No, lived. Sought out. Loved implied a connection, something more meaningful than a place to waste away.
Rubbing her forearm, the nicotine patch pulled at her skin as though she needed the reminder that she was anymore on edge than normal- she’d told Mac she was visiting in Vegas, that she’d meet him there in a few days. A half truth without consequence she’d told herself.
Up until early October she hadn’t had much reason to recluse- spending most of her time drifting between Baltimore and Vegas, two companies vying for her time and energy in greater measures than she had admitted she had left to give.
After all, she had a reputation… People paid to see it in action, to witness the worst side of herself committing inhumane acts to those who didn’t deserve it while those who did only benefitted from her destructive wake. Fuck, the world wanted Amber Ryan to be just that… as though there wasn’t a breaking point, as though the thresholds weren't strained at their limits simply because she couldn’t stand not to be seen as the world demanded.
They wanted a hurricane.
Yet they complained when it rained.
That was the thing- winning was no longer special, title victories no longer thrilled and inspired in the same way. Everything that had made her special was now considered commonplace and expected, anything less than that was considered trite and worth turning a nose up at, failure stained her records like a black mark when for others it would be considered a simple misstep. Blood, sweat and broken bones taken for granted in a world where sacrifice was the only way to excel.
For years she’d been hailed as a goddamn fucking legend- an icon in ultraviolence, a furious wraith who’d left a piece of herself on every canvas, every wall, every turnbuckle and rope that had ever held her fury. Injury after injury, derailment and despair- she’d scratched and clawed her way back time and time again only for everything she’d ever done to be derided and hailed as ‘in the past’ and ‘irrelevant’ like her legacy changed under the weight of fickle opinion.
Frustration stung in her eyes as she brushed some errant hair from her face, her ankle faintly throbbing as she rested her heels on the edge of the wrought iron railing. This one, this one stung worse than most- not because it had kept her sidelined and started the slippery slope into ‘out of sight, out of mind’ but because she knew… she fucking knew how preventable it was.
Some people blamed Ken Davison for initially injuring it when he took her world title, weeks of assaults and trading mind games left her broken and bruised without a world title… HER world title… to soothe the pain.
Others blamed Matt Knox for reaggravating it during a pre-show match, she’d gotten involved out of desperation and landed awkwardly before her own match later in the night.
Truth be told, it was all on her.
A wound far worse to her pride than anything physically inflicted.
It was her stubborn pride that kept her coming back, fighting towards another chance to reclaim what she’d always known was rightfully hers- she should have rested and healed, instead she was back the week after bound in tape and throwing hands trying to pretend she hadn’t missed a step. It was pure rage that brought her to the ring week after week, taking loss after frustrating loss cause she couldn’t stand to watch everyone climb past like they’d somehow earned their place more than her…
And it was desperation that led her to attempt a plancha that she’d not felt comfortable trying to perform with an injured ankle, a notion that this might keep her head above the proverbial water, that this might somehow prove to everyone that she wasn’t just the broken pieces of her legacy showing through the facade.
So she ran, and she jumped… and she landed like shit.
Doctors told her she’d be out six months.
People started writing off her career after less than one.
At first the forum posts and dirt sheets couldn’t get enough- any goddamn opportunity at a headline like vultures circling before the carcass has stopped moving. Journalists spraying gossip, rumours and misinformation all over social media cause they were real funny about marking their territory- all of them asking the same questions worded just differently enough that they could openly plagiarize the first person with an original thought.
Was this it?
Did she have anything left?
Could she ever live up to the hype again?
Was it worth returning or was she better off being done?
Should she have returned in the first place?
Yeah, the last one hurt the most.
Pursing her lips softly, she remembered reading them while her pulse thundered in her ears. Those same people were the first to commend and admire when she was out there killing herself- but the moment the script was flipped, they turned on a heel like she’d spit in their baby's carriage. It wasn’t hurt at the time, just disappointment, as though she were swallowed by an overwhelming void and no one gave a second glance.
Soon though, the forum posts became fewer. Gossip and rumours moved onto the next ‘scandal’ or human-esque fad. Everyone moved on with their lives and she fell away from the crowd- eventually, all that was left to be spoken about her was the occasional half thought of ‘whatever happened to Amber Ryan?’
Indestructible became irrelevant. Undeniable became unimportant.
Once a hurricane tearing through the landscape of professional wrestling, now little more than the petulant breeze drifting across an Atlantic City balcony.
She could have gone anywhere and done anything- taken all those naysayers to task for their words and proven them wrong like she had done every other fucking time before. She could have held the wrestling world hostage under her indignant fury- challenging anyone with a backbone and two brain cells to rub together the opportunity to do what no one else had managed. What had been promised by so many and delivered on by none- the opportunity to finally kill a hurricane.
Some had come close- hell, she’d nearly done it herself more times than she dared contemplate with a flimsy railing between her and the worn, concrete sidewalk. Even her medical records seemed to mock the idea with ‘clinically dead’ featuring prominently among the laundry list of blood, sweat and broken bones.
Instead- she came back to this place, between these fucking walls, staring into the nothingness and expecting an answer to a question she hadn’t asked.
Searching for some godforsaken reason to prove that she had nothing left to prove.
Fuck, maybe this was the end. Maybe she should have just accepted the universe finally getting their message through her thick skull- that the long overdue lecture had sunk in a little deeper than before.
How many more times could she possibly defy the odds?
How many more times could she go out there and sacrifice what was left of herself knowing full well that it would be shit all over it the fucking moment she didn’t live up to their expectations?
How many more times could she assume the role of ‘The Distorted Angel’ before there was nothing left of Amber Ryan the person to salvage…
Of course, with a sad yet knowing smile creeping across her features, the answer was always the same.
One more time.
Cause maybe this time… maybe this time someone might finally fulfil their promise to kill the hurricane festering between lonely walls.