The Simple Lovers of the World

Fresh off the inpatient bed, he’d been awake for a couple hours. His CAT scans and MRIs were clean, the doctors said he made a thorough recovery. He sat, idly, on the edge of his mattress.

He spent significant time there, even hearing the voices of her and her new man deep inside his subconscious. Post-concussion syndrome can manifest cruel symptoms. Nevertheless, he was told he could leave “any time now” but this was three hours ago. After all, the events of December 14th had left him with nothing.

He flipped his cell phone lightly around his right hand. Tears ran down his face. His body shook as the pit in his stomach sunk lower and lower, practically into his knees.

It’s no use.

He’s of no use.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and knew he had to do it. It was the only thought in his mind. He unlocked his phone with purpose and intent.

Maybe if he cried. Maybe if he screamed. Maybe if he threatened to kill himself. He had thought of it and it was becoming a more viable option by the second.

He heaved. He tried to fight another blackout, but he was told he fully recovered. He was told he was going to be okay.

Yet none of them saw his inside scars.

Run a CAT scan on his soul. Put his ‘sense of identity’ through Magnetic Resonance Imaging. Oh, they’d keep him here after seeing those results, alright. They’d lock him up forever. Might have to perform numerous surgeries. Because he is broken. Ruined. And the only way out of this…

Was to fucking beg.

Hands and knees. Clutching feet. Full blown submission. It’s the only answer he can think of.

So he opened an iMessage.

No.

He stopped. This won’t be good enough. There’s not a chance in Hell a text gets the job done. He should rekindle their relationship from scratch.

And as the pit in his stomach fell once again, now reaching the soles of his feet, his head spun ‘round and ‘round, too.

He dialed the number, digit by digit. Yes, he could have pulled up the name and forgone the actual dialing. But for a split second there, he was a little more grounded.

Needed time to think.

Everything he’d been through.

Every. Little. Thing.

The torment. The psychological abuse. The physical abuse - no one saw that, but it happened frequently.

Needless to say, the numbers were entered. He held out his phone.

There’s one more chance to bail. He did not hit SEND yet.

The past two years swirled through his head. He was on a rollercoaster. Up and down, down and up. Sideways. Around. Hurled in every direction.

CRASH!

Ejected from the rollercoaster! That’s why he resided in a hospital for the past three weeks.

THE E.R. IS PROOF OF WHAT’S BEEN DONE TO YOU, JONATHAN-CHRISTOPHER. DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?

He one-hundred percent does not.

He let out a huff. Ugh, terrible hospital reception, he only saw two bars.

Still time to put the phone away and go home-

WHERE THE HELL IS HOME!?

“Nowhere!” He yelled.

He hit SEND.

…

The phone confirmed the numbers went through.

…

The phone started to ring!

…

“Hi, can you hear me?” He asked, through the faint audio static. “It’s me, Jonathan-Christopher.”

…silence on the other end, even though Hall knew their lines were attached since the reception bars jumped to full. Obviously, when reaching out on a direct line to the devil, the world ensured a flawless connection.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “Please, please, help me!”

Everyone else abandoned him, with Don Winters being the last. There were high hopes for that relationship. Real, high hopes.

Jonathan-Christopher groveled at the feet, metaphorically for now.

“I need you back in my life!” He pleaded.

A heavy sigh replied.

“I’ll do anything.” There was no quit in his voice. “Anything…”

He couldn’t turn back now.

“Starshy Praporshchik.”

— — — — —

Ivan sat in the driver's seat of his massive military vehicle, his glasses perched on his nose and a crossword puzzle in his lap. The dim light from the dashboard illuminated the interior just enough for him to see without straining his aging eyes. Suddenly, the passenger door flew open and Alexei slid in, shutting it behind him.

“You and Hall, again?” He blurted. “Against Farthington and Avalon?!”

Ivan sighed. He had no time for Ruslan’s dramatics and removed his glasses. “Hall defeated Farthington one on one.”

It did little to calm Alexei’s nerves. “Fucking international tour! I wish I could send Troy on an airplane ride!”

The Kulikov’s ghosts still lingered and such a threat against Troy crossed a line. Ivan’s expression told the tale and Alexei backed off.

“Ever since I aligned with the Halls, she has used it to her advantage. Farthington is a disruption…” Ivan hoped his growl masked his concern regarding Cecilworth’s technical ability and Ivan’s aging joints.

“Hall is worthless…” Ruslan lamented. “I don’t think you can take down both Avalon and the Financier alone. We have to contact him.”

