Nothing But Animals

A chair, slid under a table, the latter bare save for a folded piece of paper and a single rose. A dim light shines above, but only possesses enough strength to make a circle upon the polished wooden surface, barely expressing a glow past that point. There are shadows of other chairs, all of them empty. Only the one we see from the back is filled, and even if we do not recognize that shape on sight, we know that voice…

”Humans are not solitary creatures, no matter how much we wish that we could be.”

Nathaniel Cartwright.

The view pans around a bit, showing him sitting at the table previously noted. An engraved steel cigarette case and a box of matches sit near his right hand. Near his left, a framed picture turned face-down as well as a bottle of what we can assume to be liquor and a glass with semi-melted ice within. The Winter Wraith, draining the vestiges of water and booze from the glass, has always had a peculiar look about him, being the sort of fellow who you just cannot get a read on unless he wants you to.

But there is no question about it; his mood is obvious even in the dim light. Nathaniel is angry. On top of that, he looks like he has not slept in days. Dark circles hang under his eyes. He looks a little… thinner? Gaunt would be too extreme an adjective here, but clearly he is not in his best shape. Not right now.

”We are, however, animals… no matter how much we try to convince ourselves otherwise, mistaking our ‘higher’ communication among other things for something that sets us apart from our… furrier brethren. Some of us move in packs like wolves. Some claim a mate for life, rarely interacting beyond them or the children we create together. Oh, there are those of us who manage solitude for a little while, but no person is an island. Not for long. Claiming otherwise just shows how ignorant some of us can be.

Do you think this is false? Taking a bone from a hungry dog is no different than taking a toy from a child or a phone from a teenager. The reaction is instant, often loud and sometimes violent. Is it because the dog will bite you, drawing blood, that they are the animal and the child or teenager are not? How is their screaming tantrum any different from the dog’s howling? How is their throwing of objects in anger not an attack upon your person instigated by your actions? Just because we learn new instincts and methods does not make us any less of a beast; it just makes us a smarter beast. And when you take something from someone that they treasure, you had best expect retribution and suffering, the same as you would from a beast.”

The view is from the front now. Nathaniel picks up the face-down picture, staring at it solemnly. His fingers tighten around it, his jaw setting.

”We will do anything to get back what was taken. Anything. Once you get a taste of the best that life has to offer, you are changed. Again, there is no difference between animals here. Show a cat love and affection, give it a warm place to sleep and food to eat. Treat it like part of the pack. Then turn it out. It will suffer. Comfort will have weakened it and unless mercy is taken by another, it will likely die. Not that those who turned it out would care…”

For some reason, he pauses here. He puts the picture down and looks right at the camera.

”And I want to say right now that ANYONE who abandons their pet rather than finding it a new home or taking it to a shelter for ANY reason? I hope you rot in hell.”

Right… back to the subject at hand, then? Guess Nathaniel just had to get that out of his system. Sure as hell sounds like he means it.

”Holly Rhodes, Victory IV is going to be a very bad night for you. Because I am a wounded animal and anything, or anyone, resembling a threat that gets too close to me is going to be ravaged. It is instinct. A creature backed into a corner can and will fight for its life, no matter the size or strength of that which has put them in this position, regardless of its physical state. I can do nothing about it, nor will I apologize for it.

The best I can do is prepare you for it. Because as much as I hope you are not as thick as TJ Alexander or scatterbrained as Chelsea Skye, I will not take that chance. You are meat, Holly. Living, breathing, ready to fight… but meat all the same. This is nature’s way.”

The picture is touched, but not picked up again. More… caressed?

Exhaling, Nathaniel picks up the half-empty bottle and adds some of the contents to the glass, the cubes already within shrinking further in protest.

---

The view is of the front door of a house, the position being inside the building rather than outside. There is a certain darkness about the area at that moment, despite their being light enough to provide decent sight. The darkness is more… aural. Felt, rather than seen. Like a chill breeze on an otherwise warm day. Like someone walking over your grave. Footsteps are heard followed by the slight grind of a key sliding into a lock. We watch as the lock turns, then the door’s brass knob. It opens silently, the shadow of a man stepping into the house’s front hall.

