The scene opens up as “Feuer Frei” by Rammstein erupts in the Carlston Center, as pyro erupts both on the ramp's edges, and around the Havoctron's screen; now showing a montage of you from various matches interspaced with promotional shots. The din from the crowd as they cheer you is like a wall of sound that buffets you as you burst through the pyros, and make straight for the ring.
Your eyes are staring dead at Erica, up ahead, right in the ring. Your eyes are locked on one another. You come to a halt mid ramp, staring contest well and truly underway. An almost contemptuous sneer is forming, as you break sight, glancing around the arena.
‘Was this like it was for those in the colosseum?’
Eyes back to her. Those thoughts can wait.
After a moment you continue to the ring and slide in the bottom rope, bounding to your feet and mounting one of the turnbuckles. A throat ripping roar tears its way out, the excess frustration of the last few months making itself known. It’s like a volcano letting itself ready to go, small vents and tremors allowing some magma to escape prior to the full eruption. A mere hint at what is in store.
You’re down of the turnbuckle now, fingers flexing, hair standing at the back of your neck, eyes locked again on that b*tch who had made your wife’s life a living hell.
Everything begins to go quiet, you’re in a bubble now, even the sound of your heartbeat is muffled.
The referee is talking. You’re not taking it in. It’ll be a repeat of what you’d been told in the locker room anyway.
This was it; you would end this here tonight once and for all and you would have no regrets.
You see her mouth some words, whether they’re at you or at the referee it doesn’t matter.
The hand from the latter is being raised.
That spike of adrenaline is released, it’s coursing through you like wildfire.
The hand drops, the sound rushes back in almost as quickly as you’re crossing the canvas towards her, arms up and raised.
Fade out.
Fade in, closing moments of the match.
You’re reaching down, one hand grabbing hold of a steel chair as around you the arena are on their feets and screaming. With the other hand, you’re dragging Erica’s foot into the gap of said steel chair, trapping her ankle in it. You can just about make out what you’ve done thanks to your affected vision, before things get somewhat blurry as you’re jumping up and then crashing back down with all your weight onto the chair and with it, her leg.
Even over the roar of the crowd, that piercing scream from Erica is as clear as day and at this point, music to your ears. You’re extricating her shattered leg, casting the chair away and you’re dragging her to the center of the ring like a butcher would a carcass of meat.
You’re almost on autopilot at this point, as you twist her round, locking her into your "Walls of Berlin". All of your might is placed into twisting her ankle, you’re rewarded with the screams getting louder. You can see writhing, scratching at the mat, blood streaks being left from her face.
You’re twisting, you’re wrenching, you’re forcing more of your weight down onto that ankle.
You can feel the bones and cartilage crunching, the resistance from the muscles and tendons starting to cave to the pressure you were bringing.
‘More’.
You squeeze your thighs further.
Your head is tilted back, your eyes to the roof of the arena, time slows down. You’re filing this away for later. Is this what Senester all those years ago wanted you to feel?
You hadn’t been wronged by Matthew though, had you?
But you had by Erica.
You wrench back harder still in response to those thoughts, seconds later, feeling the vibrations of Erica’s palm slapping the mat over and over, you register the increase in volume from the crowd.
‘No, not yet.’
You have this wonderful feeling of retribution, you don't want it to end. You’re picturing Vanessa smiling at you, the very moment you said ‘I do’ on your wedding day, transforming into the tear stricken woman you’d cradled in your arms after that phonecall she’d had from Erica, that night of seeing her crying into her pillow at night.
Your blood is up now.
‘It’s over when you say it is Erica? Nein! It’s over when I say it is…’
You can’t even hear Erica screaming anymore, can’t hear the fans, can’t hear nevermind see the referee in front of you shaking you at the shoulder. You’re being bodily shoved out of the way, losing your balance as that happens. Landing on the canvas, the color and the sounds return to your world as you sit upright and take in the sight before you.
Maniac is pulling Erica up into his grasp, hugging her and looks over at you.
(Maniac): What’s wrong with you?
You don’t respond. You look at him expressionless. He’ll be next, but that’s for another day. You’re getting to your feet gingerly, vision still blurry and you don’t want to lose your balance again. You’re looking down on Erica, she’s in agony. Your heart swells at that. Perhaps, in time, you’ll feel ashamed that it did. Perhaps.
She’s turning in Maniac’s arms and looking up at you, almost delirious from the pain.
(Erica): I’m not crazy!
You choke down a laugh, shaking your head as you do.
A finger is pointed at her.
(Hans): You keep telling yourself that, but you and me… we’re done!
Then, you’re turning to the crowd and it’s like the sun has risen. It is done.
You’re smiling. You’re genuinely smiling.
The last 6 months of hurt and misery have come to an end. Yes, your body had been put through the wringer, but your wife was safe at last.
You lift up your left hand to you face, kissing his wedding band and then thrust your fist skywards. All around you, the fans are cheering as you exit the ring, circling to engage the ones at the barricades, starting to take in things, nodding to some of them before making a slow paced walk up the aisle.
You find yourself drawn to take one look back at the ring and the broken shell of a woman that is Erica Martinez.
The fans are chanting to her “You Deserve It” as you continue to walk backwards, still facing the ring. As you reach the top of the stage, pyros go off in the arena festive green, red and golds and you smiles at Erica.
Fade out.
Fade in, new years day.
You’re sitting, nestled into the large leather armchair. Your wife, Vanessa, lying curled into you and gently playing up and down your chest with her fingers is fighting back sleep.
In truth, you both are.
You’d found yourself back in Germany for Christmas. A chance to see the family, even if it had been through one eye, the other being shielded by an eye patch. Your niece and nephew loved it, pirates were the rage at their age it seemed. Your brother loved it too, or rather, loved teasing you about it.
At least, in public.
In private, he showed concern and expressed his worry that things weren’t over yet.
You’d reassured him that they were.
He’d take some more convincing, but he’d always been a skeptical one.
Now though, you were at your in-law’s place in New Orleans. It had been a week filled with travel, filled with family and friends and everything happening all at once.
You’d watched the Saint’s game with your father in-law, Vanessa spending some time with her mother.
Your father in-law had shown concern and expressed his worry that things weren’t over yet.
You’d reassured him that they were.
He’d take some more convincing, but he’d been around the HWA long enough and see his daughter go through enough to be justified in feeling some hesitation there.
But now, there you are, sitting with your wife in your lap, a new year ahead of you both.
Your left hand rests over her stomach, while the right idly runs through her hair. Your head tilts down, kissing her on the forehead. You can sense her smiling.
‘2024 will be our year’.
The scene fades to black.
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