Twenty years ago? Perhaps. But now, at over sixty? Ivan had doubts.

“Hall called me already.” Ivan said quietly.

“What?” Ruslan was incredulous.

“Arina has made arrangements.” Ivan reclined in his leather seat. “Hall is a disaster. Raving. Begging. A shell. No matter. We’ll persevere. I’ll finish Max's job and put down Coral.”

Ivan paused.

“I’ll turn the tables and force her hand. That Universal Title is as good as ours, Alyosha. ”

Alexei nodded and cleared his throat. “I had an idea, regarding that…”

— — — — —

The normally bustling Per Se restaurant, perched on the fourth floor of the Time Warner Center, was eerily quiet. A Russian reservation left it devoid of humanity. Ivan’s combat boots echoed on the polished floors as he paced between elegantly set tables and expensive light fixtures. Despite the breathtaking view, he felt trapped within a prison of capitalism. In one corner, Alexei and Arina sat quietly behind fine china and crystal glasses.

Moments later, a nervous younger man entered. He sheepishly moved into the doorway, eyes darting left to right and right to left. In all honesty, he was stunned to realize he had the strength to arrive. It was only a few days ago he made the phone call, pleading for this opportunity. He knew he was committed - their wrestling schedule said so. In a mere two weeks, they would be attached at the hip-

His thought process came to a screeching halt as he witnessed the deep bellow cry while a trembling shook throughout his entire body. He felt fear before, many times. But he always leaned on Vickie in the aftermath. Going solo never felt so horrifying.

“You call me on my personal telephone?” Stanislav’s simmer was already boiling over.

Jonathan-Christopher gulped. This was a mistake. Then again, he was used to making them.

“I- I am sorry,” he peeped. “I have no one else to lean on.”

He said this over the phone, many times. He apologized and begged, begged and apologized.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” he was surprised he could find the words. “But I can help you.”

Ivan narrowed his eyes. “Help me? You fucked me over in our last match you mental midget! Stuck with you is punishment booking! Who says you will not flake out again?!”

Suddenly, to JCH’s own bewilderment, he found himself standing across from the Russian.

“I did it.” Hall stated. “I told Ms. Troy to book us together, because I want to prove I have something to offer.”

Ivan blinked. “Something to offer? What could you possibly offer me?!”

Terror gripped the younger man. Discomfort invaded him. Hall shook from head to toe and yet he didn’t budge.

“I asked for the match because, well, I- I figured you’d want to seek revenge.” Hall lowered his gaze. He didn’t know if his comments were resonating with the giant just yet. “If you defeat Cecilworth and the Universal Champion, how can you not be next in line? I’ve already defeated Cecilworth once before, he will no doubt want revenge on me. I can be your pawn. I’m disposable. It’s my trait.”

Hall couldn’t believe what flew out his mouth. He flinched, expecting the worst. Perhaps a swift, right backhand to the side of his face. An elbow into the bridge of his nose.

Or another emergency room visit.

…

He opened an eye.

Then a second.

Stanislav stared down at him, shoulders heaving with suppressed frustration. Hall was a former Universal Champion with every physical trait, talent, and resource at his disposal to challenge even the mighty Russian. He hated that Hall spoke the truth: This was the chance of his lifetime.

The truth stung to the point of embarrassment.

“You want to help me? Get me through this mess.” Stanislav made for the door, taking two steps past Jonathan-Christopher, before stopping with his back to him. “One more thing...”

Jonathan-Christopher heard the wind before he saw the stars. The force of the slap sent him reeling, his body twisting as he fell to the floor. He landed on his back, dazed and staring up at the towering figure of The Russian Bear, fists clenched and face contorted in a rage.

“That was for our last tag match. You always fall short.” Ivan’s voice was laced with disdain. “Avalon and Farthington are smart men. They will work together. So shall we.”

He loomed over his partner, who could only tremble.

“Any questions?”

For a brief second, Jonathan-Christopher clutched his fists together. “Man up,” he could hear Vickie demand inside his subconscious.

He could also hear her scold him for doing just that. Scold him for fucking up and not knowing his place in line.

There are main event players. Then there are guys like himself who got lucky once.

Before The Crownless King exposed him.

JCH released his fists. The last time he tried this with Ivan he was covered in his own blood. Therefore, he would not say anything further. He would fall in line. He would endure through the mammoth’s dominance.

Ivan watched Hall and let out a mocking laugh, before grunting. “That is right. Let the Russians do thinking.” He stormed off with Alexei at his side.

Arina moved to help Hall from the floor until Ivan barked in Russian, and, with a look of sadness on her face, she instead scurried after her superior.

