Against the Dying of the Light

November 15 | Morgantown, WV | Early Morning Click.

A soft flickering green light on the mechanical lock is followed by a buzzing sound as Nathan Lake opens the door to his motel room.

He shifts a red duffle bag from one shoulder to the other as he steps past the threshold, and then freezes.

The lights. I told them to leave them on… shit. SHIT.

Nathan keeps one eye on the darkness as he grasps wildly to hit the nearby light switch on the wall, slapping at it like it was a mosquito on a muggy summer night.

Fluorescent illumination fills the entryway and his muscles relax. A rush of air escapes his lungs.

Nothing there.

Still, Nathan proceeds with caution, taking time to ensure every switch, knob, and pull string attached to a light source is accounted for as he makes his way to the edge of his hotel bed.

Nathan begins to set the duffle bag down but then stops as a hissing sound begins to fill the air. His eyes move along the wall, toward the radiator, but then he sees the alarm clock.

HELLO

Nathan blinks and then rubs his eyes.

3:11 AM

He finishes setting the bag down before checking the radiator.

Nothing out of place...

He checks the air vents and windows. Still nothing. Then, after a while, it stops.

Nathan cautiously turns back and unzips his duffle bag, revealing the shimmering metal of the Alias Title.

He can’t help but smile.

It’s real… It’s really fucking re-

Bzzzzzt. Bzzzzzt.

Nathan looks up to see his cell phone vibrating, shaking violently on the opposite end table as the hiss returns. Louder this time.

The device seems to move on its own, making its way to the edge and then sliding off, hanging like a criminal in a noose from the charging cable attached to the wall.

He steps away from the edge of the bed, toward the night stand, and reaches for the phone, turning it over.

The phone glitches and then unlocks. No PIN. No fingerprint verification.

A cold, digital glow washes over Nathan as his eyes widen. The website for his hometown paper has been pulled up. A story appears. His body begins to shake.

Cuchilla Appointed to Lead Community Development in Montevideo

Sonja Cuchilla was named Acting Community and Learning Development Coordinator, effective immediately, by Mayor R.J. Curry at a special press event held at Montevideo High School on the evening of Nov. 14.

The new position was established following the abrupt resignations of Montevideo’s Community and Development Coordinator Lisa Taffe and Superintendent Carol Ferguson.

“I am deeply honored and privileged to be chosen for this vital role within our community,” Cuchilla said in her remarks. “Even though I have only been in Montevideo a short time, you have welcomed me like family. I know, together, we can shape a future for our children and each other, that we can be proud of.”

Nathan's stomach turns as the text swims. He can hear her words—but not in her voice, not exactly. Something underneath it. Like a spider laying its eggs in his ear canal.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Nathan presses at the side of his phone to turn the screen off. It doesn’t.

Instead, the light bulb on the other side of the bed burns out with a soft "pop."

He goes to remove the charging cable from the phone instead, but it has fused to the case.

Nathan looks back down at the screen as it scrolls on its own, continuing the story.

Notably absent from the proceedings was Montevideo native Nathan Lake, who has been romantically and professionally tied to Cuchilla. Lake, who wrestles for the national professional wrestling company PRIME, was recently accused of domestic violence by Cuchilla in a series of posts on her social media accounts.

No formal charges have been filed and Lake was confirmed to be competing at a live event for PRIME on the east coast during the announcement.

Nathan blinks as he sees the word “competing” begin to be deleted, letter, by letter until it’s gone. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, then opens them again, hoping it will work like it did with the clock.

Instead of the original text, new letters are typed out in all caps: R - U - N - N - I - N - G.

He feels a pit drop from his chest to his stomach as other words are deleted and replaced.

In explaining the unorthodox appointment given Cuchilla and Lake’s public falling out, Mayor Curry pushed back on recent accusations that the EXTERMINATION of Taffe and Ferguson was done so under duress and that her selection in this role was suspect.

Instead, Mayor Curry pointed to Cuchilla’s work with the Montevideo City Council, her time HARVESTING at the local food bank, and request to only take $1 in annual salary with the difference being donated to the “Mouths of Montevideo” charity, which Cuchilla established last month to provide meals to students, as factors in her INFECTION.

Nathan hears a click. The bathroom light. It’s out. But he doesn’t dare turn to look as the screen continues to scroll on its own.

