October 28, 2007
Paris, France

In the world of sleep, he was lying on a beach, bathing in the golden rays of a midsummer's beautiful day. He'd always loved summers at his mother's home, where the weather always seemed to be nice and the scenery was never anything other than beautiful. The sun streamed off of the sand and off of the amazingly clear blue water, every ripple outlined with golden light. The dream Joaquin sighed, a contended sigh that showed off just how pleased he was.

At his side, clad in a red and white bikini, was the love of his life, probably, at least in his opinion, the most beautiful woman on earth. She lay cuddled against him, tucked beneath his right arm. Her glorious mane of chestnut hair flowed over his shoulder and chest like a rich, flowing carpet.

The dream man smiled, wondering just how he had come to be so lucky, just what he had done to deserve such a wonderful woman, such a wonderful life.

And then he awoke...

Joaquin

The whispered name was enough to shake him free from his dreams, to bring him back to the world of wakefulness. The whisper was accompanied by a sharp, long creaking sound that he knew came from the weathered, ancient floorboards of the hall. A sound that, he knew from seventeen years of life in this house, only came when somebody was walking.

Which was odd, considering that his entire family was, like Joaquin himself, very heavy sleepers.

He eased his two hundred and fifty three pound frame carefully to the side of the bed, trying his best not to wake up Marie with the movement or the soft thunk when his bare feet hit the hardwood floor.

Joaquin, come to me.

Moving softly, trying not to make noise, he shuffled towards the door. The shadows cast by even the most familiar of objects seemed foreign, like things from another dimension. Even objects he had looked at for years, literally thousands of times, looked threatening.

With a last glance over his shoulder, just to make sure that Marie hadn't been startled by his leaving, he was surprised to see her side of the bed still made. The stupid throw pillows she insisted on keeping on the bed, the comforter with the pictures of flowers on it, all of it as untouched as if nobody had ever slept in it on her side.

So where was she?

“Marie?” He called out. Perhaps the child had been kicking and awakened her. “Are you all right?”

He felt rather guilty, for sleeping soundly if she was up and in pain or discomfort. The pregnancy had been a little rough, but she was coming through it all right. She was a tough, strong willed woman, one who had every right to hate her husband. Joaquin knew it, and felt determined to change things.

He'd been obsessed, he knew as he padded down the hallway towards the stairs. His obsession had not been women, or drugs, or anything like that. No, his obsession had been a shiny piece of gold and leather, a trinket that had caught his fancy. His trinket, his obsession, was the gleaming gold surface of the Global International Championship...

“Marie?”

The Championship that had been all but stolen from him when Isaac Murdoch unceremoniously terminated his contract with Global only days after he won it. He'd been obsessed with reclaiming it, and had spent nearly all of his time in Dallas, fighting, to try and reclaim it.

He had neglected and abandoned his family, left them to their own devices while he searched for personal glory.

Down here...

The voice didn't quite sound right, but perhaps it was Marie. His feet pounded down the stairs, and he almost tripped on the leg of his blue pajama bottoms, so anxious was he to begin making up his mistakes to his wife. God only knew, he had a lot to make up for.

He nearly slipped again, this time as he entered the living room, hoping against hope that she was all right.

“Are you all right?”

She stood in front of the artificial fireplace that graced the north side of his living room, with her back to Joaquin, who could merely watch the back of her head as it moved slowly, back and forth, looking at the pictures and mementos of a long marriage.

She appeared clothed in flowing white robes, that trailed behind her like an alabaster river along the wine red carpets. And when she spoke, her voice sounded as though it were coming from a million miles away, or through a dense fog. It was soft, silent, and so full of sorrow that he could barely hear to listen to it.

Do you ever look at these pictures anymore? Do you care to see what we've done?

Of course he cared... “Marie, of course I do. I know I've not shown it...”

Do you ever stop to think about how different things could have been? Should have been?

Different... yes, things could have been different, and without a doubt should have been. He could have stayed in France and competed there, continued doing the same things he did every other day, every other month. But he had needed more. He had needed glory, and to be regarded as the best.

He had needed exposure.

I needed you.

