Ayla Book; Chapter 5: "I'm Okay."

⊱ ───“How many versions of me have I buried on a hilltop in the sun somewhere? I lost count to be honest, but I bring flowers to their graves when I’m feeling kind.” ─── ⊰

    Warmth from the heater always abandons certain rooms within our manor. Perhaps the temperature never thought to grace the kitchen due to the heat from the stove when the room is alive. The argument would be valued if it wasn't the first thing in the dreary morning with ice floors greeting me. My feet barely echoed their presence moving along the tile to the counter. Cameron often compares my movement as floating. A ghost in our own home. A silly notion that now seems more malicious.

I just want to fill my mug with coffee before the bustle of the children begins in full. My head is hazy like a winter storm abruptly blowing in overnight. No warning. It mutes everything just before amplifying noises to painful degrees. Lately this summons the migraines that strap me to the bed for the rest of the day. To avoid conflict, I’m dragging myself to the coffee pot already bubbling with rich caffeine water. All this drowsiness must’ve washed over from therapy. The session was exhausting. I barely even remember departing. Didn’t we try something new?

The handle of the coffee mug nearly sears my hand…!

    “Oh, excuse m—!”

Zoey?

I blink trying to register where I am. My ears assaulted with crewmen, chatter and random whirling of machinery. Why am I at catering? Departure from our locker room is nonexistent unless for our matches.

Taking a record of my surroundings will help with the memory gaps. I am standing across from Zoey Madigan-Star who appears as pensive as I am. My hand moves to sign ‘I ‘ m s o r r y.’ My hand clutches my ceramic coffee mug so I must’ve wanted some.

My muscles are taunt and anxious pouring their coffee mixture. I hate being surrounded by strangers and Cameron isn’t here. Why isn’t he here? He promised to remain by my side when we are backstage. I don’t understand. Why is this happening? It keeps happening!

No need to panic. All I need to do is breathe.

There is nothing wrong with me.
Thereisnothingwrongwithme.

⊱ ───“I’m sorry to the people who knew me when my pain washed around my feet and lapped at your ankles like unexpected waves.” ─── ⊰

“Tara?”

Doctor Malcom leans back in his groaning chair, tapping the pen against the desk twice. That hidden smile ever present at the corner of his mouth. Was I talking? I exhale slowly. I’ve lost a moment again.

“I feel… l—lost… Like I’m forgetting… No idea how I got from one place to another. L-like losing t-time.” I want to ask if it’s normal, but I know the answer. “L—last time, we discussed a d-decline but it hasn’t. I—I…”

I barely sleep, I want to share, I don’t think I slumber anymore. Any nightmare or dream is now unforgiving darkness. I’ll wake up with aching feet, my body riddled with exhaustion and my husband’s eyes curiously examine me now.

I’ve stopped speaking, he glances up from his notes, barely ceasing his swift scribbling even while nodding. There is no concern. Doctor Malcom reaches into the drawer next to his chair, producing a small, orange bottle of pills.

"I would like you to try these."

My words catch themselves from spilling more. He said this with no consequence. No flicker or distortion in movement while he sweeps his hand across his desk to locate a small notepad. Scribbling begins again but the pen feels like it is against my temples.

"P-pills...? Why?" Panic tips over my words.

"I've been considering your situation since our first session. This... is two weeks' worth. No more. I believe that they may have a positive effect." Again said with no inflection of importance.

"It’ll help the decline?" My words are betraying me more and more in this office. I am eager for a confirmation from him though. I know my nightly travels are troubling. "A—are there any side effects..?"

"Fatigue, there's a chance for loss of hunger... but nothing substantial. No more lost time.” The Doctor’s smile tries its best to be warm. His eyes betray his mouth with their calculating nature.

I stand from the chair in order to retrieve them. Clonazepam is unfamiliar to me as most things have become. I squint, twisting the bottle in my hands. "Okay..."

“Take one before bed, no food. No earlier than two hours after your last meal of the day. They should help clear things up for you, Tara. Any progress is good progress. Why don’t we end it here and I’ll see you next week.” He is standing up and leading me towards the door.