Nathaniel Cartwright, barely hours removed from his battle with Chelsea Skye at Victory III, lets out a groan of satisfaction as he places his bag down and stretches mightily. Wins suit him. It was not to be at the first Victory, though it was a fine time to cut his teeth on this business. He has been undefeated since, however, and is coming to like the taste of it.

However, it is not long before he pauses, feeling the same as those watching that something might be off. Immediately his expression turns stoic and his posture reflects his readiness. Nate looks around for several moments, the view switching to his back as he moves through the house. There is evidence now, signs that someone was in a hurry. But for what? Rumpled hall carpet, the sofa and coffee table in the living room in disarray, several items missing… perhaps a robbery? But with no signs of forced entry…

”...Melissa?”

Naturally his first thought is for his lady. His tiredness certainly forgotten and his survival instinct peaked, Nathaniel storms around the corner and toward the house’s main hall, which he walks to the end before yanking open the bedroom door.

The bed is still rumpled, as they had left it before he departed to Victory. The closet door is wide open, though, and so are several dresser and chest drawers. Attire clearly belonging to a lady is strewn about along with several discarded personal items, trinkets and the like.

”What the hell…?”

And then he sees it.

A letter, with a rose set atop it.

”That’s…”

His voice is barely a whisper. Clearly he knows who the handwriting belongs to, though. Unfolding the piece of paper and setting the thorned bloom aside, Nathaniel reads the letter quietly.

Hey, sweetness...

I'm sure you noticed it... certain things missing around the home, a clear lack of me. At first, I had thought about doing the usual routine. I pack up, I leave and sometimes I return. That wasn't something I could just do to you.

This isn't about anything happening with the two of us. You've been incredible. This has nothing to do with what happened on Victory, either (I have complete faith in you handling those two… but do be careful). I tried to explain to you a few times that my life has been filled with various complications. Some came up again.

Writing this feels silly.

When I come back, I'll tell you everything. I promise.

With love,
Melissa

The hand clutching the letter lowers, grasping it tight, shaking... before the moment fades.

---

There’s even less in the bottle now. Nathaniel should be far past the point, even with his assumed-to-be-considerable constitution, where the drink is taking effect. And perhaps it is. Perhaps he just holds it better than others. But the man is not well. Not in the slightest.

If one knew him well, one might start to feel sorry for Holly Rhodes about now.

“Since arriving in Pro Wrestling Excellence, I have put forth a certain level of eloquence as I have attempted to educate the roster about what it means to be a hunter. The importance of the food chain and the placement of myself and my opponents upon it has required me to… speak a little slower, to use visual aids… as though I am speaking to children. And if you look at my record thus far, being undefeated in singles matches? It calls into question the aptitude of those standing across the ring from me thus far. This information that I offer is not difficult to grasp; the definitions, the euphemisms… they are all quite clear. Yet it goes in one ear and out the other, over your heads in a manner akin to a hawk swooping above, getting into position to dive upon a fleeing rabbit.

You’re crushed on impact, or at the very least too injured to rest, taken down at my leisure.

So many of you tout experience and notoriety and past accolades as the be-all, end-all of what gets a person ahead in wrestling. But this freshly-appointed rookie is slaying prey left and right with impunity. I sit back and watch some of you prove the aforementioned tenets right, though. Damian Ayla… Zoey Madigan-Star… they have proven that skills and attitude on top of the noted experience, notoriety, et cetera can take you to the top of the totem pole. But they are the exceptions, not the rule. And what IS the rule?

Might makes right.”

Nathaniel is not in a pleasant mood, not that he was chipper and cheery before. He is hard to read at the best of times, obscuring his real feelings and thoughts behind carefully-crafted monologues, canvases worth of ink and a cloud of cancer-inducing smoke. But the obfuscation that is part and parcel of his usual presentation is practically nonexistent this time.

The Winter Wraith is angry. Solitude of this sort does not suit him.

---

The screen flickers to static, garbling sound and twisting colors, before congealing anew in black and white. There is no time or date, but it is recent. Perhaps not long before Nathaniel made his way to Victory III to slay Chelsea Skye in the middle of the ring, increasing his burgeoning streak. He stands at the door of the home that he shares with one Melissa Reed…

Shared…

...with a bag over his shoulder and an almost-endearing smile on his lips. Melissa, her arm still in a sling, comes up to him with a sweet smile all her own, the two of them sharing a lingering kiss.

