Or rather you’ve just finished watching Michelle be assaulted by Erica.
The almost unnatural quiet that the arena has in the aftermath of Erica’s attack is mirrored by the stillness of your room you’re sat in at this time.
One hand is held to your mouth, the other clutching the remote. You thought you’d seen it all in your time, but even this, this shook you.
You can’t help but think back to being granted time off by both Wisdom and Butch from needing to attend this particular show. Yourself, Matthew, others… the roster had expanded in recent weeks and months, so some rotation was to be expected now in terms of being booked for a match.
’But…’
Nevertheless, you’d normally have been there as well.
A glance upwards, towards where you’d spent a good chunk of the day assembling furniture for the arrival of your child.
Yes, months ahead of time, but, you couldn’t help yourself. It was something you could do, it was something that needed done, so, well, it was now complete.
You can’t help but feel that in spite of the pride you’d felt earlier at a job well done, and the glow that your wife had at seeing your handiwork that, well, you’d neglected your responsibilities elsewhere.
’Scheiße…’
You lean back into your seat, Havoc by now showing the final moments, as Michelle’s ambulance is loaded.
Your finger hammers the remote, shutting the widescreen TV off.
Thoughts run through your head.
‘Would you really have been able to stop Erica’s brutality?’
’...’
’Would it really have made a difference?’
’...’
’Can she even be stopped?’
’Yes.’
’Are you even the one to do it?’
’Yes.’
By this point, you’re clenching your hand into a fist, thoroughly annoyed at yourself and your thoughts.
You’re riling yourself up. You know this, you can’t stop it though.
’Why can’t Sean?’
’Because right now he can’t… I know this!’
’You defended your family, do you have to be the white knight?’
You reach down, there’s a bottle of beer you’d been sipping on. You drain the remainder of it before holding it in front of you, seeing the reflection of yourself in the glass.
’I do.’
’Look at what doing this last time did to you? You’ve got Ringmaster coming up, you want it, you need to win that.’
You’re plucking your phone up in your other hand, continuing to view your reflection in the glass.
With practiced deftness, you’re dialing a number without any need to watch where your fingers tap.
Raising the phone to your ear, you await it being picked up on the other line.
A smile though, your thoughts coalescing and aligning with your confidence in yourself.
’I can do both…’’
Your call is answered, the voice on the other line has the unmistakable Scottish accent.
‘Sean, mein freund… let me go to war for you und Michelle, jah?’
The scene fades to black.
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