⊱ ───“I’m sorry for the hurt I spilled on your white carpets. I hope you can forgive me, or even loan me grace? I always seem to need it, and I’m always short these days.”──── ⊰

    “Mommy!”

“Maaaaama!”

“Mommy?”

My children’s voices are tiny bubbles popping through sleep’s heavy fog. I raise my hand to locate one of them. A single eye pries open, spying Odette under my palm resting atop her head. The sun is a low mixture of oranges and yellows oozing past the drawn curtains. Must be late in the afternoon. I sit up with a soft grunt. My eyes feel glued shut but they open with command. I scan the room for any sign of their father but he isn’t here. He won’t be here right now. He had to go see his own therapist; had to go see Emily…

“Mommy, can we have a snack?”

Two of my children are here. Who was watching them? Where is the baby?!

My body is stumbling away from the couch, rushing across the floor and straight into the living room to locate Sylas— He is on Elijah Rudolf’s lap. The older gentleman is cradling a slumbering Sylas easily while watching the child’s cartoon on low. Bowser is resting on the tops of Elijah’s boots. Nothing could disturb the peace combing through the room like fresh lavender. There is no flash of concern when noticing me. I must’ve forgotten that our neighbor was going to be helping out this afternoon… Another misplaced thought.

“How’d you sleep, Tara? Has that migraine finally passed?” His smile is toothy and that always draws my eyes. He has dangerous fangs.

When did I have a migraine? Must’ve stolen another day without me realizing it. It’s lingering like a dull ache behind my eyes. I nod with a smile noting the tugging at my pant leg. Orson is frowning so I kneel down. He reaches up to rub my temples.

“Are you feeling okay, mama?” His worry draws my body into an agitated line. I wish my words would comfort him, but instead I mutely nod. This does not alleviate Orson panic so his voice goes tiny, and soft, “Can we make you tea? Daddy says we can put stuff into the microwave.”

“It has to be safe first! Mommy’s mug is safe!” His sister announces.

Odette is already in the kitchen leading the charge as always. I can hear the legs of our step stool being dragged across the tiles. Low barks empty from Stolas and Bacchus who were not pleased with the disturbance. More bubbles in the air and against my features. If I cling to their words, so light and iridescent, perhaps I’ll stop sinking away.

“If daddy was home, could he cure your migraine?” Orson asks, still trying to nurse the ill from my head. I wish his cotton words, and gentle hands could. My arms wrap around him cradling my sweet boy against me.

The migraine was because of the new medication. I’m going to get better.
These lost moments will stop.
I have to be well for them.
I have to be well for myself.
I have to be well to stop the ache and feed the beast, and get it out of my body.
I have to be well for my career…
Be well for Cameron.

I’m okay.

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

“First impressions are always right.”

That robotic voice echoes down a dark space. Hanging lights above flicker on simultaneously leaving a faint glow of rich yellows. Tara Ayla strolls down a seemingly endless hallway completely lined with mirrors. She is cradling the device in one hand while dragging her fingertips beneath the edges of the frames.

“A repetitious fib countlessly told and discussed. Similar to old wives tales such as apples keeping doctors at bay, or cracking your knuckles leads to Arthritis. Most believe in these misconceptions. Against the hoax, I struggle now, with growing vigor each time another set of footprints begin at my sides. They have furthered with the coming of my newest opponent. A bizarre duality blinked like glimpsing a shadow from the corner of one’s eye. Do you believe that glance as gospel? Ones story’s told in a second. Everything that follows is contorted to fit an opinionated mold forever.”

A tsk leaves the woman’s lips to display her displeasure with the thought. Tara stops in front of a mirror, swiping a hand across to erase her own image and reveal a reflection of Vodka Black. Her opponent’s image flashes a cheeky smirk.

