Ayla Book; Chapter 7: Ghosts with Heartbeats

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When I was pregnant with Sylas, Cameron had decided to return to wrestling in order to give us a better cushion of funds. Many times it was only the kids and myself inside of our castle. They’d asked a ocean of questions about their father and the truth I offered painted fairy tales. Villains and heroes clashing to claim gold… Their father conquered for our kingdom, for us, and they lit up at the prospect. I only want my children to thrive in their imaginations. Where forests hold fairies and rain only falls on battlefields. Life’s harsh realities would not hinder their childhood as they had mine.

“Are you and daddy leaving?” Odette hangs off the counter with only her tiptoes held by the step ladder. My foot nudges the ladder further beneath her so she wouldn’t fall.

The dough beneath my hand forms a perfect cloud of gluten that can now be set inside of the oven. Soon our home will be overrun with lovely aromas of rosemary and thyme. My stomach is already rumbling with hunger.

Instead of answering vocally, I nod my head and it rouses up a loud whine from our daughter. “I don’t want to eat any more beets! They don’t taste like purple!” She is storming from the kitchen! Apparently our neighbors ate a lot of ‘bizarre’ vegetables when they were there. “Daddy!” I hear her pop-rock words pinging off the walls.

Orson slowly climbs the step ladder like a mouse. His small hands grab my arm to pull my attention. I lean in expecting his little kisses, but instead he is cradling my face. “Mommy… Why were you outside last night? You were out in the snow and you weren’t wearing a jacket. It’s a rule… Isn’t it?”

Panic rips through my ribs to shred my organs. His eyes now scrutinize me with fingers digging into my flesh. My voice is gone even while I desperately try to summon it back. This critical moment requires my voice and all I can do is stare at my son. My features are knotted like my stomach. This shouldn’t have infected my children. Therapy was supposed to be the cure, yet here we linger.

“I was thirsty..” He continues to explain himself as if he did something wrong. “Daddy was screaming for you and you walked outside of the gate. Are you okay?”

My eyes shut, lowering my head down…

“—Dear, Amelia Dola

This letter is to inform you that you are not allowed near my family. I am officially severing ties from you and from father.

Mother, do you believe we have an understanding of one another? I’d disagree if you said ‘yes’. Did you come after me because it is what loving mothers do? Did you decide to sew up your people suit for everyone again? An act of compassion that is no longer required. There is no reason to play pretend. I did what you’ve been wanting me to do for most of my life; I vanished from yours.”

Every time I laid the twins inside their cribs, I’d silently, selfishly, repeat ‘I will not be my mother’. I’d use her as an example of how not to be. The traditional abuse would end with me, and I believe that Cameron would tell himself the same thing. My husband’s desk is unusually cluttered today. Still my hand, unbothered by the mess, draws each letter in weaving cursive. After the jarring reunion with Amelia she has been a constant in my head. Her overwhelming disappointment judges even the most minute decision I make.

“You’re letting them eat cookies for a snack?” “You’re overflowing the bathtub with bubbles?” “You’re letting them walk out of the house wearing that?”

In pace with Leon’s shadow, my mother follows behind me. Not too close but perhaps around the corner. All these shadows are cotton inside my head filling it with fluff and muffling my surroundings. I think I might be turning into a ghost in our own manor —

No.

I wasn’t here. I am not in this study where Leon sits in the corner haunting me. I don’t want to be here. I am in the kitchen with Orson. I am in the kitchen with Orson. I am in the kitchen with Orson—

“Are you sick, mommy?” Orson’s words aren’t bubbles but pebbles hitting me from all sides. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

My body trembles though I am able to shake my head. My darling has done nothing wrong but my condition has now begun poisoning him. Won’t this stop yet? I hate this. Nothing is getting better. It’s worse. I need to call Doctor Malcom. I’m being dragged out of moments even when I’m awake. It is happening mid-sentence! I need it to sto—

“Were you disappointed that father helped you stitch up a perfect daughter only to have it result in me? It never mattered how many appointments we attended, did it? They stuck me in giant machines and injected me with magical serums that ultimately failed. Was it a bitter pill to swallow when you discovered that all the money in the world could not transform me? You hated that they could not fix me! A sought out lawyer and surgeon had somehow been cursed with a useless fucking mute as a child!”

