Gutter

I stink.

Four plus days and I don’t need some bullshit sunshine. I can smell myself under these sheets. Festering. Rotting. 

Four fucking days. 

I’ve been out of this bed maybe a handful of hours outside that? Plopped on the couch. Laying around. Listless. Nothing on. Doomscroll and Youtube video listen and just...that...welling in the chest and decomposing and knowing...knowing...KNOWING the truth.

Get the kicks on.

Do some jumping jacks.

Get a toke or five.

Get in position and put on that silly face like you do on Jabber, where you intentionally misspell shit and are an idiot and you act completely outside the realm or the norm. Because I’m a blonde bimbo dumb dumb, and I silly, you see, tee hee

Tee hee

Tee hee

Fuck.

FUCK.

It’s not the circumstances. It’s not the pressure. Some might think that’s a bitch lying, but I. KNOW. Me. You don’t think the little girl in me isn’t running up the goddamn walls right now? PRIME Pay Per View. Culture Shock. I get to go to the ring with the sister who introduced me to this fucking...weird...WHATEVER...this is…

Her hair is a whirlwind and she flies with effortless grace, and even still, every blow she lands crushes, crunches, brutalizes. Karina Wolfenden. This weird statute of movement, this absolute icon of style, and for young Angelica, asked over to a friend’s house for the first time ever, she sits crosslegged, eyes wide, mouth agape. And that was just against The Hardcore Isocicles Trapezoid.

“...and there’s two doors, and these domes…” Rebecca was scarfing down stuffed crust pizza and her upper lip was stained blue from Koolaid.

Angel couldn’t help but say the first thing that came to mind. “...it looks like a butt.”

“Nuh uh!”

“That’s a butt.”

“No! It’s a halo!”

“Butt halo.”

“Stop it!”

“Okay.” And just like that, the little blonde girl zipped her lips. Her shoulders, however, were buzzing. The whirlwind woman looked like the best tumbler she ever saw. She was just...something about that woman…

She wanted to be her.

She wanted to be her even before that woman won the Dual Halo.

I’m stinking in your clothes, Karina. I’m shut in and my heart feels like lightning is passing through it and everything feels cold in my shoulders, but gee gosh, you know how to put together a clothing line that’s always comfy. And thank god, because it’s the only thing I got going for me right now…

Circling the drain. 

Ciiiiiiiircling…

It’s not the match. It’s not the fact that I know...I KNOW...that…

No. This isn’t about whether win or lose. Because this is something deeper. Because I feel it deep in me. Because I can’t help but toss and turn in this bed, and cover every part of me, and not will myself to move, to wash, to live, to fucking care. Care about anything. Everything. Bleh. Bleh bleh bleh. Nothing matters. I feel sad.

Bored.

Listless.

Useless.

Seattle girls with a flicker will blow a kiss and say ‘it’s better to burn out than to fade away...’

And Ria pooh, I’ve never said that to you because you know the implication that’s there. And so does Rebecca, and it’s all faux deep but then you’re dealing with someone who wants to get their arms around just exactly what Kurt meant by that…

...and we don’t have those conversations, do we Angel? We don’t have those conversations because everyone knows you have too damn good of a support network that Bex and RIA and Ami and lord knows who else would dive on top of you and drag you kicking and screaming to ‘get the help you need’. 

New World Trash.

We started this whole thing as a family, me and Rebecca. We smoked blunts and hocked shirts and knew we were the hottest girls around and that was all to our advantage. We still know the advantage. But the other thing about us was...we were fucking going to that ring ready to die.

Break some bones? Break some teeth? Bleed? Sprain or tear something? Who. Gives. A. Fuuuuuuck?! We’d get going talking about how we were going to be dead by forty anyways...while downing fucking forties...because who cares, right? Who cares about some dead-enders on some wrestling grift shit? Bex was a welder and I worked shit retail gigs and we weren’t going anywhere.

“You can always come home, Angel.” Mother’s voice was always sweet. Damn her. But the thing behind those words was the worry she felt underneath. “Your father and I have talked, and it’s okay to give yourself a reset. Go to school. Find a good job. It’s just...”

The apartment is a wreck of liquor bottles fast food wrappers and a sink with way too many dishes. And she listens, all while she sprinkles the keef over the line for the joint she’s about the light up. “...you don’t see that happening with me on my own.”

Father’s voice wasn’t harsh. It was warm. Soothing. “You’re swimming up a creek, against the current. It’s hard. It’s not like it was when we were your age. Things cost so much more. Getting a decent paying job, it’s difficult. And those retail jobs you are doing, they aren’t providing you any sort of living.”

