CONCUSSED

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That incessant beeping rips me from sleep. Annoyed doesn't begin to cover it, though it's nothing compared to the blinding fucking headache tearing through every inch of my skull right now.

My eyes flutter open, confused as to why I'm staring into the light. You know the light. That light.

Wait, that light? Where the fuck am I? Why is everything so goddamn bright in here? I suddenly understand why strip clubs operate in near-darkness. Well, I'm sure that's not the only reason, but as someone who doesn't frequent such establishments, you can appreciate my naïveté on the subject.

The light, for the record, isn't doing jack shit to help my skull-splitting headache. I'm trying to figure out what separates a migraine from a regular headache and whether something worse than either exists. I'd whip out my phone and ChatGPT that shit, but considering I can barely keep my eyes open, I'm not holding my breath on that happening anytime soon.

Click.

Oh, fuck. I know exactly where I am.

"Ivan, I swear to Hoyt, I will tear your eyeballs out of your sockets if you don't let me out of whatever Soviet-era hovel you've locked me in. I promise you that," the words tear from my throat with the kind of acidity that's become my standard trademark. For a brief moment I consider adding 'trademark' to the end of everything I say, but realize how fucking stupid that sounds pretty quickly.

A moment passes. Just silence.

"IVAN! I SWEAR—" I start, but then a voice slices through my rage.

"Ivan is not here," the familiar voice purrs in my ear. I turn to my right, force my eyes open to discover that not only has the light stopped trying to probe my asshole, but there's a face I didn't expect staring back at me.

"Ariana," I groan. I mean, it's better than seeing Ivan sitting there, you know? Definitely better than seeing Alexei.

Fuck Alexei.

"What the fuck is going on?" This time I moan. Not a good moan. A bad moan. "Where the fuck am I? Why was a light trying to abduct me for experiments? Why is my head throbbing like it's hosting its own death metal concert?"

I'm not certain which question I want her to answer first. Maybe the second one? Probably the first one? Definitely the last one.

I attempt to sit up and discover that's not happening anytime soon. Not because I'm strapped down for some sex kink (pervs), but because my entire body feels like it's been drained of every ounce of energy. My right hand moves up, and even that simple motion feels like lifting a fucking anvil. I wipe the back of it against my forehead and feel something sharp there.

Oh, fuck. They’ve replaced my head with scissors.

Wait, no. This isn’t a Fred Dick piece.

"While you're not answering me, can we add what the hell is stabbing the back of my hand to the list of questions? It's probably second or third on that list. Not sure if you're taking notes or not. I hope you remember them though, because I sure as shit can't."

A sigh escapes from her lips. Rude.

"You were attacked."

Confusion crashes into me. I'm not sure if that's the habitual fog I seem to find myself swimming in or if these words refuse to make any sense in my brain. It's possible both are true, I'm not discounting that possibility.

I was attacked? I sure as fuck don't remember being attacked.

"Attacked? When? Where?"

"At UltraViolence. Right before main event."

I want to shake my head, but I'm positive that if I do, my brain will cease working. It's a miracle it has worked as long as it has, if I'm being honest.

"What are you talking about? I was walking backstage and—"

My brain tries frantically to find the memory that tells me what comes next. Except, it's failing me. Look, brain, we're kind of on a time table here and people are watching us. Sure, that person is Arina, but you know, not really looking to add to her list of reasons to tell Alexei to bury my head in the middle of a frozen Russian tundra, you know?

…

Oh, cool. You're really not going to do your job. Great, cool. And here I am thinking I've been doing jobs left and right for nearly the past year.

Ha.

"You can't remember it, can you?"

Tears. That's the next thing that happens. And I sure as fuck don't know why.

"No, I don't. And why the fuck am I crying? And my head throbs? Arina, talk to me, please."

I feel her hand on top of mine. "It was ambush. Not sure by who. They do number on you. Doctors—Canadian doctors, mind you—have stapled forehead. Thirteen or fourteen. You have a concussion."

Oh fuck that.

With all of my might, I push myself up in the bed and I immediately get nauseous and lean over before emptying the contents of my stomach all over the floor.

All over Arina's shoes.

A moment passes as I use the back of my hand, the same hand that just scraped against the staples in my forehead, against my mouth to catch the remnants. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus before I realize what I've done and catch the look on Arina's face...

Well, it's priceless. Shock doesn't even begin to describe it. Disgust barely scratches the surface.

"Ick," she mutters, reaching over and grabbing a small towel to wipe away the chunks of... well, we'll leave that to your imagination. "Now you believe me?"

