Ayla Book; Chapter 8: Loaned Grace

"I hope you can forgive me, or even loan me grace? I always seem to need it, and I’m always short these days."

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I should have been safely tucked under the covers where my limbs would sweetly tangle around Cameron’s. Even in slumber his hand always holds me even if it is awkwardly around my thigh. Our bed remains a cool enough temperature so our body heat doesn’t transform it to an unbearable furnace. When we first started dating I’d cling to him, sometimes even sleep atop him, and that is where I should have been.

Instead, I was in the red, palpitating heart of it, of the hunt. No idea when or where the beginning was but all I knew was darkness yanking me forward. Drenching absolutely everything in pure night and my own fear sticky against all the foliage that brushed against me. That conversation with my children heightened the fear that their curiosity would lure them outside. Instead, a voice had summoned me outside with a scream and a yelp. What greeted me was a sharp pain, a growl and a gunshot.

The close voice of Leon, hot, on the back of my neck. “Run…!”

I collided straight into a tree! My body seemingly bounced like a pinball, but I kept running, encouraged by the chaotic symphony of howling creatures chasing behind! This forest was a vast tangle of trees reaching beyond the clouds above and scaring away any moonlight. Each foot stepping across unknown terrain on pure faith that a cliff does not guide me downward. Every mile I put behind summoned the same question: How long have I been running? I couldn’t have been sure in those moments. Fire no longer consumed my lungs and my throat must’ve numbed to the air. My body flew over a distance who knew how far from the manor. After a while I must’ve detached completely; like a balloon and string that had been released. I drifted so far up into those trees.

“TARA!” Like a crack of thunder, his voice threatened incoming danger.

My feet slid down an incline causing my entire body sideways and off course. Not that a destination was ever in view or in mind. I had just been running on instinct and the idea that if I stopped I’d be killed. My home had been swallowed by the darkness and screaming would have been a beacon for him. The change of direction offered no relief because on my heels the hungry panting continued.

“GET BACK HERE!”

What have I done to deserve this— broke Melissa’s arm, failed to protect my children, failed my husband, failed my friends—

Past that came a terrifying thought: Did I deserve death?

Finally my pace slowed until I halted completely. Now my lungs could shatter from every gasp and my feet stung as if someone was driving nails through them. My body’s shaking began with vengeance as Leon stepped from the darkness. His massive stature towering over me snuffing out any dull area glow. Surrounding us were body-less snarling assuring me that there was no escape. His hands extended to me, grabbing my throat just like the first time he arrived. Panic did not immediately flood my body. Something I might never tell anyone else, I thought, why is my neck so tiny? Then I remembered how snapping bones actually sounded like.

“You should’ve listened to me! Instead your incompetence impeded your rise to glory!”

“T-title… shot…!” My hands grabbed each side of his face. All the panic hiding in my gut explored the rest of my body, raising alarms everywhere. My nails clawed uselessly at his features that broke like sand. I had done what he asked of me! None of it soothed that fury and even with crumbling features the strength did not lessen. I was going to die there, strangled by my ghosts. Crowned a failure by the only parental figure who cared… The world tilted being swallowed by a void.

I wish I could explain why my head began the next train of thoughts but I believe it is why I’m still alive:

The last time I saw Leon was for a small dinner between us two. He had gathered together a bundle of new books for me to digest with his usual stoic nature calming the air. Cameron had opted to travel to a nearby park with his mother and the twins. It left the family home quiet, and I often wondered how loud it must’ve been with the whole family as children. The chaos that ruled even above the patriarch’s strict command. I never asked too much of Cameron’s past, nor he with my own. Though we always had an understanding.

Leon and I communicated in bursts of long windedness followed by nothing but the scraping of silverware against ceramic. Our relationship was steady little drums of kindness never once extended to me by my own blood. I accepted his rolling storm words as things of comfort. Never once had I dug into why I was treated in such a manner, one that I feared wasn’t even extended to his own brood. Cameron and his father rarely exchanged gentle words but instead they were silent knives attempting to nick bone. All involved simply danced about the true venom and sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if it was due to my presence.