“It is incredibly unfortunate to have these two pillars of our community REMOVED in such close proximity, but these rumors are simply outrageous,” Mayor Curry said at the event. “I understand some here are not fans of Ms. Cuchilla’s personality, but to claim someone who has so clearly been the victim of abuse as an abuser herself has no place in MY town.”

Nathan’s breathing becomes frantic as he tries to toss the phone across the room, but he realizes his hand is frozen, gripping the case so tightly the screen has begun to crack - a hair fracture along the glass stabbing at the next words.

Cuchilla emotionally addressed Lake’s absence as part of her prepared remarks.

“It is not lost on me that I am standing on the very stage where Nathan Lake, who MANIPULATED me under the guise of Blaze Claymore, CRUSHED the hearts of so many of you as a seemingly precocious high school student, because he did for me as well,” Cuchilla stated through tears.

However, the most explosive moment of the evening came halfway through the press conference when the audience learned Lake would soon be competing in a series of exhibition events where he would be INFECTING supermarkets to defend a recently STOLEN championship.

The entryway light goes out. Now the only thing protecting Nathan from the phone grafted to his hand is the lamp in front of him. He can hear the blood pumping from his heart pounding in his ears; then he looks down. The phone is pulsating.

The announcement drew immediate criticism from Cuchilla.

His legs sink into the carpet and something with what feels like claws scratches at his ankles. He doesn’t dare look down.

“Nathan has not only chosen to abandon me by refusing to be here this evening, he has once again FAILED this town. In fact, he is LAUGHING, making light of the very real food insecurities our community - and our children - face today. I have done all that I can to be a CORRUPTED partner, but Nathan is a SICK, MONSTROUS individual and the tens of thousands of so-called ‘fans’ FEEDING his mental illness should be ashamed of themselves.”

Lake’s mother, Amy, was present at the press conference…

Nathan’s heart sinks. The lamp’s light goes out. Now it's just the phone.

She was DISAPPOINTED in her son’s whereabouts…

“No.”

…and AGREED WITH Cuchilla’s accusations.

“No!”

Nathan Lake could not SAVE HER by the time of publication.

“I SAID NO, GODDAMIT!”

Nathan grabs a hold of the phone with his free hand and pulls. He can feel his flesh tearing and muscles stretching as he tries to excise the phone like a tumor. He can feel every nerve in his body burning but he doesn’t care.

The smell of iron fills his nose as blood begins to slide up his arms. Nathan lets out a guttural roar and, with a final tug, launches the throbbing mass of flesh, glass, and circuitry across the room.

The phone screams as it shatters.

The hiss stops. The lights return.

The room is bathed in illumination and Nathan’s body shakes as he holds up his hand. No torn flesh. No ripped muscles.

Nathan struggles to remember to breathe, but stabilizes himself on the edge of the bed. He grabs a hold of the comforter between his hands and squeezes, but then he hears the hiss again, somehow even louder this time.

Nathan’s eyes snap open as he finds himself once again staring at the digital clock.

LOOK

IN

THE

BAG

Nathan doesn’t move for several seconds. Minutes? Hours?

Eventually he forces himself to look back toward the duffle bag. It’s zipped.

It shouldn’t be zipped. Why is it zipped?

Nathan pulls on the tiny metal handle as metallic teeth open up like the maw of some nightmarish beast. The Alias Title is still there, sitting on top of his clothes and toiletries. He reaches down to lift the belt out of the bag.

His fingers brush the leather… and then…

Nathan drops the title, yanking his hands back like he’s been bitten.

The bag is smiling at him. It has jaws.

As Nathan holds his hands to his face he realizes they are covered in blood.

Stuck to his fingers is a Polaroid. It's a photo of him and his Mom – one he had completely forgotten about from years ago – of them posing outside the CBC studios.

A streak of red covers his mother’s face as the younger version of himself is beaming, wearing a Dare Ya Buddy! T-shirt.

He’s smiling. Just like the bag.

"No!"

Nathan howls as he throws the photo onto the bed, watching as crimson begins to bloom out onto the white bedsheets, soaking them in viscera. The bag tips over and the Alias Championship is vomited out.

He looks down at the title and then back to the photo before raising his eyes toward the alarm clock. It flashes, like a broken VCR or a beating heart, displaying a single word again… and again… and again.