The papers scatter from the desk to the floor along with a stack of books and the keyboard Cameron uses for his computer. I feel a scream bubbling in my throat. A chill rips through my entire body like sharpened talons. Quickly, I duck down crawling under the desk and stuff my fist into my mouth to stop a scream. I hate this. Why did they do this to me?!

Wait…

The scream dies…

I am in the kitchen.

I wasn’t in this office.

No, this is just a memory from a few weeks ago. I’m not writing that letter anymore. In fact, I ended up ripping it to pieces and throwing it into our grand fireplace where flames erased every word. I’m tired of being tucked away inside of shifting places and time. Stop it!

STOP IT!

A migraine throbs at the back of my skull and I force down the bile. My body might as well sink to the bottom of the ocean; smothering me beneath this weight. I cut the ribbons around my mouth but there is no sound. My arms bound themselves around Orson’s body as a shield. I failed to protect him. I failed. My head nuzzles down against him to assure him that it’ll be okay. His arms wrap around me, along with another set around my ribs.

“Momma? Are you sad? We’re going to miss you.” Odette informs with little firework words. “Daddy said that you’re going to be coming home with a crown of your own. Can we make some for your heads? I wanna make yours red because that’s your favorite. I’ll remember to take the dogs on walks. I’m going to make daddy’s purple!”

My eyes burn from trying to swallow down tears. Odette’s fireworks brighten up the room to contrast them.

“I’ll eat my beets…” Odette promises.

“I’m sorry.” Orson whimpers against my shoulder.

SPEAK DAMNIT. GIVE ME BACK MY WORDS. I DO NOT NEED THEM FOR EVERYONE, JUST THEM. JUST THEM.

“I-I…” My voice wobbles. “Shh…”

Please… I don’t want to fade again…

“It-it-it… It is okay… Shh… I-I love you..” Now I am exhausted but I bundle both twins in my arms as we tilt onto the cool kitchen floor. They are giggles and bubbles and fireworks again. I feel him before I hear or see him. My head rotates to see my husband in the doorway cradling Sylas in his arms. His eyes fill with clouds to hide a secret. Lately, it feels as if we are sitting back to back with a towering wall between us. This wall is constructed of bricks that slowly stack themselves with every word we do not say. I want to take a sledgehammer to the wall but my arms are flung to either side like a scarecrow.

One of my hands, not pinned down by the children, beacons him to me. In an instant my husband kneels down next to us. Sylas’s head tips backwards so his large, beautiful, pools of gray stare into me. His tiny hand tangles in my hair and is companions with a soft babble of greeting. Our twins are giggling, speaking of the pile we’ve created on the warming kitchen floor.

“I love you.” My voice is sturdy now.

“I love you.” Cameron responds after a heartbeat.

Suddenly, I am freshly baked— ooey-gooey in the middle; content again, and whole. This is where I want to stay.

I’m not a fool though. I count the seconds until this moment washes away, unceremoniously, like paint beneath a waterfall.

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The year is 2016.

First thought grappling through Tara Dola’s head was: why is everyone screaming? All the noise swirling together in such a mass that it was no longer individuals, but one single roar. Blinding lights scorched the mat where Tara’s shoulders were the only things touching. Her breath ragged and reality slammed back into itself. Her hands flail wildly in order to knock the other woman away! Anna relentlessly crawled at Tara’s shirt tearing at the fabric, but when that hadn’t resulted in anything, she relocated to her shorts.

The piece of clothing slid off her thighs, halfway down her thrashing legs and that was when Anna dropped both of her own knees into Tara’s stomach to halt all fight. The shorts were discarded somewhere across the ring which increased the roaring.

Tara rolled like a child trying to bundle themselves up in a carpet until she slipped beneath the ropes, and landed on the floor. Adrenaline blurred the scene for another moment causing Tara to release a strangely fearful scream when Anna’s head popped out from over the edge of the ring. Like a murderer peering down at their lastest victim, she grinned.