We both saw the world through similar lenses of The Observer. Leon offered advice and oftentimes his teachings were in the written word. I’d enjoyed his study filled to the brim, each wall, with books. We rarely actually spoke in customary conversation but instead shared lifetimes of stories with the exchange of a book. When I was pregnant with the twins, he offered countless baby books, to ease the pure terror swallowing me whole. When I felt a failure I’d simply open up a book he had given me. One where the spine was now creased and the pages dripping with coffee scents instead of smoke from his pipe. The edges of the book are worn just like the hard cover. How many times had he read it?

Leon died before ever meeting Sylas. He had only a limited time with the twins who enjoyed tugging on his mustache when we visited. Leon died before I had won my first championship. When Leon von Licht died I couldn’t help but wonder if a small part of Cameron felt relief. We never spoke much of his death while I grieved alone inside of our own study surrounded by novels. Leon died leaving me one last final gift; a book of poems. One that remains inside of a small bedside table.

So why was the man who adored me currently squeezing the life from my body? It couldn’t be Leon. It had never been him in the first place. Just a shadow who swiftly shuffled behind me with a murderous intent. As easily as I could conjure the shadow, I just accepted death rightly. All my guilt and anxieties carrying a shovel to dig my grave. I allowed them the ability to do so… And gave them the potions to grow and shift forms.

With that I felt rage and that rage I took action—

Both of my thumbs jab into the ghost’s eyes. No blood but sand crumbled into my hands. His screams were high pitched and endless… A bright light expelled from his mouth causing me to stumble backwards. I raised my arms to guard me from the monstrous figure but with a single step I fell back onto the frozen ground.

A car horn punctured the scream to overtake the damn noise as I peered up at the front of the car. A man poked his head out, “Are you mad?!”

The forest I had been inside of was the city of Whitehorse; a startling transformation. The distance from our manor stirred the gut wrenching realities. I noticed that the evening was actually peaceful due to the snow. My entire body vibrated from that cold, swarming me like wasps. The man climbed out from the car inspecting me. His anger vanished behind horror. I inspected my hands coated in dried blood, or was it frozen at that temperature? Beyond my hands was the front of the nightgown drenched in blood as if after a massacre.

I do not know who began the rapid screaming. It might have been me. It must’ve been summoned from deep within my belly releasing every single emotion I tried to bottle up after the last few months.

That was when he started to call numbers, when he covered me in a blanket and ushered me into the backseat of the car. “Hysteria is okay.” I heard him claim with surprising calm. Just like if he had been explaining the weather to me. “Happens when your body is that cold.”

When the screaming finally silenced into heavy breathing I could gently lay out in that stranger’s car. I reminded myself that it was reckless. My sane mind tried to block out the raging insanity just on the other side of a door. At one point, I had the urge to jump out of the car. All my thoughts kept knotting. Was this my blood? Was it someone else’s? Where was Cameron? My children? Had my body committed a horrible act? Finally, I slept until we made it to the hospital.

As it turns out, head wounds bleed profusely. “I was lucky”, they informed me a great number of times while I sat on the hospital bed. Hypothermia had not set in enough for me to lose any limbs, and a mild concussion would clear up in a few days. My career slipped further away from me because the reality of the situation settled on my lap; a heavy weight that I curled around. I could have died.

I slept for a long time with no dreams.

When morning came was when I was flooded with questions but my throat, sore and raw, could not reply. So they had to fumble around for someone who spoke ASL while I filled out information on sheets of paper. They called Cameron… My poor husband. I wondered what he was doing when they finally reached him? I wondered about the children and how I’d ever explain this to them. When the time finally comes perhaps I’ll have a better explanation.

While waiting for his arrival I vanished inside a massive machine again, they peered inside my head then laid me back into my bed. Hospitals smell so clean and yet death’s scent prevails still.

The sun is bright today. It welcomes me to the window but I remain in bed with my toes tucked safely under three blankets. Usually winter is my favorite time of year but right now, I do not wish to be cold. His eyes are on me… Like a sudden increase of heart rate I know Cameron finally arrived. I turn to look at my husband who is dragged by sadness. I caused this.

“Cameron…” A whisper is all I can muster through tears. In seconds he is over the bed grabbing me in the tightest hug. Despite the pain behind his eyes, his body remains sturdy so I wrap my arms around his waist. I wish I could clutch him just as tight, but I’m tired.

