Post by Eden Nova on May 13, 2024 1:21:11 GMT
Whole lotta, "yes, I am"
All the way in with no exit plan
Charlotte Wisniewski winced, reflexively drawing her hands up towards her face as her eyes narrowed at the sight of a polaroid camera approaching her. A groan reflexively escaped her lips as she heard the click of the shutter and the whirr of the printer, her fingers curled downwards towards the palm of her hand — sans, of course, the middle.
"Fuck off, Eden," she said, bringing the cigarette in her other hand to her lips and taking a drag, sinking further into the ratty fabric couch that was the centerpiece of the camerawoman's cramped Newark apartment.
"I invite you into my home," Eden began, a stifled cackle betraying her bombastic faux-outrage. "And this is how you treat me?!"
As the words left her mouth, Eden descended into a laughing fit, the polaroid camera swinging from the strap around her neck.
"Dude, your face — you're so funny," she continued, crossing the small living room and plopping down on the couch beside her guest. Charlotte's face twisted into an expression of mockery — her nostrils flared, her tongue sticking out — as she mimicked Eden's laughter back at her.
"Anyway, what's the plan for tonight?"
Charlotte cocked her head, eyeing Eden curiously. "The fuck you mean 'what's the plan for tonight'? Don't you gotta hit the gym or do a juice cleanse to get ready for your grand pro-wrestling debut?"
"First of all, it's not my grand debut. There were the other pre-season matches—"
"Oh right, those were really chuckin' you into the deep end—"
"Secondly, have you ever known me to do a goddamn juice cleanse? Don't disrupt the routine."
"Right," Charlotte said, snickering. "Is that the wisdom you gained from ring photography?"
"You'd be surprised. Seeing the moments before the action is illuminating."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Sure, yeah, I believe you."
"The thing is, some of those people in the moment before the bell rings — and you can see it from up close — they're wound tighter than a… something that's wound tightly, I don't know. And you know what happens to them every single time without fail?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
"They lose. They get too in their own head and wind up getting in their own damn way because they hear the phrase 'what could possibly go wrong?' as a threat. Anxiety paralyzes them and they eat shit because of it. Not me — eye on the prize and all, but keeping shit in perspective."
Charlotte scoffed at her host's rant. "That's the most inspirational way I've ever heard someone say that they're planning on doing molly at a rooftop bar on the other side of the Hudson tonight."
"See," Eden began, reaching over and snatching the cigarette out of Charlotte's hand. She took a drag off it before continuing. "Knew there was somethin' goin' on tonight."
"Hey!" Charlotte protested.
"You'll live."
Can I be, like, really fucking honest with you all? This is a judgment-free zone, right? Or, at least a zone free of judgment that I'll actually listen to, or take to heart, or do anything more involved than letting it ping off the base of my skull into the ether. Yeah, I think it is. Thank you all for being so accommodating. Because what I'm gonna say might get a little dark, a little heavy — okay, yeah, sure, maybe not but all the same it's probably information you couldn't waterboard out of the rest of the field.
I don't know what I'm doing.
No, seriously.
But don't act so smug and superior, any of you, because the truth of the matter is all of us are in the same boat, aren't we? Too many variables to account for, too much activity on the margins, and frankly, too much chaos to make sense of it all. I understand, it's tough to admit when so much of this sport is about control. Control over oneself, control over others. To swallow that bitter, jagged pill that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry and there's no greater stage for that theory to hold true than this little convergence.
So tell me, what's the grand universal design? How are you going to make sure fortune smiles on you more than everyone else?
Because I can tell you mine, in full confidence. Hands up, palms out, nothing up my sleeve. I'm gonna ride the wave — take it as it comes (shoutout Steve Winwood). While the best and brightest among us, first overall picks, crafty veterans, and blue chip prospects alike twist themselves into knots over what to them has to feel like a must perform moment, that same pressure doesn't rest on my shoulders. While they puff their chests out to match the confidence they ought to have in spite of the shaky footing underneath them, I feel nothing but serenity, peace with the shit I can't change.
And strong enough to change the shit I can. Because this is my element. When the expected order gets thrown out the window, when plans blow up and it's all on who can weather the storm the best, there's only one bet to make.
And I'm so so so sorry to each and every one of you that it doesn't matter how big you are, how strong you are, or how skilled you are if you can't make it about that.
It's not about imposing will, it's about manifesting it. I'll say it bluntly: I'm coming in, all fists, feet, elbows, so on, so forth. A flurry of perpetual motion.