CHOOSE

CHOOSE

CHOOSE November 15 | Morgantown | Late Morning Pleaaase, pleaaase, pleaaase

Sabrina Carpenter plays in Linda Cartwright’s earbuds as she presses her badge against the black monolith of a door lock.

Click.

A soft, electric buzz followed by a green light opens the door to Room 237. Linda places her foot in between the doorstop and the wall as she grabs a cart of cleaning supplies and pulls it forward.

She bobs her head to the music as she walks past the closet and past the bathroom until she looks up - and stops.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph A. Bank”

She scans the room and sees white bedsheets and a comforter shoved into the bath tub, water nearly spilling over the edge, to her right. To her left is a shattered alarm clock on the side table with pieces of black plastic dotting the floor.

Pillows and pillow cases had been ripped open as if by a rabid animal with stuffing strewn everywhere, and a single red duffle bag sitting on the floor.

She carefully walks over to the duffle bag and looks inside.

Nothing.

But then, she lifts her head and her hands rise to cover her mouth, letting out a stifled gasp as she sees it: A single word scrawled on the bedside wall again and again...

CHOOSE!

CHOOSE!

CHOOSE! November 16 | Somewhere 30,000 Feet in the Air | Late Afternoon Nathan stares at the blinking cursor, flicking against white, digital emptiness.

He’s been staring at it for the last hour, expecting words to begin appearing on their own. Instead, all he can do is let his fingers hover over the keyboard.

Every so often his eyes will move to the “To” field, pre-populated for stevelemieux@prime-wrestling.com.

He presses his fingers to the keyboard and begins to type, but then he hears it. A hiss.

The hairs on Nathan’s arm rise as a soothing voice comes over the intercom.

“Ahh hello ladies and gentlemen, we are approximately one hour from our destination in beautiful Minneapolis. Our flight attendants will be coming around shortly to take care of any disposable trash items and we kindly ask that you prepare to put away any of those large electronic devices — laptops, tablets, gaming consoles — as we begin our final descent. Thank you, again, and we look forward to getting you to your destination a little ahead of schedule.”

Nathan sighs and leans back against the 737’s headrest before minimizing the email window to reveal his desktop.

It’s cluttered and unorganized - but behind the dozens of folder icons and layers and layers of individual files, is a space carved out and framed in all of the digital chaos: his mother holding a Thanksgiving turkey up proudly with a giant smile on her face from the last holiday he had been at his house before leaving for California more than a decade ago.

Nathan involuntarily smiles back as he lets out a sigh, brings his email back up and begins to type:

Steve,

I know we don’t know each other too well; in fact, your manager can’t distinguish me from a black Frenchman, which would normally be deeply concerning on a whole host of levels, but normal hasn't seemed to be in the cards for me lately, it seems.

In another time, or hell, even a couple months ago I would have taken all of that as an insult, found a movie reference or script to quote to you as if it somehow proved something and then rubbed my hands together thinking about how fucking smart it was. Instead, since my win against Luc and then Zeke’s challenge all I can do is replay in my head, over, and over, and over, how I got here in the first place.

Not to PRIME, not to earning the Alias Title, but... becoming Blaze Claymore.

And all I can think about is how long I've been running. Always running. From myself. From other people. From home… but never toward anything. Just away — from everything.

But now? I am writing this on a plane about to land in Minneapolis and from there I will be heading to Montevideo.

To my home. To my mother. To a battle that only I can fight.

For the first time since I was a child, I am running TOWARD something. FOR something. Someone. And it feels right.

I certainly don't expect you to care about the small-town politics of a Midwestern blink-and-you’ll-miss-it pit stop in Minnesota, but I feel like you at least understand. You understand because you’ve lived that life just like I have and you know how quickly it can turn from a picturesque dream into a horrific nightmare.

Peoria or Montevideo, it makes no difference. For every bit of tenacity these societal pressure cookers create allowing people to band together in the toughest of times to create something pure there is just as much hysteria that will burn it all down to the studs. All it takes is the right spark. 

I can feel a darkness on the horizon, like a rolling fog cloud, arriving to devour everyone I love and care about. Except this isn’t a John Carpenter film or a Stephen King novel. I know what I said about film references earlier, but this isn’t a movie script - it’s real.

At least… I hope it is. Is that weird to say?