Yes, I do. Not only am I in a fucking hospital (which, you know, I haven't spent enough time processing that reality and the PTSD I'm feeling right now), I have a concussion. Just like my father had. Rage rips through my body as my fist slams into my hospital bed repeatedly.

Arina rises from her seat. I'm certain it's so she can leave me here, but instead, she grabs both of my hands and stares me in the eyes.

"Stop that, Rose."

Well, fine then. But only because you're holding both of my hands and you smell like...

Roses? Weird. Hm, it smells nice though.

Where was I? Oh, that's right. Punching the bed. Well, I can't do that anymore and Arina is still staring at me. I stare back. Her eyes are nice. I close my eyes because this is getting awkward. Like Stage 4 Awkward.

"Are you going to keep holding my fists? Because I don't think we can do this forever. It'd look really awkward in the ring."

When I open my eyes, I see Arina glaring at me, and... you know what? I fully deserve it. She slowly releases me with a look that screams don't do any of the things you've been doing (you know, no vomiting on my shoes, no punching your hospital bed) AND don't do any of the things you would normally do.

She's spent too much time with Ivan.

"What day is it?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"It's been a day. Doctor says concussion is very bad."

"Like, in general? Or mine?"

"Yours is bad. Says it looks like someone bounces your head off floor multiple times. Like racketball flattened against surface. He says it like I should know what it is. We not have racektball in Russia, so how am I supposed to know? But he makes it sound very bad."

I think about the fact that the poor girl doesn't know anything about basketball, but quickly push that out of my mind.

"This concussion feels like irony baked over twice," I mutter, pressing my palm against my temple where the staples pull at my skin.

Arina tilts her head, confusion flickering across her features. "What does this mean?"

"My father had a concussion. Bad one. And now here I am, following in his fucking footsteps in the worst possible way." My laugh holds no humor. "It's like the universe has a sick sense of humor and keeps hitting the replay button."

"I know about your Papa’s concussion," Arina says quietly. "Doctors here, they mention wanting to do scan of your brain. To rule everything out."

"Rule what out?"

"I not know. I tell them that they not be able to understand why you are the way you are." Arina's mouth twitches. "I tell them scan will not show them this. They did not laugh."

Despite everything, I feel my lips curve upward. "Jesus, Arina. Did you just make a joke? About my psychological damage?"

"Maybe little one."

"Look at you. Sly little minx." I shift in the bed, wincing as my head protests the movement. "Where's Ivan?"

Arina's expression darkens. "He is very hurt from UltraViolence match. Very bad shape."

Guilt crashes into my chest like a freight train. I can't piece together why exactly, but something deep in my bones screams that Ivan's condition is my fault. The memory sits just beyond my reach, taunting me through the fog of my concussion. Have I done something? Failed to do something? The not knowing gnaws at me worse than the physical pain.

"Do you have any idea who attacked you?" Arina's voice cuts through the haze.

I shake my head, then immediately regret the motion as fresh waves of pain cascade through my skull. The movement sends the staples pulling at my skin, a sharp reminder of whatever violence had torn me open.

"I don't remember shit. Just walking backstage and then..." I gesture weakly at the hospital room surrounding us. "This."

Except there's something. A fragment lurking in the shadows of my damaged memory, just beyond my grasp. A face that swims in and out of focus when I try to pin it down. The face belongs to the man responsible for all of this chaos, all of this pain. I know it with bone-deep certainty, but the details slip away like water through my fingers.

The headache suddenly intensifies, transforms from a dull throb into something that feels like my brain is trying to claw its way out through my eye sockets. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my palm against my temple.

"Fuck," I whisper through gritted teeth.

Arina rises from her chair, the legs scraping against the hospital floor. "I go check on Ivan. Come back to you later."

"Thanks, Arina." I keep my eyes closed, grateful for the approaching silence. "Really."

The sound of footsteps fades, replaced by the sterile quiet of the hospital room. I let my breathing slow, try to push past the pain ricocheting through my head. My thoughts drift back to UltraViolence, to my match with Jonathan-Christopher Hall.

I remember stepping through the curtain. The roar of the crowd washing over me like a physical force. The lights, the heat, the electricity crackling through the stadium. And then, in the middle of the match, something had made me pause. A moment where I'd frozen, lost focus, and Hall capitalized.

The loss doesn't sting. I'd been in worse positions, taken harder hits, survived greater humiliations. No, it was in that moment when I froze and didn't put Hall out of his misery, had a moment of humanity. It was in that moment that the fans cheered. For me.

And it felt… exhilarating.