A single tear leaked from behind one of his cobalt blue eyes, a tear born of regret and sorrow. It was joined by another, and another after it. Soon, a small river of salty tears ran down his cheeks, dripping down onto his bare chest as he opened his mouth to reply.

“I'm sorry.”

Your children needed you.

She turned then, and her face was covered by a veil, not unlike the one she had worn on their wedding day. He could make out the shape of her eyes, but everything else was obscured by its silvery white curtain.

You failed us.

She raised a hand, the index finger of her right hand pointing straight at him, accusing him. The hand itself was terrifying, the flesh graying and cracking, like something that had been dead for a while. The nails were split and cracked, and the flesh was just beginning to flake off of her hand.

And look where you got us.

The veil lifted, the dead hand grasping it and pulling it off, and her eyes stared at him, emotionless, dull. The blue orbs that had once been so vibrant, so alive, so full of emotion were dead. The skin on her face was the same as the hands, dead and gray and hideous. The left side of her head was bloody, and a huge hole capped the spot where the .38 caliber bullet had smashed through her head. The woman who, only moments ago, had been in his dreams as a living, breathing woman, was dead.

You caused this.
He began to shake as she stared vacantly at him. That pointing, accusing finger may as well have been a dagger shoved straight into his heart. Tears ducts kicked into overdrive, and a sob burst from his chest.

I hope you never forget.

Her hand dropped back to its side with a sick crunching sound, and her face seemed to distort. The features melted together, fused into a shapeless muddle that looked like nothing in particular, and when they reformed, he was looking into a set of iron gray eyes that were equally familiar, eyes that he had looked into many, many times.

Marcel Antonio Pierre.

His son.

I died, Father. The same as Mother did.

“Please...”

Marcel made no move, but the blank look on his face felt just like a slap. The wide open cavity that had once housed his internal organ's gaped wide, like an obscene smile that exposed the empty ribs.

Why did you do this? Why couldn't you be here?

The features again fused, this time coming together in a set of features so similar to those of his father that Joaquin fell backwards, his eyes widening in shock. It was like looking into a mirror.

Gabriel.

The barbed wire that Harrison O'Dell had strangled him with still hung from his neck, pulled tight and deep into the flesh of his neck. The boy's head wobbled dangerously atop its muscular neck, back and forth as though it were about to topple right off.

I want you to know that I blame you.

The tears dripped to the carpet, and a moan of agony, like an animal in pain, burst from Pierre's chest.

Joan doesn't, Father. She was too little, just a baby. But she died because of you, just like we did. As for me...

The boy's dead eyes bored into his father, staring deep into his very soul as they said the words he'd hoped he would never hear from any of his children...

I hate you.

With a slight swish of the long white cloak, the figure vanished, leaving Joaquin alone, sitting in the darkness screaming out his anguish to the ceiling with nothing but his own thoughts for an answer...

November 6, 2007
Montreal, Quebec, Canada

Dr. Sarah De La Vega had seen some severe cases of post traumatic stress disorder in her time, but Joaquin Pierre had to rank among the top of them. He was a man in dire need of help, she could tell from the look in his eyes the minute he walked in the door. His eyes looked haunted, tormented, not to mention very, very tired.

She had seen him on television before, his exploits in the Global ring, of which he ex husband had watched faithfully, were reasonably well known to her. In fact, she had cheered for the man in his battles against Christian Darke. She'd even raised to her feet, cheering like Diego had never seen her cheer, when his right foot had kicked Darke in the head, enabling him to climb the ladder and claim the Global International Championship from its hook.

She had been a fan.

But such things had to be put aside now, for the man needed help. And she had an odd feeling that she was the only one who could give him the help he needed. So when he appeared at the door of her office, exactly on time, she asked no questions, but simply ushered him into her small office.

“Welcome, Joaquin.” She tried for a gracious smile, but the deterioration from the last time she had seen him on television was evident, and it disturbed her. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He made no effort to answer her, no acknowledgment that she had even spoken. He merely kept his eyes glued to the wine colored carpet, didn't glance around at the shelves of books or at her degrees hanging on the wall. He didn't even look at her, as so many of her clients did, with the predatory eye of a patient looking to bone their therapist.

“Would you like some coffee? Or water?”

An almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“OK... before we begin I need you to understand something. And you need to look at me when I say this.” His eyes rose to meet hers, cobalt blue locking with green, and she kept the connection locked. “There is nothing I can do for you if you intend on sitting there and saying nothing. You need to have input into this, you need to talk. I need to know what you are thinking and how you are feeling if I am going to help you.”

“My... My English, 'eet 'eez not so good.”

“That is all right, please. Feel free to speak French, if it makes you feel more comfortable..”

He nodded slowly, his eyes dropping once more to the floor. When he spoke, it was in the musical dialect of his homeland, but his voice was empty of emotion, of anything, really. It sounded hollow.

“My family was murdered, madame. I was there, but I got there too late to same them.”

She could tell that he was reliving that night, or day, in his mind. She didn't need him to tell her what he was seeing, she could tell for herself from the horrified look in his eyes. And by the quiver in his voice when he continued.

“My wife, Marie. My sons, Gabriel and Marcel. My daughter, Joan. Gone.”

“And you blame yourself, don't you?”

In only a second, less than a second, he was sobbing. His eyes were full of tears, and his hands balled into fists of suppressed and helpless rage. Sarah paused, giving him time, letting him think of what, if anything, he had to say next, what he needed to get across.

“You feel like you could have saved them. Like this could have all been avoided. Is that it?”

The man was in bad shape. His clothing was wrinkled, and looked as though it had been worn for several days. When she had seen him, he had always been clean shaved, and well kept. But this man was a specter of his former self. He wore a rough beard, as though he hadn't shaved in days, and his hair looked rather dirty. He bore little to no resemblance to the man she had seen fighting. But then, he hadn't seemed himself in his last few Global matches, either. He'd seemed lackluster, like a man trying and failing to hold himself together.

And now he had fallen apart.

“I feel... I failed them.”

He sighed deeply, the sound a strangled mix of emotions.

“I wasn't there for them. They needed me, and I wasn't there.”

His eyes begged her for help, begged her to save him.

“Joaquin, there was nothing you could have done... I read the police report. You were coming back from the States at the time.”

“Did you read the part where my wife died in my arms? Because I didn't finish off the bastard that killed her?”

So that was it. She had died in his arms... a cold shiver went down Sarah's spine, one that she hoped he couldn't see. He didn't need her pity, and he didn't want her pity.

“Did you read that I got there five minutes too late to save my son Gabriel? Did your report tell you that?”

His pain was tangible. She could feel it, practically as though it were her own pain, her own sorrow. But what she didn't know, couldn't feel, was what to do. How to proceed.

“No, the report didn't say that.” She closed her hands on the file folder sitting in her lap, opening it wide with a crinkling sound. “But the report your doctor in France sent me is interesting to say the least. Would you mind if I read some of it?”

He didn't respond, so she merely continued.

“Patient shows symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder. He feels extremely guilty about the events that took place with his family, and blames himself. Exhibits suicidal tendencies and a wish to die, so he can meet up with his family.”

“I do not wish to die.”

His voice was so soft that she nearly didn't hear him speaking, but she felt that somehow, some way, he needed to hear what was written here.

“Patient has admitted to delusions, nightmares, and “visits” from his family. Recommended treatment: admission into a psychiatric hospital for further observation and treatment, for a time up to and including a year. Further evaluation to be done after that time.”

She looked up from the folder, looked right at him, and was surprised to see that he was looking up, right into her eyes, and the intensity in that look was so strong it could have burned her. His eyes appeared on fire, and his voice was strong, for the first time since he had entered into her office, he resembled the man who had fought Christian Darke, and won, on several occasions. He looked like the man who was strong and confident.

“How does that report make you feel?” His response was critical. If she believed he was a danger to himself or to others, she would have no choice but to have him committed. “What do you think?”

He seemed to be struggling for words, his eyes still blazing, but his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words.

“Mr. Pierre, I have to tell you that if you do not answer me, or if your answers are not satisfactory, I have no choice but to follow through with your doctor's recommendations.”

“You want to know what I think. Strange.” He glared at her, and she had to work hard to resist the urge to duck down and hide beneath the polished mahogany surface of her desk. “The doctor in France never bothered to listen to what I thought, what I had to say. He told me what he thought was wrong, and that was all there was to it.”