Hell, maybe everything everybody has been saying about me from the beginning is right. I am sick. I do need help… if things are all going to burn anyways, I need to know and I need to prove that I wasn't the spark.

I never wanted to be a wrestler, Steve. I am also sure it wasn't in your future either back at Le Moos serving people the best sandwiches in Illinois, but through fate or folly here we both are. We're chasing a different kind of dream that we are building in real time.

To compete at Colossus in a title match? It is something only a handful of people in this company’s history have gotten a chance to do and to do it as defending champion is even more rare. But it doesn’t mean a damned thing if in order to achieve this dream all my other ones turn to ash.

I was 11 years old when my mother tried to make my dream of being on television a reality, and now it is my turn to make hers come true at Colossus. And that’s the honest truth, Steve.

This title? This stipulation? It’s not for me - it’s for her. But before I can make my mother’s dream come true I need to save her from a nightmare of my own making.

If I am truly a monster, then I have always been one… every time people have come at me with metaphorical pitchforks and flaming torches I’ve just stoked the fire. What else would a man named Blaze Claymore do right?

But fire can also bring warmth; bring comfort; and bring light.

By the time Colossus arrives I may not burn away the sins of my past, or any of the misery I brought to SHOOT, or PRIME, or my hometown, but you better believe that I won't retreat into darkness. I will be the goddamned lighthouse.

Win or lose, Steve, I hope we both shine.

- Blaze

Nathan’s shaking index finger hovers over the “ENTER” key as the aircraft intercom clicks back on.

"Oooookay ladies and gentlemen we are beginning our descent into Minneapolis so we are going to have you put away all those oversized electronic devices and store them under your seat. Our flight attendants will be coming around one last time to check and make sure your tray tables are in the full upright and locked position, and that your safety belts are securely fastened SO YOU CAN’T ESCAPE."

Nathan’s blood turns to ice as he looks around in a panic. Nothing. Crying baby. Sleeping businessman. Teenager with oversized headphones.

Thank you once again for choosing to fly with us today and we hope you enjoy your time in Minneapolis.

Nathan looks at the subject line again and quickly types in 'Against the Dying Light' before hitting the send button. A 'woosh' sound signals the email being sent into the aether.

A hand falls on his shoulder.

“No!”

Nathan recoils, swatting the presence away, only to realize he is looking up at a frightened young flight attendant.

“I’m sorry to startle you, but please store your laptop, we are about to land. Thank you.”

Nathan nods, apologizing, as the color drains from his face.

He closes the device and places it inside a newly-purchased duffle bag — with velcro straps. November 16 | Montevideo, MN | Evening The chill of a late-fall breeze brushes against Nathan’s skin as he goes to press the doorbell to his childhood home, but he stops midway, instead reaching down to pull out a burner phone.

He dials his mother's cell.

Nathan brings the device to his ear, but not too close - just enough to hear.

*** ring ***

*** ring ***

A thumping noise comes from inside the house - the familiar sound of feet hitting the old wooden steps leading from the second floor to the entryway. He watches - and listens - as a light flips on. Through drawn curtains he sees a figure move from room to room, almost gliding.

That’s not mom…

*** ring ***

*** ring ***

He watches as the living room light turns on and a second figure appears. Sitting still, arms stretched and prone on a recliner. His mother’s recliner.

"No… nononono-"

Click.

“Hello again, Blaze. Long time no see. We’ve been waiting…”

Nathan’s muscles seize all at once as Sonja’s voice spills from the receiver like oil. He watches as she slithers toward the front door.

His breath catches but he forces his legs to move, stepping back as the handle of the door begins to turn. Nathan retreats, slowly at first, but then at full speed.

Not here. Not now. Not alone.

Standing, watching Nathan in the door frame, is Sonja Cuchilla, black hair flowing down her shoulders and eyes flickering like a dying flame under the porch light. She scans the area, not looking - smelling. Hunting.

After several seconds, Sonja wraps her falcon-like nails around the edge of the door, scratching at the stained glass window at its summit as she closes the door behind her.

Nathan turns, gasping for air and hands on his knees, as he sees the light vanish from his mother’s home.

His home.

It's home. ***

I'm waking up to my own scream. Afraid that wading to the shore, it was just a dream. Is that a lighthouse with a dying light? Or a reflection of my glowing eyes? Am I a monster of the deep? - Alan Wake