“I’m sorry I can’t come with you this time, baby. Doctor’s orders. And Ophilia’s.”

The boss-lady of PWE, no doubt. Nathan nods slightly and runs a hand through his lady’s blonde hair.

“It’s alright. This won’t take long anyway. Stay here and enjoy some peace and quiet. When I return, we’ll talk more about the trip home. Just try not to go stir-crazy, hm?”

“You know me. No promises.”

Chuckling, Nathaniel leans in to kiss her cheek, prompting Melissa to close her eyes a moment, savoring the affection.

“When I get back, I’ll finish off the last of the renovations to your studio.”

“There’s no need to rush.”

“It’s a labor of love. And you’ll feel better when you have space all to yourself to relax and create. Take care, angel-shorts.”

She giggles at the nickname and nods, the two getting in one more lock of lips before Nathaniel leaves. As the door closes, Melissa’s smile melts away and she walks over to the nearby coat closet. Inside, there are a few empty bags, and she takes these out. Not unlike Nathaniel’s own luggage, in fact. She walks down the hall into another room, the bedroom…

...and starts packing.

---

Static commences again, and then we are back to Nathaniel. No longer sitting, he is pacing. Like a caged wildcat. In the brief pause, a cigarette has been lit but barely a draw has been taken.

“You, Holly Rhodes, are mighty.”

Finally ceasing his pace, Nathaniel brings up the cigarette for a long draw. Long, yet hasty. Usually they’re partaken of in a relaxed fashion, almost as though for style’s sake. This time, Nate is pulling on that cancer stick as though sucking the last bits of meat and juice from a bone.

Like a snarling predator finishing a meal before someone else can challenge them for it.

“Gifted with strength and a modicum of wrestling ability, you have turned a few heads since your arrival. Your potential, I have heard some say, is considerable.”

Another draw, another exhale adding to the growing cloud.

“As we stand and speak, I am simply counting down the minutes until you step in front of a camera, hoping for intelligent discourse but fearing that you will revert to the single type I’ve experienced so far in PWE. The type that thinks I’m their steppingstone, that thinks my status as the ‘new guy’ means their victory is assured. Twice they have disrespected me. Twice I have put their aspirations in the dirt. Is the third time really the charm? When you address myself and the PWE faithful, that tale will be told in living color. I am not hopeful.

That isn’t your fault, though. Look at what I have had to trudge through thus far.”

The cigarette is half-done, but it is not having much effect. Nathaniel stubs it out in the ashtray, then reaches for his glass only to realize that there’s little other than melted ice within. Growling, he turns and moves to the freezer nearby, snatching and tossing more cubes into the glass, some missing and hitting the floor where he ignores them and the puddles they will become. Back at the table, he picks up the bottle with a shaky hand, intending to refill his glass… but he stops.

Then, with a snarl, he turns and throws the near-empty bottle at the camera. It collides and static ensues.

A few moments later, at least for those watching, we’re looking at Nathaniel again. But it is no longer night. It is a bright, shining morning. His shirt is gone but everything else has clearly been slept in. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hair a bit more wild than usual… ditto his beard. If there was sleep in his past, it was fitful… short. Perhaps he is doing this with a camera phone since he more or less nailed his proper camera last night? He draws in a breath, preparing to speak… but instead shuts the camera off.

---

Stuffing the phone in his pocket, Nathaniel pulls on a tank top and walks out of the room. Since Melissa’s departure, the house has been untouched. The Winter Wraith has simply been existing, not making much effort beyond that. He walks out the door and slams it shut behind him, sending the scene to black. A moment later, we are watching him take a well-used path through the woods, heading toward a lake that, to those who have watched him since the start, is a familiar sight. A pristine morning, bright and sunny, the water almost crystalline in its clarity.

It should offer some peace. That does not seem to be the case, though. It is right there in his tone as his voice cuts in over the calm of the moment.

”I’m sick of everything. But most of all, I’m sick of talking. What purpose does it serve when no one listens? There is no effort to learn, to understand. It all just gets brushed aside, ignored. Even when violence comes as a result, to educate where speaking has failed, it does not dissuade. Wrestlers today are allergic to the truth. They have no desire to better themselves. Walking the difficult path of self-improvement and enlightenment? They would rather run their mouths and feign ignorance rather than accept the truth. It is easier that way, after all. And if it does not get them where they need to be? They will find a lower level of competition, perhaps someone in charge who will accept their kissing up.