Each woman was missing a section of clothing and that meant that the match would end if Tara could get Anna’s own pants off. Reality knocked Tara harder than Anna handling her back into the ring. Both of them only separated by the longest moments; each one allowing both women to reposition themselves. People weren’t booing— That is what caught the young woman first. No one was booing them. They couldn’t care less who won or who lost this match. The result, for them, would be the same: scantily clad women.

Tara’s breathing changed in an instant to sharp and quick. Like a hunter; like a wild animal. So her entire body slammed recklessly into Anna slamming her head back against the ring post. Stars bloomed from the woman’s eyes. The post being guarded by padding stopped being a factor because Tara headbutted Anna. It hurt, but that didn’t stop her from doing it again, and again. Eventually, hitting Anna’s nose resulted in a gush of blood spraying across the mat.

The match stopped being a ‘bra and panties’ right as Tara punched Anna so hard it might’ve dislocated her jaw. The room had grown completely silent with the brutal beating only ending when Anna stopped fighting back. She was dragged, by her hair, into the middle of the ring. This wrestler had become a sacrifice for the crowd. Perhaps, even a deterrent in some fashion. The announcer explained that Tara lost the match due to disqualifications. When medical and security sprinted towards the ring, it was the only time she could hear the booing.

That made Tara smile.

It should’ve felt more victorious to deny the rest of her body to the prying eyes, but it was bitter. Tara hadn’t even bothered to dress fully when marching down the hall. She was caught a few feet away from the exit. Management warned her that her actions tonight would not be without punishment. For the first time in a very long time words gathered inside of Tara’s mouth, “Good.” She spat at their feet.

The freedom Tara Dola allowed herself in those moments was transformed to retribution. Instead of a steady progression allotted to other talent, she had been saddled with being the welcoming community. Management assured her that she was treated as the rest of the roster. A claim in which she discovered was utter bullshit. She stopped by measured by skill after her step out of line.

Anna attacking her backstage with a chair was enough proof of the bias cast over them. That attack had no repercussions, but a reward instead. Anna’s next match was a shot at the Lightweight Championship. Anna had been ‘good’ for just accepting the insult. She played the game the way it was supposed to be played. Tara decided against it. However, paying her dues did nothing in furthering her career. She’d win every single match without any recognition. When that dawned on her? Well, the first attack took place. Tara took out her opponent in the hallway instead of the ring. Everyone was going to suffer for the misdeeds of their leaders.

Next, she speared the Lightweight Champion in half to start off the conversation. He returned the favor by suplexing Tara onto the concrete. Every single hit was meant to do some sort of permanent damage. He knocked her back into a stack of crates, but as a reply, Tara tried to break his leg with a chair. Security separated them in enough time to ensure two ‘Gods’ weren’t taken out of commission. Before they had the chance to escort them out, the champion leaned in, nice and close, promising that just because she had grown a spine did not mean she’d ever be a champion.

Suddenly, Tara was considered a problem that had to be dealt with. She’d be their example of what happens when you do not follow rules: a handicap match against one of the stables. Tara had taken down two of them before being squarely defeated. They left her, battered, in the middle of the ring.

Her strength vanished along most of the will to continue. Tara asked herself: What is the point? Winning every single match meant nothing to them anymore. She was left out of contender matches, and interrupting them resulted in bans. Tara, for the first time, gave up— That was until the chanting began.

Tara sat up, dizzy, hurt, just to bask in the crowd bestowing a brand new title upon her.

“God Slayer!”

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It is a very average training room being explored. Against the right wall are scuffed up lockers with a bench in front of them. A beaten up square circle directly in the middle with a ring of protective padding lining the floor. The walls have a few motivational posters that are peeling at the corners. With one step, a swish of brown hair is visible. Gone are the extravagant clothing as Tara Ayla steps forward in plain sweatpants and a loose fitting t-shirt.

“This is where it started…”

Cradling the audio-device in her arms, Tara carefully climbs into the ring noting the tears along the edges. Kneeling down she touches the fraying sides with great care, “For most, great promises are little seedlings being planted in these places… Sore muscles and hurt feelings are typical. They are meant to prepare you. I’m curious, when you began your journey, Zahara Matisse, in VoW had you just left a place like this? In my search I located older tapes of you and they are in stark contrast with my own. Despite VoW not resulting in any gold, you still managed to climb. Despite it, you were still ‘The Magical Maiden!’”