“T-there’s… S-something we, we, we need to…” He loosens just enough to sit on the bed, “Discuss. I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

Cameron’s lips part to reply just as a knock disrupts us. Neither of us look away from each other; a silly fear, I think, like if we look away then the spell is broken. Suddenly we’ll be miles away from each other, lost at sea, or locked behind doors again. I never like when Cameron looks fearful because it's such a foreign expression to cloud his features.

“Can I come in?” Doctor Feli steps into the room and the door is shut.

Finally, Cameron looks towards the older man because we understand it’s safe. This profile view reminds me of when I first met him. I’d always watch Cameron perform the most mundane chores like dishes or washing fruit. Even now sometimes I can’t help but watch. Something about how he looks when he is focusing makes me smile. There is something charming about the faintest smile that hides in the corner of his mouth after a job well done.

“Well, the MRI scans came back along with the blood tests. There are a few things we need to discuss. First, how are you feeling this morning?”

“B-better.” I rest my head on Cameron’s shoulder. Having to restrain myself from just crawling into his lap like I do when he reads. Doctor Feli knows ASL but I decided to test my voice out a little more. My little moth words float around the room not fearing the day anymore. “Finally got some sleep.”

“Good, good.” He stands at the foot of the bed with a kind smile. I wonder if my father has the same expression when speaking to patients? Doctor Feli has warm, brown eyes, in contrast against Doctor Malcom’s voidless eyes that always haunted me. “Now, the good news is: we can treat everything I’m about to tell you, okay?”

“What’s going on with Tara?” Cameron’s butterfly words tickle my nose again with their worried little wings. His arm is around my waist, his hand gently rubbing my hip. He is worried but his eyes have life in them again. There is something… warm about this conversation. The sunrays against my features make me release a held breath.

It’s going to be okay. I feel strange, perhaps a little off, but nothing negative. No, no. For the first time in a long time: I feel hopeful.

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“I have a job to do; personal feelings be damned.” Tara drums her fingers across her lips as if the words themselves taste strange. The scene surrounding her appears to be a lone, snowy field. She steps carefully, dragging a long cloak behind. In the middle is a long mahogany table void of anything atop it. The weather offers redness to her features though she seems not to notice the temperature. From her side comes a brand new audio-device set gently on the table. It does not have a robotic tone and instead has her own.

“Filtering through sugar glass had been an option not easily ignored. Fear of losing Zoey as a friend plagues me through this entire endeavor. Including recent events, an urge to soften my words came forth, but in doing so would imply weakness of her as a competitor. She does not require my pity so I refuse the notion. I have an obligation to respect my opponent and the Impulse Title with performing to peak proficiency... No fool am I to underestimate a champion who won a hard fought battle to take her glory. However, I must concern myself with my own court in this battle. What I’ve dissected has been provided completely by the actions of our Impulse Champion, Zoey Madigan-Star. It is the only grace I can possibly provide. Let us begin on some revelations…”

Tara sets down plates marking where a person might sit. She sets a pair down at the very end of the table with a smile. When her eyes focus upward they grow dull followed by a slight downturn of her lips. Her head tilts, sideways and she begins to speak. “Zoey won the Impulse Championship belt on our third show, Impulse Violence, and has done absolutely nothing with, or for it.” This statement is marked by a clatter of silverware against the table split out from a small ornate box.

“A glittering reward that rots away behind a glass case. She did not arrive at Prelude to greet the fans, or even gloat as most champions customarily do. No, not a celebration which is truthfully, primarily a way to tempt the rest of the roster to challenge. No, it was background to a phone conversation with her wife and a delivering of mystery flowers. I usually avoid the cesspool that is Twitter but at least a post was made there. A minimal acknowledgement seemed to satisfy her, I suppose, but certainly left a bitter taste for some of us. Some often glorify Social Media to do more for us than it is capable of. I view it more as a crutch, a distraction. I figured Zoey might share, at least, a little bit of a similar viewpoint. This is why I expected more from her.” Tara hums quietly setting out each silver piece of cutlery unbothered by her own statements. Most of it said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Zoey, you had the “favoritism” to win that title and to your credit the goal was accomplished. Our Impulse title was held in capable hands of someone who was supposed to guarantee something grand. Yet, a poison filled barb nags me; an intrusive truth… Allen Chaney would have done better. He demands attention and would have fostered that title far more. It was Allen, not you, who called the Excellence’s Champion out for claiming he had no challenge here. As a champion that insult should’ve triggered a protectiveness. You did not even muster the ability to acknowledge it... See, our Excellence champion might’ve opened the doors to allow blight into our company, but at least he took action! He made our company seem like a fortress, he made the Excellence Championship valuable and desirable. People may hate him but at least they know he is a champion. They battle, bloody and raw, at a chance for that title; not yours.”