Maybe you’re different, Holly. But even if you are… there’s still no point from where I stand.”

Leaning against a tree on the shore, Nathaniel cups his elbows in his hands. There is no need to see the rest of him; the man is distraught. And wouldn’t you be if the person you loved left without a trace and barely a word? It is probably best that the current view is from behind.

”I am undefeated for a reason. And I mean to stay that way. Chalk that up to arrogance at your own risk. The true thrust of that belief and goal is because, while you lot can close your ears to words and your eyes to what you do not wish to see… pain, temporary unconsciousness, the twisting of bones, tendons and muscles in my grip? You cannot ignore that. Pain is an infallible teacher. If it takes stretching, beating, twisting, breaking… each and every one of you in Pro Wrestling Excellence to make you see?

I have all the time in the world. Be assured that my desire to be the best will outlast your obstinance. When the creaking and cracking starts and that first fiery bolt of pain shoots up the limb in question and rattles your spine? It will be too late. You will never forget the truth again. You, Holly, with that amazing body and taut musculature? As appealing to the eye and effective in the ring as it may be? It leaves you wide open for suffering. I will show you. You will learn.”

The faint noise of music, coming from Nathaniel’s pocket. He reaches down without looking, retrieving his phone with the notes of Nine Inch Nails’ “Pain” pealing out. A glimpse at the screen shows the words Unknown Caller. He hesitates, then taps the green button.

”Yes?”

”Mr. Cartwright. We spoke on Twitter recently.”

”Ah. And?”

”I would like to send someone to see you in my stead, if you’re agreeable?”

A long, tense pause. Then…

”Who?”

”Her name is Helena. Same time, same day. I will personally vouch for her.”

”...all right.”

”She will contact you soon. You may not like what she has to say, though…”

”What’s that supposed to mean?”

”Good-bye, Mr. Cartwright.”

”Wait-!”

But the call is ended… and Nathaniel has quite a hard time not chucking the phone right into the lake in pure anger and frustration. Instead, he pockets the device and turns with his fist balled up, prepared to try and put it straight through the tree trunk. But, again, he stops himself with his knuckles a millimeter from the jagged bark.

His hand shakes as he forces it down. A moment later, he folds his arms and leans against them and the tree itself, his back to the lake.

”You’ve said your piece by this point. Good. Forgive me for not having watched and listened, Holly. Quite simply, my heart wouldn’t be in it. All that I can look forward to is the ring. The hunt between the ropes. And the figurative kill.”

Finally getting back on the path toward home, Nathaniel takes out the phone and makes a call of his own. No one answers, but he is fine with this, leaving a voicemail.

”It’s me. It looks as though we’ll have to postpone the trip again, ma. Melissa had an… emergency to tend to. But once I know something for sure, I’ll make sure to send you a message. Extend my apologies to dad. I’ll talk to you soon.”

From a call to a text…

Mitch, push back my appointments if you can. If not, I’ll try and come up with something. Shit has gone south here. Tell you more later.

I can do that. No problem. Everything cool, though?

I’ll come down tomorrow and explain.

Putting the phone away again, Nathaniel continues on his walk home, back through the woods, down the path he’d worn to dust and dirt with constant sojourns. One more time, his voice cuts through, directed toward his adversaries, both present and future.

”For the first time that I can remember in my life, I feel… vulnerable. A predator is not usually privy to such polarizing sensations. It is… new ground for certain. What you know of me thus far, Holly, may very well be turned on its ear, and not to your benefit. Wounded, cornered, vulnerable… applying these to a creature who prides itself on its skill in the hunt will bring about an intense chemical reaction. Will it serve to create mercy because some part of you emulates what I have lost? Will I lose my taste for the hunt and leave the grounds with hands unbloodied? Or will I simply go berserk and rip you a new one, figuratively if not literally?

I don’t know any more than you do. No one does. Until the moment that the hammer falls. What is certain… is that I’m sick of talking, Holly. I’ll see you at Victory. Come ready or stay as far away from that ring as possible. For your own sake.”

The camera stops its backward motion, Nathaniel continuing to move on, past it. The view beyond is beautiful… until it fades to red... to what Nathaniel sees everything bathed in.

Then to black.