Ian Hershel leads the camera around to the opposite of the ring. From this perspective, Tara is sitting in the middle of a sunbeam. Creating halos of her brunette hair while softening her features considerably. Her eyes downcast and she pulls on a thread.

“I can not relate. Magnificence is a new horizon to traverse. Friendships are rare for me— opportunities as grand as this are too. With these two factors, I cannot help but wonder: How will you approach this? Opponents' opinions are blurry at best, so easy to dismiss. A form of rose tinted lenses spying through their own ego. They warp the truth, bending words to fit into their own narratives. It’d be a fool’s errand to approach the situation from that angle. You’re too diligent to do that. This is not your first time facing a dear one inside of the ring. How do you overcome the fragility of relationships in this industry? So easy to offend, to betray, and has shattered many… You balanced this feat though…”

The tread rips audibly and twists around Tara’s finger.

“I have stumbled upon a new duality. What is seen and what is true. Not the first time it has bellowed at my door. Being in Pro Wrestling Excellence has done this continuously. Contrasting ideals that have been yanking me in two directions. One side of me wishes to bend to please, my friends, my husband, and the other wants to surpass them; to eviscerate them. Damian Ayla is our undefeated Excellence Champion. He is a lone king above us bored on a throne. He is my husband taking on armies who berate him. You? You are… one of my only friends who is currently a barrier I must destroy. Disrespecting you is the last thing I wish to do yet I hesitate because I have already lost a friend due to my nature in wrestling. A monster, he said.”

Her hands finally move the audio-diary to sit in front of her. A male voice echoes from an unknown source.

“You’re a monster, Tara Dola. Congratulations on becoming our very first God Slayer. Tell me something, even from that mound of bodies, where is your Championship? ”

“The Impulse title will be the very first and to prepare I have been reflecting on my history. No matter how ugly, or helpless it makes me feel. You see, Zoey, I’ve always felt as if I am sitting on the bench, no, not even that close. I am sitting on the grass far away. I observe others grace themselves with the shimmering golds, and pearls. Barely even recognized as a potential player. Motivation meant nothing, my knowledge was useless, skills were a waste of energy, and to achieve more was smashed down by crippling phobia. I was dismissed before I even had the chance to prove myself. No one looked twice. Accomplishments were meaningless to everyone, my mother and father included. This stigma haunts me and even now it threatens to grab me.”  Tara slowly lowers her hands. Her brows furrowed with frustration.

I thought you finished this little stint in wrestling. It ended up being a waste of resources. You won’t make a living out of it, Tara. I hate when you waste your… potential.” The voice is that of a woman.

Tara’s expression flattens to a chilling glare.

“You’re serious about ruining your future by proceeding with wrestling?” The voice continues.

The rage seeps away from Tara with a single breath as her hand fiddles with the liberated string.

“I know your experience differs from my own. Where you had companions in the ‘Boardwalk Angels’ — I had opponents belittling me. Where your family encouraged this venture— mine criticized. When companies desire to book you?! Mine… mine wanted to humiliate me… Zoey, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thrive under the spotlights. I think nearly all companies notice the flaw in having a mute as their champion. What is the point for them to hold a thing of power when they can not speak. as desired. ASL has no place on center stage. So verbally speaking is a key factor when it comes to wrestling as a whole. I’ve tried to force myself into the models others have constructed of me. Being a terrifying beast, being an angry young blood, being this, and never having the ability to simply be myself. Even now I set a mask over my features praying it does not falter. Praying that I do not fall.”

Tara rises to her feet and abandons the audio-dairy in the center of the ring.

“Do you know something humorous? Even without my voice… I transformed… From another faceless wrestler drowning in the vastness of this industry to a God Slayer. An entity used to glorify fear. That title became a mask I am very proud of because it matched Damian’s. My mask represented strength for a ”useless mute”. Wearing it, however, I found a weight that came along with it. It did not matter how strong or fast, or resilient I was, because they dismissed me at every turn. Once again I was out in the fields trying my damndest to be on top! Do you know how they pacified me? They told me to just have faith that my own abilities would carry me along.”

