Ayla Book; Chapter 6: Ruthlessly Scattering

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“Hello, Mrs. Ayla. Please, come in and have a seat.” The hesitant man stations himself behind his desk. He notices the camera operator following Tara Ayla.

“Just pretend I'm not here.” Ian Hershel whispers loudly.

Tara is dressed in a jeweled black coat and long black dress that drags across the floor when she walks. She sits down on the couch never once attempting a smile. Her hands slowly produce a strange device, appearing similar to her signature audio-dairy, that sets onto her lap. The therapist, Samuel Wright, is clearly confused. He nervously smiles.

“What’s that?”

Tara’s lips move without any sound. The footage flickers as a consequence by editing. Samuel is now sitting back in chair with curiosity brimming behind his glasses. The man gestures to the mysterious woman on his couch. “Let’s get started then… Why don’t you tell me a little bit about why you are here.”

“I’ve never liked introductions because most are dull. Even after extra distractions, I’ve always found them uninspired. We are limited in them, oftentimes prisoners to another’s rambles, but due to my current circumstances, I had to listen. My eyes grew heavy but despite that I heard the important message from him.”

“Him?” The doctor writes on his notepad.

“My opponent. I heard the assurance of my victory against Vincent Black.”

“Your,” Samuel looks at his notes, “Wrestling opponent? So you’re in order to communicate with him.”

Tara nods. Her fingers gently run along the edges of the device. “Research— something he pretends is unique, is a basic practice in our careers. Learning even a minute weakness is instrumental in victory. Unfortunately, after my research was conducted, the conclusion I drew was disappointing. An apology should be issued to Vincent Black for what Pro Wrestling Excellence sentenced him to. ”

Samuel begins talking but the robotic voice interrupts.

“I wish to tell you a story, Samuel Wright…” Tara smiles towards the floor while tucking both feet under herself in order to lounge. Her finger tracing the top of the device.

“There once was a Foolish Man who had been a triumphant warrior in his youth. Bloodthirsty brute that used his fists to conquer nations. He worshiped violence as some might a God. People feared such a terrible force of nature that only desired to tear them limb from limb. These nations crumbled at his feet, dismantled and ruined! However, a grouping of them put up a barrier to lock him out. They banished him in hopes that if he couldn’t fight, then that malicious quality would eventually fade. The foolish man wandered out in a vast wasteland but it was there that he found salvation in a community. This Elysium Pro Wrestling offered him everything his heart desired— They also worshiped that violence. He flourished there! They wanted to build him statues, castles, they wanted to give him crowns, and promised he’d never be outcasted ever again. Sadly, that Foolish man tangled himself up in unbreakable webs. They dragged him, with his consent, far away from his Elysium.”

Tara’s head shakes. Samuel scribbles on his notepad with a slow nod. Her tongue clicks before the robot voice continues.

“The Foolish Man rusted out there far away from Elysium. Now he is not the only one who leaves that HOLY PLACE, but those often don't rust as quickly. Unfortunately, The Foolish Man’s rusting began deep inside of his core created by regret. It chewed away at him leaving nothing but a shell behind. In order to cope his mind created grandiose hallucinations. They crafted little voices that whispered sweet words: ‘He could return to Elysium because his old prowess remained.’ They lied to him.

Yet no one could stop or save The Foolish Man from his own destruction when he crawled back into Elysium, into FIGHT. They tore him apart! Never before had The Foolish Man tasted such bitter, relentless, defeats in his life. They laughed at his feeble attempts and reveled in the mangling of his body… The Foolish Man had not heeded the warning signs and he dragged himself into PWE… In this kingdom? Violence is their common tongue. The advantage he hoped might be his was all of theirs in equal. He believed he could find comfort there, unaware that he was about to be consumed by a God Slayer. Already broken, fangless, weaponless, The Foolish Man actually stepped into her maw and her jaw snapped shut. In the end, The Foolish Man could never recapture all the gold he sought.”

Tara adjusts her posture before shrugging. “The End.”

Samuel’s brows scrunches with concern. “In this story, who is the God Slayer?”

“Me.” Tara sighs. “I supposed I should’ve made it more transparent.”

Now the therapist looks a bit insulted by her assumption that he failed to understand her point. He looks towards his clock hoping their hour was about to end. To his grief, it was not. “What makes the God Slayer more equipped to win this battle?”

“You see, Vincent and I took similar paths in the sense that we both left Wrestling. However, when I disengaged from wrestling it was a choice made with forethought. I perfected the balancing act of my home life, and the career I loved. Wrestling is a discipline that I never abandoned. Damian, my husband, and I continued with it, cared for it, and harmonized our lives. We did so because one day we knew we might return. No rust to be concerned with. In layman terms: I’ve won what I desired. Vincent has not.”

Tara smiles for the first time and it unsettles Samuel more than her scowling.

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“What would you like to cover today, Tara?” Emily’s voice is subtle beneath the water drizzling down the windows. Another storm has come today. Tara’s eyes refused to leave the beautiful scene of rain just outside.

Drip

Drip

Drip.

