Post by Deleted on May 20, 2019 14:52:08 GMT -6
I had been drifting in and out of consciousness for ten minutes, tossing and turning, my dreams getting more vivid and my heartbeat forever increasing. I hadn’t been seen or heard from for months, maybe even years or a singular year to be exact. I felt a safe distance from the industry I once ate, sleep and breathed. I wasn’t sure if I would ever go back or more to the point, if I had any reason to invest my soul into something which had eaten me whole time and time again. If anything, I was feeling more fatigued by the day as the years of dogs abuse had taken its toll and I’m not sure if I was even what you would consider retired.
I once met a few retired athletes at a convention, their skin creaked and their voice croaked when spoken to, a closer look would reveal the odd steroid pimple from abused veins to sustain a career that would eventually become unsustainable. Yet, for all I lacked desire to return to a life which not only physically left me battered but mentally drained the depths of my mind into a milkshake blender and turned my emotions into a empathetically devalued piece of jewellery that had nothing left to offer.
See, I had nothing left to offer.
I was one of those athletes but in appearance only, not since being a world champion had I attended fan conventions and I refused to diminish any pride I had left by leaving myself on a discount rack to those coming to mourn the death of my career. See, that’s where I think this whole thing started to build up inside me again.
I would not be that guy signing twenty dollar autographs and pretending to be happy in a photo with some random I had never met who told me that five years ago I done something meaningful that I don’t even remember myself, see at some point, the wheels fell off this campaign and as I drifted effortlessly into the rubble, I could see bodies for miles scrambling along the road trying to take everything and anything they could get their hands on. I had become a walking auction of materialistic gain only, I was that person you wanted on your early morning talk show to spike the ratings and I was the person TMZ were chasing down for an exclusive on a latest drug relapse, my relapse.
See, at some point I became untenable in my position and when it all became too much I done what everyone expected of me in the first place. I lost control and I exploded, I took my ball and I went home and since returning home I haven’t left the home once.
I had offers, plenty of them, but none seemed right.
I’ve spent the past few months with nothing but silence and a much needed redemption, a quiet place derived of madness except of course for the screaming which never ceases to mute inside my head. I would look at the clock on the wall and I swear that for every time the second hand struck twelve again I would finally act but it for whatever reason no action was ever taken and instead I would remain seated almost paralyzed in my own existence.
Do you have any idea how many times that second hand struck twelve? Have you any idea how much those strikes of the twelve unnerved me to the very pit of my stomach? Every passing moment I seen my potential demise flash in front of me and it scared the absolute shit out of me, my lack of remorse became the only thing I feared and the most terrifying part is when I suddenly became immune to the thought of my own death.
I had plotted in my head, how it would happen, where it would happen and what time it would happen. See, I always had a perverse and secular attachment to death, the attraction of the beauty which eludes life and can be found only once at the bottom of the sea.
Then…
Then that fucking Robert Mack ruined it.
Snakebite.
Old man Rob.
Robert ruined my perfect ending, see, just as I shut my eyes and braced myself for the evolution of Tyke Index I was being dragged back to a past I wanted no part of.
Yet, for whatever reason, I answered the call.
I stupidly answered the call and to make matters worse, as Robert spat syllables down the phone to me, I became a sucker again.
I hated that for a second being alive became more palatable than death, I hated that Rob could do these things to me, that he could taper with my every emotion and make me want something so bad.
I was angry, angry at Robert for manipulating my mind and playing on the sights and sounds that he knew would arouse a depraved warrior to return to the scene of the crime one more time. Yet as angry and upset as I wanted to be, there I was, standing outside the Mile High offices awaiting my business advisor Harvey Goodfellows and Robert Mack.
We had a contract to sign, I think, maybe.
I once met a few retired athletes at a convention, their skin creaked and their voice croaked when spoken to, a closer look would reveal the odd steroid pimple from abused veins to sustain a career that would eventually become unsustainable. Yet, for all I lacked desire to return to a life which not only physically left me battered but mentally drained the depths of my mind into a milkshake blender and turned my emotions into a empathetically devalued piece of jewellery that had nothing left to offer.
See, I had nothing left to offer.
I was one of those athletes but in appearance only, not since being a world champion had I attended fan conventions and I refused to diminish any pride I had left by leaving myself on a discount rack to those coming to mourn the death of my career. See, that’s where I think this whole thing started to build up inside me again.
I would not be that guy signing twenty dollar autographs and pretending to be happy in a photo with some random I had never met who told me that five years ago I done something meaningful that I don’t even remember myself, see at some point, the wheels fell off this campaign and as I drifted effortlessly into the rubble, I could see bodies for miles scrambling along the road trying to take everything and anything they could get their hands on. I had become a walking auction of materialistic gain only, I was that person you wanted on your early morning talk show to spike the ratings and I was the person TMZ were chasing down for an exclusive on a latest drug relapse, my relapse.
See, at some point I became untenable in my position and when it all became too much I done what everyone expected of me in the first place. I lost control and I exploded, I took my ball and I went home and since returning home I haven’t left the home once.
I had offers, plenty of them, but none seemed right.
I’ve spent the past few months with nothing but silence and a much needed redemption, a quiet place derived of madness except of course for the screaming which never ceases to mute inside my head. I would look at the clock on the wall and I swear that for every time the second hand struck twelve again I would finally act but it for whatever reason no action was ever taken and instead I would remain seated almost paralyzed in my own existence.
Do you have any idea how many times that second hand struck twelve? Have you any idea how much those strikes of the twelve unnerved me to the very pit of my stomach? Every passing moment I seen my potential demise flash in front of me and it scared the absolute shit out of me, my lack of remorse became the only thing I feared and the most terrifying part is when I suddenly became immune to the thought of my own death.
I had plotted in my head, how it would happen, where it would happen and what time it would happen. See, I always had a perverse and secular attachment to death, the attraction of the beauty which eludes life and can be found only once at the bottom of the sea.
Then…
Then that fucking Robert Mack ruined it.
Snakebite.
Old man Rob.
Robert ruined my perfect ending, see, just as I shut my eyes and braced myself for the evolution of Tyke Index I was being dragged back to a past I wanted no part of.
Yet, for whatever reason, I answered the call.
I stupidly answered the call and to make matters worse, as Robert spat syllables down the phone to me, I became a sucker again.
I hated that for a second being alive became more palatable than death, I hated that Rob could do these things to me, that he could taper with my every emotion and make me want something so bad.
I was angry, angry at Robert for manipulating my mind and playing on the sights and sounds that he knew would arouse a depraved warrior to return to the scene of the crime one more time. Yet as angry and upset as I wanted to be, there I was, standing outside the Mile High offices awaiting my business advisor Harvey Goodfellows and Robert Mack.
We had a contract to sign, I think, maybe.
