Elation was not an emotion Elliott Rollins was normally accustomed to, but when he was informed of his first wrestling match in nearly four years, it was the closest thing he could compare that feeling to. It wasn't all good; there were jitters, to be certain. Even when Thapes confronted him in the locker room, however, his mind could only think about one thing, and that was the thrill of getting a chance to do what he thought he'd never have the opportunity to do again.
As he left the arena, those feelings of excitement had left him, leaving only a hollowness located somewhere in his stomach.
“You know how I feel about swearing in my office,” she said to him.
The aforementioned office is colder than usual. It may have to do with the brisk November wind, but for some reason Dr. Thapes felt the catalyst for the chilly air may be something else. She couldn't quite place her finger on it, but the atmosphere here was changing.
The room is much different now; the sun shines through the dusty window blinds, peppering rays of light across the wooden furniture. She shades her glasses-framed eyes from the bright beams of Florida sun entering her office uninvited. Even she appears different, younger. Her posture is slightly relaxed; her attire more casual.
“Sorry,” is all he could muster.
Elliott Rollins, on the other hand, appears tense. He is sitting on the same couch as before, the memory of his shape indented in to the leather. He is hunched over, his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands. He couldn't help but wonder how therapy sessions benefited anyone, as he exited the room far more stressed than he entered.
“It's fine,” she says. “I just think there are more productive ways to vent frustrations, Mr. Rollins.”
He sighs.
“What is it now?” she asks, chewing the tip of her pen.
He responds by saying nothing.
“Mr. Rollins,” she says, her tone returning to form, “I'm afraid I've done all I can do to help you.”
“You haven't done anything,” he says, regretting the aggression after the fact.
“You don't allow me to,” she responds, her voice remaining calm. “How can I advise you if you don't bother taking it?” He clears his throat. This is the most response she gets from him.
“You're wasting your money,” she continues, “and you're wasting my time. While you're in here, countless other people sit outside there with much bigger problems on their hands.”
“Who's to say how big my problems are?” he says, taking slight offense to her putting her other patients issues above his own.
“Exactly my point,” she says, allowing him to make it for her. “I can only assume by your inability to cooperate that there's nothing wrong with you, and you bring yourself here for motives differing from the ones you've mentioned to me previously.”
“Do you talk like that outside of here?” he asks.
“What-?” she responds, losing a bit of her composure. She clears her throat. “I'm not sure what you mean.”
“All rigid-like,” he carries on. “A bit uptight. Is that really you?”
“If you're asking if I carry myself professionally, then yes,” she says, confirming his fears. “I find it odd how people confuse educated for uptight.”
“You still call me mister,” he says, finally making eye contact with her.
He is met with a look of perplexity.
“You still call me mister,” he repeats. “I've been your patient for, what, two years now? You expect me to open up to you, to act like you're my friend, but you still call me mister. What the fuck --” she flinches, “--else do you expect me to think? That just because you ask me shit, that means we're pals? That I should trust you?”
Now she is the one who is unresponsive.
“If you want me to drop the wall, then drop the act, Doctor Thapes,” he says. It isn't mean, but it is firm. “I saw you at Uproar, I know you're not the character you play on television. Just do me the favor and quit the bullshit and maybe we can have a working relationship.”
This was the most honest anyone had been to her in years. She nods her head. At first, she found it shocking; now, she found it refreshing.
“You're right,” she says, “Maybe that's why I am where I am.”
Now, he felt bad.
“I didn't mean --”
“No, it's fine,” she says, actually letting out a faint smile. “It really is. If I expect you to open up to me, I suppose I have to open up to you as well.”
The look on his face, a mixture of confusion and relief, tells it all.
“Let me start by saying coming to your wrestling match was quite enjoyable,” she smiles.
“Wait,” he says, “you liked it?”
“I did. Very much so, actually.”
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. “I haven't had beer spilled on me in...,” she pauses, ”I don't know how long. Quite refreshing.” This sudden sense of humor, this openness comes as a shock to Elliott, who can't help but think that something was up.
“I wish we could have stayed longer,” she continues.
“I'm beginning to think you enjoyed it more than I did,” he says, a slight bitterness in his tone.
“Which surprises me --”
“Me too,” he interjects.
“You were so excited for it before,” she continues. “What changed?”
“The fact that my match ended with a man attempting to disrobe another man.”
She nods. “I saw.”