Jonathan-Christopher Hall was alone.

— — — — —

The five minute meeting between them was nerve racking, yet Jonathan-Christopher survived. In previous intense situations between himself and his Amazing Life Partner, Hall often found himself in refuge, seeking solitude, so he could re-charge and “man up”, whatever that meant.

Hall sat hunched on the edge of a park bench in the heart of Central Park, lost within the confines of his winter jacket. No one knew they were brushing past a former PRIME Wrestling Universal Champion. He was just another downtrodden soul in the city. A helpless victim of fate, drifting aimlessly in the vast ocean of life’s tragedies.

She settled next to him, her wool coat brushing his arm. The dark fur on the collar wafted in the breeze and her ushanka was pulled low, covering her ears and framing her rosy cheeks. Her breath pulsed between red painted lips and she wriggled her toes within her boots.

“It is so cold, you could freeze wolves.” Her Russian accent struggled to escape the back of her throat. Arina glanced at Jonathan-Christopher Hall and offered a quiet smile. “May I sit?”

His response was noncommittal. But he sidled over slightly to give her more room. The two young people sat inches apart, staring in opposite directions.

She spoke, but her words stumbled. “English is not first language,” she self-consciously apologized. The imposing Time Warner Center loomed above. “Not very good meeting, hm?”

Mr. Hall said nothing. He didn’t even look over at her. She nodded to herself and made to leave.

“I sorry. I go.”

“No. Stay.” It came out as a whisper, so she froze mid-lean, and then settled back down.

“How do you do it?” He inquired.

She gazed into his blue eyes as her breath billowed between them. “Do what?”

“How do you weather Ivan’s… storm?” Hall clarified, finally looking over. There was a glisten in his eyes, trying to fight his way through these problems in order to find hope. “Everywhere I go, everyone I’m with, I receive nothing but harsh treatment.”

How does one weather Ivan Stanislav? She had no answer.

“I deserve everything I receive,” Hall stated.

Her gaze fixated on his shimmering eyes, reflecting the ambient light in a hauntingly beautiful way. She couldn’t resist the pull towards him, turning her body to face him directly. “In my country,” she began, “we are taught that suffering is inevitable way of life.” Her words carried the weight of a thousand broken Russian hearts.

He simply listened as her gaze fell upon the snow at her feet, a grim reminder of the world around her. Not the pristine, glittering snow of a fairytale, but a slushy, muddied mess, tainted by the cruelty of others. “I have seen reports,” she whispered. “I know who hurt who, Mr. Hall.” She watched his eyes and searched for understanding. “You do not deserve any of this.”

He heard her. Understanding her, though, was something else entirely.

“It’s easy to be on the outside looking in,” Hall rebutted, “but no one lives my life. Do others think I’m dumb?”

His question was rhetorical while he kicked the mud at his feet. “I see the comments telling me to leave her, the pain and torment she’s apparently put me through.”

He looked up with sheer sadness in his eyes. It consumed him, tearing him apart from within and thus left him hollow and shattered.

“We were happy once, you know? She was nice to me; we loved each other. Surely, even in your country, amidst all that pain and suffering, is there not happiness between citizens, is there not genuine human connection?”

He dispensed with the rhetorical and asked Arina directly. However, the pure-hearted boy was far too wound up to stop the wheels from spinning.

“Just because a leader is a dictator, does not mean he is void from positive emotions, either. Everyone is a son, a brother, a sister, a parent or a lover to somebody.”

Despite his best efforts, tears fell from his eyes.

“My country can judge yours, your leadership, communism, etcetera. But it doesn’t mean Russia is void of good. I had good in my life. I had great. And it was ultimately because of me that I now have nothing. Russia can be a problematic country, but then why do enough people reside in its territory to still make it one? If you follow orders for so long, there’s still a sense of security to that. Even, dare I say, a sense of love and commitment.”

Arina reflected on how many Russians wished to leave, and yet were trapped and watched JCH place his head in his hands.

“The world thinks I’m better off now. Initially, I thought so, too. But I’m not. And I’m never going to be.”

Arina Timofeyevna watched the man fold before her. Gently, she rested her gloved hand on his forearm. “One step at time, yes?”

For a man who usually said less, it wasn’t often Jonathan-Christopher felt comfortable enough to find the space to share what’s on his mind. Arina felt… safe.

“I’m counting on this match. I have to show her that no matter the obstacle, a bond can overcome anything. Even though Ivan hates me, if I can win with him, maybe I can finally win with Vickie.”