“I want to know.”

“I am haunted by their memories. I see them, I feel them, all around me. I think it is part of my particular grieving process, that is all. I am not crazed, and I am not suicidal. Do I see them? Yes, sometimes I do.”
She had a sudden image in her head of him talking to thin air, and wondered just how she would react if she saw him doing it. Would she think he was crazy? Or would she think he was a man simply trying to figure out his own emotions, trying to make peace with himself?

“I want to be left alone, to figure this out. I'm willing to keep coming in, keep talking to you. But please, do not do this. I need to do things my own way, it is the only way this will work.”

Decisions, decisions. There were only two, and she would feel good about neither. Neither of them would be truly right, and both of them would do some sort of damage to somebody, whether to Joaquin, somebody around him, or to Sarah herself. She looked down at the folder again, and sighed deeply.

“Joaquin, I don't know.” She looked at him, looked at the hurt and the pain and the determination so evident in his eyes. “If I sign off on you staying out, you have to make some promises. One, I want you in here twice a week. Two, I want you to go back to work, prove to me that you have the drive to turn your life around.”

She paused, and he pounced on her hesitation. “Why do I get the feeling there is a three?”

“The third thing is that you need to take something to stabilize your mood. I don't truly believe that you are not a danger to yourself or to others.”

He shook his head, nearly snarling at her. “I cannot. Drug testing is mandatory, and it will affect my performance.”

“With a valid prescription, you will not get busted. As far as performance, this is not an option for you. So you'll have to figure out a way to work around it. Hell, only use it if you need it for all I care, but you will have something.”

When he hesitated again, she scribbled a prescription, finishing it up with a looping signature at the bottom of her chicken scratch handwriting. She tossed it on his lap and walked to the door.

“Bottom line.”

An hour later, he was exiting the pharmacy with the little paper bag in his hand. He would not use the drugs. He could not.

Later that day...

His tiny apartment was quiet, just how he liked it. But the blinking light on the front of his answering machine somehow gave him a bad feeling. It was with a sense of foreboding that he punched the button, and heard the voice coming out of the little speakers.

“Mr. Pierre, this is Brandi Sights calling.” Brandi Sights, the former President of Global. “It is with regret that we inform you that your contract with Global has been terminated. Your performances have been slipping, and while we regret your personal situation, we do not feel that there is anything we can do, and our doctors feel that you are a liability we cannot afford. Therefore...”

Fired...

“Your contracted match at the upcoming Dark Rituals pay-per-view will take place, after which your contract with Global will be terminated.”

Her voice softened for moment, and lost its businesslike tone.

“I'm sorry, Joaquin. But Salaok is insistent, and he owns the company now. There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry.”

CLICK.

Fired... the one thing he had left to hold onto, his career, was gone. He looked around at the walls, bare and devoid of decoration, and at the plain furniture he had purchased. Was this to be his world now? He looked at the pills, and without even thinking, opened the little bottle.

“Use them if you need them...” He smiled to himself, thinking of Dr. De La Vega and what she had said. “I believe my doctor is a psychic.”

He tossed back four of the pills, though the label said one, and sat back on his couch, waiting for them to take effect. Moment by moment, he felt the pain, the disappointment, begin to fall away from him. He descended into a haze, where he felt nothing.

“Thank you, doctor.”

He felt himself slipping under, getting close to sleep, and even as he did, the phone rang again. He wondered if he should answer it, but things were too fuzzy, he couldn't move. It rang four, five, six times as Joaquin sank further and further into his trance. And when it finally kicked onto the answering machine, a voice he was unfamiliar with came out of the tiny speaker.

“Mr. Pierre, I'm sorry I couldn't reach you. My name is Smitty T. Duluth, and I have just become aware that you have been released from Global. If it suits you, I would like to speak to you about possibly returning to FUSE in the near future...”

FUSE. He remembered falling from the top rope of the FUSE ring, his head slamming into the mat and then blackness, from Joshua Kosidlo's Kosidlo Driver '07. Was he ready?

And then he drifted into unconsciousness, and knew no more.