Her hand clenched in order to center her thoughts because pain might wipe the ever busying slate clean. Her head is tilted upward, watching how the ceiling meets the wall at a slant. Tara is exhausted by the soothing weather. Time continued to click by. However, they shouldn’t waste an entire hour so Emily Brown tried to be productive again.

“Why not wrestling? Hm?”

“It’s fine.” Tara didn’t want to elaborate.

Allowing simple answers to linger is not Emily’s job though. She reclined in her chair abandoning her pen on the desk with a low sigh. “Fine has never been the proper answer, has it? We often resort to the phrase when we do not want to confront something. What are we avoiding?”

“We aren’t!” Tara snapped in both tone and movement.

The office dropped in temperature.

With every blink the space expanded in bizarre glitches. It was no longer a small office space like it was supposed to be. All warmth retreated along with the cheerily light. Emily leaned forward in their chair with… familiar piercing eyes replaced her usual brown. Their voice is no longer hers. So abruptly the scene before Tara shifted and she retreated against the chair for support. It was no longer a comforting childhood memory.

“Shall we discuss your latest prey... Tell me about why we are avoiding the subject completely. Would you rather discuss your children? How about your husband? Tell me about Damian, Tara… Tell me about the episodes. Tell me about his opinions. Tell me about what his truths have become. Let us discuss your children. Do they know where you go? Do they even reach you anymore? When was the last time you—”

Tara recoiled in the chair trying to blink away the scene of approaching darkness. It crept along the floorboards with long, figureless fingers trying to wrap up her boots. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“D-Damian? He’s been… He isn’t… Wait! Wait... W-wait... Wait, no. You want to talk about wrestling? I want to talk about that! I want to go back to that! I just want to wrestle. It’s clear there! I don’t— You promised this would stop!”

“Dearest daughter, let this weak woman die. Let another one be reborn. Enough with this!”

A scream bubbled in her throat as the Doctor loomed above her, Leon's eyes glared down, then the scream erupted!

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“Let me ask you something, why do you seem so irritated having to wrestle Vincent Black? You’ve gone so far as comparing him to a bedtime story one might tell to their child as a cautionary tale. I would be under the impression that any opponent in wrestling should be taken seriously.”

Tara makes a low tsk’ noise. It is hard to determine whether or not she agrees. Samuel leans far back in his chair when Tara stands up from the couch. The device drops to his desk as Tara plants both hands down. She glares but it leads beyond the man currently trying to stand up.

“You want a dissection from me? Fine! Not a single match since he returned has resulted in victory. Misusing every opportunity in FIGHT won’t mend itself in Pro Wrestling Excellence. We did not need more useless weight here crawling in! Trying to impose importance where there is none. I checked, I watched and re-watched, as he encouraged, but I continuously saw a dwindling man attempt to clutch former glory. Vincent Black is comfortable in his failure, he admitted it himself! Forsaking the very craft itself, then having the relentless audacity to believe he is still as dangerous?! Especially against me?! I trained every single day away, against our Excellence Champion, so my skills never faltered! I’m on the track to seize the Impulse Championship from Zoey! Vincent is squandering every opportunity. He is not like Vhodka Black who posed a challenge so I might further my skills! He is utterly fangless. Vincent should return to FIGHT. Fail there, and fail, and lose, and not waste my time!”

“You’re insulted b-by something else, Mrs. Ayla—” Samuel tries to interject but the audio-dairy does not stop.

“He doesn’t under how idiotic he appears when countlessly lying! Promised some sort of remedy for being a failure yet being stagnant in execution! He also attempted to waste our Excellence Champion’s time. He FOOLISHLY believed Damian might pity him enough with a glance! Vincent does not serve any purpose. Not like LCP does as a means to an end to inspire Allen Chaney to challenge Damian. A challenge is what our champion desires but thus far everyone has disowned his **actual** words. They are all so obstinate. Self-absorbed with feeble attention spans. Unfortunately, our roster is already infected with the same… We only had one react to the insult Damian Ayla laid at our feet—"

Tara releases a scoff. Her hand smacks the desk which summons a strangled sounding yelp from Samuel.

“So, I must dirty my own hands to keep the shortsighted far away from Damian’s throne… He must focus on that damn Invitational. If Vincent truly wanted a chance then he should have just entered into that Invitational like his wife. Instead, he wrote Damian a note that was discarded immediately. He is desperately trying to save himself from being swallowed by irrelevancy but it’s too late for that! Do you know what that note said?! He wasn’t ready… And allow me to enlighten you, he won’t ever be. Despite Damian’s good intentions of opening our gates and providing some challenges…people like Vincent Black disgust me. However, I must deal with them! Me!”

Samuel nods dumbly, finally finding his ability to stand up. In height, he was above Tara but that did not diminish the fear. Tara smacks her hand down again!