Tara cracks a humorless smile. Her hands actually sign a phrase that is subtitled on screen: BULLSHIT.

“Having faith in someone else has always been difficult, having faith in myself has always felt impossible. Trusting Damian to dominate inside of the ring always feels like faith in a pure form. There is no need for talk, it was something he was always going to do. That belt might not ever leave his hands if he does not wish it. That relentless faith; I wanted it for myself. When I began winning, my faith in my own abilities flourished. Then Olympus threatened to remove faith from my very hands. Even as I learned how to conquer veterans and rookies, even gods, alike, I was stuck. “All it took was faith”? No. They lied to me, Zoey! Sealed the doors and blocked the stairs. They trapped me at every single turn! They told me I could do as they say— competing in humiliating matches like a ‘strip’ match or suffer at the bottom of the company. Those were my options, Zoey!”

“It isn’t anything you’ve done, Tara. I just think you’re better off staying where you are.” 

 “You might have dislocated my knee but all you’re ever going to be in fucking entertainment for our audience! Everyone, come watch the wild animal attack on command!!”

“So instead of setting a noose around my neck, and chains around my wrists, I destroyed my opponent and then I started to hunt the rest of the gods. A vengeful retribution, I must admit. Even with their blood soaking my clothing and hands, I was refused title matches, refused gold, and refused even the fucking opportunity to compete. So faced with those impossible odds… I took great pride in garnering their respect at the very least… One Bloody Match At A time...”

Tara stands over the audio-diary with a melancholy smile. Her foot stomps down onto the device. The grunts increase in volume until they are cries of fury! She launches the device up at the speaker in the corner. Both hit the ground in a deafening crash. With the destruction of both, she has ensured that no more voices can be heard. Tara breathes deeply brushing her hair back.

The video flickers like a glitching trick. Tara is in the center of the ring (Skip) She is pacing left to right. (Skip) Tara is shadow boxing the corner. (Skip) Tara is sitting in the middle of the ring in her wrestling gear meticulously taping up her hands. Once finished, her hand clenched tight.

“Ms. Knight…” An unknown voice says, “promised that Pro Wrestling Excellence is a company where your skill in that ring is all you require. No gimmicks, no back alley dealings, no whoring to the masses, because we as wrestlers held our own fate. All the strife I faced, all the mud I had to crawl through, and every single dark place I waited inside led to this very point. No more humiliating tasks! Have you not seen what I’ve accomplished with having to say a single WORD?! It was when I won the contership that I realized that things had changed. No need for masks… This might be the only chance I have at holding my first title. To you, Zoey, I do not pretend to know what this title means to you.. But it is everything to me. I don’t have to fit anyone else’s mode! I-I…”

Tara covers her mouth hunching forward. (skip) She sits on the edge of the apron where sunlight casts a shadow across her face. Feet dangling gives her almost a childlike appearance that is ruined by the glint in her eye.

“My blood has gone into this sport. We’ve all suffered… but now I am going to see the result of all my efforts. Every single match I have had in PWE has been leading to this very point! I never lost sight of that Impulse Championship! Not once has anything else stolen my attention…I wrestle for more than endless victory… It is for glittering gold, for the taste of bitter blood, and ability to express who I truly am. Wrestling is, in fact, language for me. No one misunderstands what I am saying when I’m inside the ring. When I pin someone to the mat then they can not mistake what I am saying. When they are broken, finally, I am heard. I am unapologetically me the moment I take a step inside. That is the greatest gift. So when I arrive at Magnificent I am officially removing my mask once and for all. I do not want to be anyone but myself when I hold my very first Championship.”

Now her head fully ducks. “I will be our new Impulse Champion, Zoey… When we meet next I hope you understand the poems I am writing for you. I hope you forgive what I am going to do in order to win. You will not be facing ‘Tara’ nor will you be facing ‘The God Slayer’. I am finally tying them together in order to achieve something incredible… Do you understand? Have you figured it out yet?”

Tara’s smile grows slowly. Finally, her lips move: “I am going to finally reach Heaven.”

Suddenly, Tara is nowhere to be seen and the camera zooms in on the broken audio-device in the center of the ring with a single rose laying over it.

The video feed cuts.