“First impression… is as follows: Vodka Black is nothing more than another media slave. Shackled to Twitter for validation from everyone else as pure nourishment: Best Hair from Denzel Porter, 43 on a bias list, and needlessly posting risqué pictures. Craving attention by any means, via shrieking and eccentric antics only appreciated on Reality TV. Nonsensical methods employed to confound opponents in a misguided attempt for advantage. This tactic proves successful against a select few; Not I. Vodka’s flimsy attention wanes from FIGHT to Pro Wrestling Excellence, revealing an absolute lack of focus. So her words will be nothing more than a waterfall of wasted, shriveled up spiders no longer a threat, and merely used as a diversion. Prediction was another jester crawling on its belly for spotlights, and applause! A beacon of stupidity! A walking meme: pointless and loud. Just another match against a fictitious wrestler—

And for a moment, I thought of washing my hands of the matter entirely. If it wasn’t for what I saw.

Oh, my anger’s consumption of reason was swift. I found myself popped back into a memory. Vodka Black reminded me of a match in which they wanted to destroy me, dismantle my ability to fight, because if I lost that match? I’d have to strip in the middle of the ring. Humiliation was a knife against my neck. It was twin to the absurdity of the first glance I had of Vodka… That we all shared of her and her husband… So, my first impression was: Another entertainment figure for Pro Wrestling Excellence to laugh at. Another court jester for me to break.”

With a quick jab, from a wrapped fist, the mirror was broken along with the laughing face of Vodka. Glass sprinkles across the ground and Tara continues forward. All glass is shaken from her hand with dull interest.

“Akin to many others here— this was partly incorrect. Impressions, and opinions are ineffective to understand individuals that battle here. We’ve discovered from Xaria Linette pointing blame at everyone with little proof. Most recently the suspect, Zoey Madigan-Star… Our Impulse Champion. Xaria is peering through the lens of First Impressions to judge one’s character and often finds this method faulty. I discovered this from La Andalucera… Fantasma. Aiding a ‘disappointment’ and proving quite more than I observed orginally. I disown my own First Impressions, so must all of Pro Wrestling Excellence in the future…”

Tara pauses at another mirror, swiping her hand across the surface to reflect La Andalucera. Another wipe reveals Xaria, then Zoey. She merely moves forward down the length of the hallway with mirrors showing images of Vodka Black with various expressions.

“Once I adopted a technique of dissection, and abandoned those lenses altogether, I discovered someone else slithering beneath the surface of Vodka Black… Southern Heavyweight Champion deserving of recognition. An accomplishment with teeth… Championships the shared chain that drags us all forward, even if unwittingly. Claiming one does not desire to be on a throne is riddled in false pleads. Hoisting gold almost clears the mind. A champion must be progressive, and build, and be hunted, be labeled, and mocked, but strong enough to withstand. Vodka does not own the unmistakable nativity some tug along. It’s refreshing, if not a bit stale. Sadly, with experience comes blinders, ego, and assumptions of which I’m eager to hear. I find them often wrong, but with a touch of insight. An insurance of this match is harboring teeth, sharpened, shattered, and slick with blood.”

Tara grins. She rests a single palm against a mirror and her expression defaults again.

“Vodka also suffered through physical hardships against various opponents in FIGHT thus far. Violence is a tool for you to use but is it to fuel ego? Did you suffer from a wondrous fall simply to appease your own entitlement? No. Devotion to win created a vacuum down that elevator shaft, and through those brutal matches. Desire brought victory, and victory along with your husband, a pillar of strength to rest against, and something I relate to.”

“Potential lingers here. Now all you need to do is shatter that first impression. A goal I strive towards with yours, Vodka, and everyone else’s. This might be a mutual mauling… but you will end up where the rest have. Inside of the belly of the beast where it threatens to erode slowly. You won’t vanish, not entirely like a few others, because that is no entertainment for you. To merely settle into a fate not chosen by your hand is to wither to nothingness. This fate has not etched itself in your skin. It won’t. And that almost appeases my hunger more.”

Mirrors shatter themselves along the walls leaving Tara with only one. Among the dangerous glass, Mrs. Ayla raises a hand to her own reflection again. There is no smile, but no sneer either. It appears to be more like a portrait.

“I have to clear out the static now if I am ever to claim the Impulse Championship. There must be more to hear behind the endless rattling and white noise. Pointless endeavor, I used to believe, but now there are knives hidden there. So deep inside the murk that I nearly skewed myself against them. The static, and the noise, and the dead spiders, and thorns, will be endured so those knives pointed at me can be harnessed in reverse. Bulking my own arsenal to ensure victory after victory so I might ascend further still. There will be no loss to divert me from this path.”