It takes a deep breath for Tara to gently set a knife down instead of slam it. She wanders back around the table dipping down to pull out a stack of platters. This marks where Tara stops talking and allows the device to begin in her stead.

“Pro Wrestling Excellence ignored The Impulse Title at Annihilation. A silver platter gifted insult right at your feet claiming no one wished to see you or it presented! You remained silent. Are you aware it is the only title with no defense? Our Victory title has already switched hands from Lachlan Kane to Ellie Quinn. Another section of our company is hungrily chasing after that title. While most of the roster has nearly forgotten the Impulse title’s existence. They’d rather chase after Damian Ayla because he provided something you have not; a challenge. Even committing so far as to invoke their wrath and feed their own egos just to destroy them. They desire a champion who is willing to bleed for gold, who is willing to hoist gold even above themselves in war. They crave violence that ultimately leads to splendor but you have not provided anything for them to seek out. As a 13 year veteran who had multiple titles in the past, shouldn’t action be taken every opportunity? Your experience exceeds my own, so why does none of this bother you? I have always seen it as a title run with no battle is unproductive. It grows stale leaving the champion nothing more than just another wrestler on the roster toting around a shiny belt. No one wants to fight for a championship that even its owner does not cherish.`` The platters slid along the length of the table skidding to a stop near the further end.

“No, instead of the Impulse championship you’ve promoted Splat Network’s Madison Tower series, your Sin City Sorcery Troupe, Drake’s Landing and MSS Production’s Afterlife. If acting is the career you wish to pursue then hand me the Impulse Title. Nothing wrong with widening your endeavors, most occupy their time with doing more. However, a championship deserves better than being nothing more than a dusty trophy you sometimes answer questions about. Certainly deserves more than just being brought up when it suits your own ego.”

Tara sighs exasperated and her fingers gently rub at her right temple. This whole thing is ticking at her patience. She taps the device thrice taking over the vocals. “Instead of the Impulse Championship you’ve chosen to appear the fool by allowing someone else to dictate where your attention lies. Xaria Linette’s thoughtless accusations were pebbles at my husband's castle, but they rained like boulders upon you. You could’ve easily forgotten the entire situation just like many of us have, but paranoia snuck beneath your skin, didn’t it? So obsessed with how others *might* perceive you if the spineless accusations were right. Even with her finger pointed in my direction, I can’t even burden myself with feeling anything more than a twinge of annoyance at this moment, because I have, (how do they put it?) bigger fish to fry. A championship certainly outweighs other distractions, or should. Have you gotten so fragile that a couple of cross comments unraveled you completely? Schoolyard taunts is all it took, Zoey, for you to chase Xaria around in her silly games. A champion shouldn’t be so easy to manipulate but you are; running in the palm of her hand and for what?”

Tara’s eyes shut briefly while her mouth twists into a snarl. Both hands slam onto the table though the sting of her palms does not bother her. “I’m going to alleviate your responsibilities to allow more freedom to squabble with Xaria by seizing that belt for myself. Much better in my hands then a mere prop in yours! Is that not what you want? Even when you were to address me and the title, somehow she snuck in. Living, as they say, rent free inside of your mind.” A spill of wroth laughing cuts her words. “It was not only the Impulse Title you’ve been insulting by your audacity, but you have insulted me!”

 "Friday, December 24th, 2021—” You disrespected Pro Wrestling Excellence with your nonsense. And your silence? It disrespects me. “ Zoey's voice echoes.

“Hypocrites and the disrespect you have spat in my face invoke a certain realm of wrath! It is too late for your little warnings on Twitter, or your half-assed speech! It is too late to correct your fucking mistake, Zoey! You— You— You *ignored* your contender for a fucking GAME OF HIDE-N-SEEK!”

She screams, punching at the table in two swift jabs. This summons a rather strained laugh as if to calm herself. Tara inhales deeply while adjusting a spoon that was skewed by her outburst. Tara fixes a strand of hair that has fallen out of place with a small sigh.