“Do you want a silver lining?! Vincent can be our newest addition to the entertainment drabble for our crowds! He’ll be booked as nothing more than a blood bag for the rest of us to get a decent spare out of! Just Like Chelsea Skye! Like the others that fled! He crawled into Pro Wrestling Excellence without an ounce of preparation! No one seems to pay attention to what Damian and I do. We’ve begun molding this place where only the strong might survive. It’s where violence flourishes! Not playground taunts! None of them understand… However, unlike Vhodka, Allen Chaney, Zoey, Kayla Richards, La Andalucera, or Nathaniel Cartwright, the void is going to swallow him completely. Even ALiCE shows some potential to be more!”

Tara snatches the notepad off his table, ripping out all the notes that he had been taking on her. She shreds them into pieces letting them scatter across the floor like snow.

“He should heed me, they should all: Quit. Follow the lead from countless others who’ve fled this place. Return to your quaint life. Live within the realms of your choices. Live in the plush grass and rot in the mundane…”

Mrs. Ayla is panting despite not saying a single word. Her eyes are wide with rage with both fists clenching. She aims a venomous glare at a stunned Samuel Wright.

“I refuse to be nothing more than a filtering system for my husband…! I will craft myself a throne. It’ll be wondrous. It’ll be worth it!”

Tara’s snarls. Turning on her heel to leave the office. Samuel is breathing heavily staring down at the device that is still speaking.

“Vincent can be engulfed by anger with my saying so, but I tried to treat him as others. I tried. He disappointed, disrespected, at every turn. This show was properly named but they failed to finish the sentence. We are meant to Reach Heaven. I will show Vincent Black the truth of violence so one day, against the odds, he will Reach Heaven Through Violence. He will once again… be able to…”

When the recording stops Samuel quickly scoops up the device like it might bite him and hands it to Ian Hershel.

“Thank you for your time. We appreciate it.” Ian's voice sounds like he is smiling.

The footage cuts there.

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“How did the whole wrestling thing start for you?”

I had to think for a moment. Pinpoint the exact moment when my father actually began watching wrestling. In direct contrast for him to watch a violent sport considering what career he has chosen. Doctors are meant to heal. Wrestlers professionally harm. Such a bizarre contradiction of this unapproachable man, and the fact that he had to risk his precious, precious time in order to watch. I’d sit outside the door watching through a crack as people clashed together. Adrenaline always thudded throughout my body watching out of reach violence. This was our ritual… A kind of bonding experience that he was never aware of.

The level of physicality it took for them performing every attack to its best proficiency was engrossing. Must’ve been such a release of anger from their bodies. Perhaps, that provided a gateway for my father… Perhaps that is why I chose it years later when Emily Brown decided physical activity would heal my broken-ness. She told me to funnel my aggression into something productive, and in becoming a wrestler I'd be able to bond with my father— A futile experiment on both ends.

Wrestling has always been a strange connection to other people. One that I was never able to achieve because of my self-imposed limitations before it. Even with Cameron wrestling was the way that I first communicated with him because the sight of him buried my words.

Why wrestling?

It’s freeing. It is my communication line. My thread into a world beyond my snow wasteland. No more silence, no more frigid interactions. Wrestling is—

It used to be my salvation…

“There is something so sad about you, Tara. You don’t have friends, do you? Deep down you must want them but against your best efforts you have none! Have you ever considered that you are meant to be alone?”

“You monster.”

A blink led me back home and hovered over a pot filled with soup. There is no memory of cooking, but we must’ve. The children are at the kitchen table eating their fills. Once a week we allow them to bring over a smaller tv so they can watch cartoons while consumption. Each of them are so content right now.

Doctor Malchom promised these episodes are normal, and that they’d stop. It has only gotten worse. He adjusted the medication so the sleep walking would stop, but it hasn’t either! My life is a jumbled mess of memories casually yanking me from place to place. Tucking me away from my children and husband without warning.

I have to ground myself. Anxiety has broken my body out in a sweat. I desperately abandon the kitchen moving down the hallway with heavy fleeing footsteps straight for where I know Cameron is. He has been working hard on recording a statement for LCP.

The office door is open and I step in the doorway… Cameron is nursing another nose bleed. His eyes glossed over like death. My heart is pounding, staring at the cane propped against the desk. The way he is sitting— It isn’t him.

"﹌.﹌﹌﹌.﹌﹌﹌﹌" His voice? My husband, my everything, is muttering under his breath again. When I’m not taken far from him, I can hear him talking to the walls.

My mouth parts open, feeling a sensation build in my throat. My hands clutch the frame letting the sharp corner nip my palm. Did I do this to him? I had begged Cameron to return to wrestling with me. My husband is only back because of me, despite what everyone seems to think. All because of my inability to contain my monsters; we returned. Have I unleased his instead of taming my own? 

What have I done? In my selfishness, have I done this to my husband? My beloved Cameron… Have we opened too many gates at once? Now our manor is being overrun. All because of me. I'm sorry.

“Cameron?” My voice raises in volume. “Cameron?”

His eyes don’t remove themselves from the computer screen. If I scream will he hear me? My melting words are useless against the towering walls constructing themselves between us. 

"P-please... C-Cameron?" 

I'm so sorry. 

“There is nothing wrong with my wife”

I… am standing in the snow... Outside of the house... Bowser is barking...