Spark it up. Take a drag. “You’re not wrong about that. But we managed to sell a bunch of shirts at the last show–”

And there is Mom, to cut through what she was about to say. And in these wrestling stories, everyone knows what she is about to say, because of course they do. Because it’s just the way of paternal units and “--that’s great, hon! And we’re not saying you stop wrestling. You do what you want to do. You have your fun. Your dream. We’re not going to ever stop you. It’s just that...”

“Rebecca has a trade. And you’ve said you’re worried because you’re having to depend on her for rent and the bills and–”

I don’t get to compartmentalize and turn a tag team title run as some fuck you statement to my folks who wanted me to button up for the man, because the fact is, I’m a dog and I’m given such a long leash by everyone around me and it’s just them, giving to me, always giving, always giving, always making me feel great, feel special…

Man…

Fuck them.

Fuck.

FUCK.

How fucking blessed am I am yet...and yet...and yet…

You know...I died once?

Not really.

But maybe kinda really?

Savannah Scandal broke that bit of news to the world.

Hey, do you know what your brain tastes like?

I do. I do. And I’ll never forget it. I’ll never forget how the shit oozed from my nostrils and down my throat–

There’s a scar.

There’s a blank spot.

There’s me...stinking, rotting...decomposing...under these covers. Under these sheets. 

Because I didn’t die that day.

But maybe it would’ve been cool if I did?

Because then I won’t feel like this.

Because then I wouldn’t remember who and what I was before that moment, and know...know...they’re never coming back. 

And no, I don’t want to do anything, fuck’s sake. 

But I don’t want to feel like this anymore.

I don’t want to feel just a step slower.

I don’t want my eyes to get heavy and water for no reason.

I want to rush out into the rain and devil may care like I used to...like we used to…

I don’t want to spend so much of my time sleeping…

I want to feel passion for things I care about…

I want to be better and whole and not fragmented and not scared and not shivering not because I am cold but I don’t want to get out of this bed and I won’t, just leave me here, just leave me here, I don’t care, I don’t care–

FUCKING LINDSAY!

WHY!

WHY LINDSAY?!

WHY DID YOU GIVE A FUCK?!

WHY DID YOU CARE?!

ME AND BEX HAVE BEEN LIVING ON YOUR FUCKING DOLE FOR YEARS AND YOU AIN’T ASKED US JACK SHIT, AND WHY? WHO DOES THAT? WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! Why THE FUCK did you slip that contract with a wink and a nudge and say go out there and do your thing? You realize that’s burnt cash? You could’ve gotten a yacht or some snazzy get up or whatever the hell, something for you, a diamond, a big diamond...something nice and proper fancy…

But nooooooooooo…

You drop it in my lap.

You have to expect shit from something like me.

We get your daughter blitzed and glass eyed, and just do the dumbest shit. What, is this a charity? You paying for day care?

We piss you off and that’s why we’re going for the BIG BELTS with THE BIG TRUCK MAN and THE GREATEST SCOTT? Headphones, beats by dre, fuuuuuuuck you…

And I don’t give a fuck.

I don’t want to go.

And I won’t go.

We aren’t going.

I can’t go.

I can’t.

I…

Rebecca…

Rebecca please…

You’re so much stronger than me. You always have been. You always have been. And all I do is latch on to you, and this is our moment. This is our one bite of the fucking apple. And I fucked it up. 

I fucked it up.

I…

Bex pulled the cover from Angel, her eyes burning from the stink, yet she was undaunted. “You need to get a shower.”

“...okay...”

“No more caffeine. I’m going to get you some water. Some decent food too. Can’t believe you’ve just been eating ramen all this time.”

“...okay…”

“Angel...are you in the valley?”

“...yeah…”

“Any idea what caused it?”

“...it just happened. I don’t know why. It just always happens.”

“Do you want to cry?”

“...yeah...”

“It’s okay. Come here. I got you, sis.”

“...I’m sorry…”

“For what?”

“...this. All of this...”

“It’s okay. I’ve been looking into some stuff that might help. TMS therapy. We can...look into that more indepth when we get back from Mexico.”

“...I...don’t think I should go. I don’t think I can wrestle.”

“And if you can’t, we’ll let them know. But Ria is going to be there, and it’s her first ever main event, and the Trash stick together.”

“...yeah...”

“And besides...Ami is no longer managing a champion. It’s been too long. She might sprout an Alexei-stache if we don’t feed her some gold...”

“...doesn’t hurt to try…”

“That’s my Angel.”