“As a champion you did not want challenges. You proved it by every single thing you did not do for this company!” Despite the calming methods, Tara is glaring forward with palm hands firmly planting on the table. “Perhaps I should have insulted your fragile fucking pride! Is that what you wanted?! Me to act like Xaria Linette?! Perhaps, you wanted me to attack you like a wild animal! Emerging from the darkness behind you like an eldritch come to make you disappear! Had I known that I would have returned to my old ways and made sure you didn’t even have the chance to meet me inside that ring! A broken limb would’ve stolen the title from you, but kept it far from my own hands as well…” Tara soothes herself and looks off to the side.

“What saved you from that… was my patience, our friendship, and my belief in what Ms. Knight said. My skills did not require the need for such brutal tactics. I shouldn’t have had to resort to tricky methods to get your attention because gold should inspire the desire for combat. The announcement of our match being No Disqualifications should have sparked the importance; should have sounded alarms and with that your voice. Yet it didn’t. Perhaps you’re completely unaware of just how damning this is for you. See, No Rules is where I thrive! With the blood and the breaking I am feeding my darkest nature. Haven’t you been paying attention at all? Apparently not or you would have prepared better. Violence is where I worship and matches like these are like a chapel. 

I am not the first one to threaten you, nor will I be the last. Simply a name added to a list but mine will be written in your blood. You will suffer just like The Harlequin. She opened her mouth too many times, stabbing at my patience until it shattered! You accomplished this feat without even noticing it which only worsens your fate. By ignoring me, you’ve proven you care very little for the Impulse championship, and you do not perceive me as a threat. I’ve been insulted, my name dragged, IGNORED, but I hadn’t worried about that fate with you. My mistake.”

Tara relocates back to the head of the table bending down to grab one more thing. Another box, this one white and tied with a blood red ribbon. For now it is forgotten about. Her eyes, brimming with fire, are back forward.

“This defeat will be etched inside of your skin… Not to end our friendship, but merely due to it being strong enough to endure it. I’ve watched from inside of the pit while meticulously designing my throne to sit upon; crafted on victories and strengthened by passion. This match has haunted me, inspired me, and I have already conquered in the name of it. You’ve grown lazy… Paranoid… and it paints endless targets all over your body. When I’ve added your name to my list, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. After I finish my feast on the corpse of your reign the Impulse title will be washed in your flowery blood where it will finally flourish beautifully.”

Behind Tara a chair, crafted of blackened wood, shifts forward so she can bend into place. She sits with a smile drawing the box closer to her. The ribbon slowly begins to pull away from itself by a tug of her delicate hand.

“Just like this table, just as I have previously said, I have been preparing everything just so. It began with the door opening; from there forward, every move I made was to get to this specific place. Each person I destroyed— I assured them all, if you were paying attention, that the Ayla’s would have our feast. Do you see what I have done? Everything in my power to seize this very moment! Cradled, swaddled and adored; my very first championship. I’ve desired this chance, bled for it, and it will be mine! Have I not been obsessed about this victory ever since I won the contender match? Quite a counter against who I am facing, is it not? Waning attention reveals bleeding cracks in the foundation of the current Impulse Champion. My resolve has none; no weakness, no leaks, and all I have to do is serve the first meal. There is unbelievable satisfaction when everything aligns as we wished it would… Find pride in being who I begin our feast with. Find grace in what is to come next. ” Tara finally removes the top of the box with a playful grin. It can not be seen what is inside though fog begins to bellow outward.

“I will be a new breed of champion. My actions will do everything I need them to do, everything words can not accomplish. Finally, a wrestler of pure action will be in a place of power. Finally, a mute on a throne, proving I do not need to conform to conquer. I am not like Damian— Not a lone king suffocating on a throne. I will not be a champion like you who has dismissed the championship to be distracted by parlor tricks. I am a war dog… Chasing every single challenge down until I’ve fed the insatiable hunger inside of me. That is how I am going to bring glory to that title. Every single person I can consume will be until my reign is fulfilled. They will battle for it! Sharpen their fangs and hollow, bloody, into the moon. It’s going to be valued, desired, and held in the utmost care. While Zoey has done nothing but squandered the chance, I will not let this slip through my fingers… It has been a long time coming."

Fog envelops the entire scene with the look of Tara’s wolf-like grin last to be covered up.

The feed cuts.