Beneath her fingertips the mirror’s glass cracks leaving long spiderwebs of jagged lines. Brows are now furrowing as she leans her forehead against it. When it shatters, her sleeves protect from the stray glass. Tara releases a quiet laugh.

“No more mindlessly shredding opponents. Glorious focus has awarded me, Vodka. Do you understand? That is the grand divide between us. Pro Wrestling Excellence is my *only* place to worship! It will be here… Where the garden flourishes. Here where the table is set! I do not like to be humiliated. I do not like to be blind. I’m not. Not anymore. Not since my eyes have adjusted to this darkness where Champions and Victors lay. Vodka, you might not worship at the same church but you have been swallowed by the same pit. Worthy… but not here in front of me. I will win and keep winning, and finish the table nice, and neat. There are no distractions because this path is my salvation! First impressions are riddled with mistakes. I am more than what people see. I will be even more.”

Further down the hallway the hanging lights begin to flicker off. Happening slowly at first before all at once. Only that robotic voice is left.

“Welcome to The Pit…Do not let it swallow you whole.”

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

11:45

12/4/2020

VANCOUVER, CANADA

Against the chill and the winter, Emily Brown hunched just enough to block the wind so she could locate her keys. She nearly released a bloody scream when turning around to see another woman. 'Disheveled' was the first word to pop up like a neon beacon when looking at the stranger. A nervous shifting of eyes and ever moving of her body, feet shuffling.

“Are you Emily Brown?”

“I am.” Professionalism with a hint of suspicion. “What can I do for you?”

“You’ve made a mistake with him. I promise you have. Fed another lamb to the wolf… It’ll only get worse. I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen it. That poor woman. Someone should have warned her. I tried. It was too late. I even contacted That Mother! She couldn’t wrestle her away from him. She’s going to be killed, or worse.” The woman was ranting as she dug inside of her bag. All the time, her head was on a swivel.

“Who is ‘he’? Who did I feed to this wolf?” Emily restrained a small tsk’d. This woman clearly wasn’t well. Not the first time this sort of thing happened. It was best to just remain calm and accept whatever was about to appear from the bag.

A file in a manilla folder was roughly shoved against Emily’s chest. This woman’s wild eyes now flowed with tears while she shook her head in pity. Or maybe mild disgust.

“It still happens to me, you know. It’ll happen and happen until you don't know what is real. It’ll be shadows, and noises, and darkness, and screaming with only nothingness to keep you company. Still don’t know what causes it. Maybe it’s the light, or worse, it’s that silence. It’s the relaxing nature of sleep that really does the trick. If you implant it with daily routines then what chance did any of us have? No one will last by her side. I promise you, they won’t. Once she’s alone, then all you have is him. All you have are shadows and him.” The woman rambles on, weepy, wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

“Do…” Emily’s hours had ended. “Do you want to come in? I can make you some tea, and maybe call you a cab?”

“Tea sounds lovely.” She says with a soft whimper. “I promise my daughter I'll be home soon. She worries, you know.”

“As any loving family member would.” Emily coax’s the woman back inside of the office offering a sympathetic smile to the receptionist, Amanda. They both shared a similar sentiment: just another day in the office.

“Do you have a phone you could get in contact with your daughter?” Emily filled a cup with hot water then slid in a tea bag. She set this on the small coffee table just in front of the lady’s hand.

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.” She sniffled. Her eyes examined the cup wearily as if it were actually a bomb in disguise. 

Emily couldn’t help but think, ‘how odd’.

“Do you have a name?”

“Laura.” She nodded while tapping on the screen before holding the phone against her ear. “My head hurts.”

“The tea will help some.” Emily insisted before slowly moving to the door where she could go back into reception. For a moment, she ignored the quiet questions from Amanda and instead opened up the folder.

WALTER MALCOM—

Emily frowned and snapped it shut. She peered out at Laura, hunched forward and talking softly to her daughter. Despite her own logic, Emily’s first thought came too fast to stop it short.

‘Was Tara safe?’

The thought was shaken free as quickly as it appeared. That was just silly.