He couldn't tell if this was another attempt at a joke. “What I saw was all that anticipation amount to nothing,” he says. “Of all the ways my first match back could have ended...”
“Less than satisfying?” she asks.
“I would have preferred losing,” he says. “Instead, I go out there, get manhandled for a majority of the match, and come out at the end looking worse than before I even stepped foot in the ring.”
“Isn't the whole point to entertain?” she asks.
“Apparently our opinions on entertainment differ,” he responds. “I don't mind if Prince wants to look like an idiot, but I take a little pride in my work, you know?”
“You'll have other matches,” she confirms. “I doubt many people come off looking great their first time.”
“What happened to 'one must portray an image of success at all times?'”
She raises an eyebrow. “Did I say that?” Before he can say something, she continues. “From the looks of it, the loser in that match was having far more fun than the winner.”
“Despite what Clinton Sage says, it's not about the win,” he claims. “It's how you win, and I certainly didn't want to get a victory like that.”
“Well,” she poses, “have you told management you're not happy with how things went down?”
“All they know is what I tell them, and so far, I haven't told them shit.”
“Same with me,” she says.
“Same with you,” he confirms.
“I'm the only one asking questions, though,” she carries on. “I doubt a man upset with his first match in is much of a concern considering all of the other chaos going on.” She digresses. ”To be honest, I'm not sure why they call it professional wrestling, actually. There's not much 'professional' about it.”
She notices her client fading away.
“Sorry, but the only way you're going to get noticed is if you make people notice you.”
He remains silent. Recognition be damned.
He shuts the television off.
The room falls silent.
Elliott Rollins is alone in his apartment. The walls look ill; a burnt yellow wallpaper spotted with water stains from previous occupants. He did his best to maintain a humble abode, but for the price and location, this was the best he could do. He simply sits, staring at his reflection in the television.
They don't know a thing, he thought. They don't know a thing about me.
He was torn.
He rubs his eyes with his palms. The clock on the wall reads 3:28, and judging by the utter darkness, it was nighttime. And he was right. 'They', being the fans, roster, and staff of FUSE, had absolutely no idea who this man was. In a way, he was okay with this. Then, in the same breath, he would want to scream out that this was his time. That he had waited long enough.
He was contradiction.
He would be patient. It was a long road ahead of him, and he had just started to walk. He didn't want to divulge too much information too soon. There would be no surprises left. What he would do, however, was get them to start asking questions. He was a man who didn't say much, but when he did speak, he wanted everyone to listen. He wasn't a gimmick; he wasn't a vampire, a sumo wrestler, a prince, a pauper, Captain America, he was none of these things. What he brought to the ring was everything he was outside of it, and he had hoped that authenticity alone would make people wonder, considering the lack of it in his profession.
He was ready.
He was home.
It wasn't how he remembered it; the small one-story was structurally the same, but the residential furniture inside was arranged differently. The coal gray couch had sat against a different wall, and the television was nowhere to be found. As Elliott walks through the living room, in to the kitchen, he remembered this day. It was as vivid as any day in history; like the Kennedy assassination or the Trade Center towers burning, he could remember every single detail.
The words echoed.
The dogs were barking now, as he had expected.
He heard several thuds, and then watched a younger version of himself run through the kitchen and then in to the living room. Paramedics were hovering over her. He grabbed one of the dogs and pulled it in close, his body slumping against the wall. He watched as they ripped the front of her shirt open, attempting to resuscitate her.
The only thing he could do was pull his dog even closer, and watch through tears as the woman who raised him lay lifeless on the floor.
The trip to the hospital was silent. Only the roar of the engine could be heard. Elliott road along, remembering everything from the shirt he had been wearing to the way the morning sun blinded him for most of the trip. He watched as he got out of the truck, and threw himself in to the arms of his father, who hadn't been there for him before, but managed to be there for him now. He saw his stepfather and father shook hands. His stepmother stood to the side. Even she had tears in her eyes.
Elliott watched as all four of them made their way in to the waiting room.
He listened as his stepfather made the call to his grandmother. He relived that horrific scream that came from the other end of the phone. He sat through hours of paperwork, visits from relatives and friends. Later he would go to the funeral, where people he didn't know would hug him and apologize for his loss.
He had this dream for years, but for some reason, couldn't stop reliving it.
Everything he had done, for the eleven years he has lived since then, has in some way been affected by that day.
“Elliott,” a voice says on the other line, waking him from his slumber. “You need to come home, son.”
This day would be no different.