Her hand squeezed the forearm, feeling the muscle beneath the jacket. “Ivan needs you,” she said finally. “He cannot admit, but he is afraid Cecilworth will target old joints. He needs former Universal Champion to protect him.”

Hall was exhausted from his previous speech, although this time he didn’t just hear Arina, he understood her, too. She spoke softly. “Can we take a walk?”

JCH’s shoulders were hunched as they walked through Central Park, his mind weighed down by the heavy burden, and admission, he had made. As a squirrel darted across their path, Arina squeaked and grasped his hand. They continued in silence until they reached her hotel, its warm lights a stark contrast to the chilly air outside.

She released his hand, hoping the cold hid the blush in her cheeks. “I… wish to tell you something,” she said quietly.

All he did was listen. It was one thing, perhaps the only, he was good at.

“My Papa… he hurts me,” she confessed with embarrassment. “But… I still love him.” She looked down. “It is heavy love I carry every day.”

She took a deep breath and found the courage to look into his eyes and reveal her sadness. “I think you understand this.”

“Abuse…” Jonathan-Christopher tried to squeak out, directly recalling his own demons in this specific department, “...is complex. People say I forgive because I am stupid. No. No, Arina. I forgive because I love.”

The emotional toll this day had on Jonathan-Christopher was substantial. If nothing more, he knew he would sleep well tonight.

“I define love as universal acceptance,” Hall explained. “A deep affection that can never be broken. I love Vickie and honestly, I have to believe she loves me, too.”

Arina thought back on Ivan, and the moments of care he showed her. “Help Ivan win, and I know he will help you.”

She bid him goodnight, and after a moment's hesitation, she gently kissed his cheek. The warmth of the kiss slowly faded, replaced by a dull ache in his chest as she disappeared into the building and left him alone on the steps.

Jonathan-Christopher lowered his head and walked into the darkness.

— — — — —

She entered her room and paused to catch her breath, but the window beckoned. She looked out at the city lights and searched for a small, hunched man in the park, but only saw her reflection.

The solemnity was shattered as Ivan and Alexei burst into her room and turned on the lights. Ruslan strode up to her with a smug look on his face.

“Well done, comrade.” Alexei whispered as his fingers unclasped the small listening device from her collar. She shifted uncomfortably in her jacket, trying to hide the shame burning through her body.

“Indeed.” Ivan towered over them both. “Now we know the wretch is as desperate as we thought.” He said quietly.

Her throat constricted. “H- he still loves her…”

Alexei ignored her. “Kissed him too? Nice touch.” He walked away from the shrinking woman while Ivan studied her face.

“Anyone who loves a woman willing to screw Cancer Jiles is a fool.” Ivan waggled a finger as he spoke. “And a liability. Right?”

Arina remained silent, but Ivan’s word turned to steel in the air.

“Isn’t that right, Ms. Timofeyevna?” His eyes burned.

“Yes, Starshy Praporshchik,” she replied, and mustered the courage to meet his gaze.

Ivan’s words were that of a stern teacher. “He is not worth our spit, Arina. Just a means to an end. To Russia’s greatness. To defeating the vile Bandits and Glue. If bringing hope to our people means tramping on Jonathan-Christopher Hall? So be it.”

Arina Timofeyevna felt bile build in her throat as she nodded and turned back to the window. She had manipulated a kind, innocent man. Her mind drifted to one of his questions:

How does one weather Ivan Stanislav?

She lost her reflection and instead saw Ivan and Alexei laughing behind her. She had seen the true love in Ivan’s heart, and yet it was fleeting. This man saved the Kulikov’s and now preyed upon Hall.

More obvious villains were at play. Avalon abandoned his morals to assist a horrible person like Cancer Jiles. What kind of father does that? She thought of her own, abusive, father. Farthington was an elitist through and through, no better than a Russian oligarch.

So why did Ivan seem more cold-hearted? In her conflicted mind, he was a constant battle between right and wrong, love and guilt.

Perhaps a better question was: How did Ivan Stanislav weather himself?

Was this the price of righteousness?

Had a younger Ivan learned this bitter lesson years ago and made peace with it? Was she learning that very same lesson in real-time?

What was she becoming?

The question had no answer, so she reflected on Jonathan-Christopher Hall’s teary eyes. She dared not tell them, but she did, indeed, hope for victory. Not for the soldiers, or the bandits, or the elitists, but for the simple lovers of the world who were, so often, doomed to suffer. In a hushed voice, Arina muttered an apology, unsure if it was meant for Jonathan-Christopher, or for herself.