Catch me if you can.
I sing the body electric as it starts to hit, the sour apple aftertaste from my pre-gaming ritual lingering on the back of my tongue. The line between my fingers and the air around me blurs, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My sinuses, which have been absolutely clogged since I grabbed a sample of a mushroom I'm certain I haven't seen before on the Weequahic Lake trail a couple days ago, seem to clear as if on cue.
My body sways and convulses as if on instinct, throbbing to the beat of a so-called 'throwback' that feels morbid for the moment, as I make my way through the crowd — bleeding into each and every body I make contact with, if only for a moment. The wind feels like heaven on my burning cheeks. I look deranged, I have to. Though, as I navigate through the writhing mass of bodies, I reason that we all have to.
As the crowd parts for a moment, I see the red flash of Charlotte's Bulls starter jacket and beeline for her, colliding with her upon approach as the signal from my brain to my legs to stop moving comes a split-second too late.
"There's my bitch!" I exclaim, shrilly, into her ear.
And I blink.
I think this is where I'm supposed to go down the whole list of my fellow competitors and be real pithy with it. Let you all know that I've been watching, waiting, commiserating; and that you're seen, acknowledged, valid as hell. And you are all of those things, of course, but that's not what's going on here. Because that's the whole problem. Surely, every single one of you — from the early favorite, the first overall pick himself Sean Parker to the hot prospect in Kaitlyn Fletcher — thinks that this is about them. That this is their moment to make their mark. To etch their name in the hunt for the post-season before a game has even been played.
But this is too messy for such a clean, nice, little narrative. This is a swirling pit of chaos, and the best that heady shit'll get you is an elbow to the nose and a one way ticket over the top rope. This isn't about dominance. It's not about making a statement or calling your shot.
It's about survival.
My eyes snap open to find myself with my arm slung over Charlotte's shoulder as we stumble, barely in control of our bodies, down the 23rd Street subway stairs. My head throbs, vision blurry. Beside her is some woman I've met a time or two before — Tess I think her name is, very certainly not the reason Charlotte moved out here in the first place she swears. She absolutely swears and she certainly doesn't get annoyed when you imply otherwise. It's definitely not hilarious.
"Hey Eden," Tess begins as we make our way onto the platform. "What's with the name?"
I shrug, the light behind my eyes seemingly not wanting to flicker on. "I dunno, my parents must've thought it was cute or something."
"No, I mean your stage name! Ring name, whatever."
"Oh," there it goes. I squint, the world around me clearing ever so slightly as the rumble of an approaching train fills my ears. "See, this might come as a bit of a shock, but I was kind of a fucking nerd in high school."
"Absolutely shocking," Charlotte mutters, jabbing her elbow into my side.
"Absolutely shocking," I repeat, mocking. "Bitch. Anyway, like I said — big fuckin' nerd in high school and I figure, this is a reinvention of sorts. Eden Nova, new world, new me type shit, y'know?"
And I blink.
But that's not the word of the hour. It's not what anyone wants to hear, it doesn't get them going. Because everyone wants to feel dominant. They want to feel like they're going to walk down that aisle and take heads off their bodies on their way to punching that ticket. It's cute and all — really, it is — but when you get down to the brass tacks, it's a fantasy like any other. The winner never dominates these proceedings, it's never theirs to lose, no matter how inflated someone's ego might be to think as much.
Everyone's got a plan though, don't they? Everyone thinks they know how it's all going to go down; they'll say the platitudes about it being a marathon, not a sprint — that they're locked in, eyes on everyone — that they haven't counted their chickens before they hatched.
And yet, just as any other, you'll see the shocked faces of the people who thought they had it all figured out from the jump.
When their strength fails them.
When their size isn't enough.
When their skill is neutralized.
It comes down to the will to fucking survive. To persevere. To outlast. To weather the storm until its bitter end.
And who better to take that mantle than the person who sees this all for exactly what it is?
Like I said before, catch me if you can. Any of you. All of you.
Because if you don't, well — don't say you weren't warned.
The crisp air welcomes me back to reality as my eyes slide open once more and I find myself seated in the grass in front of Weequahic Lake. My fingers drift over the dew-dropped grass as the glint of the waxing crescent moon shines down on me. Shaking my head, I push myself to my feet and shoot a glance over my shoulders to find that I am completely, utterly alone. The past few hours a blur of half-remembered conversations and a brick through a Starbucks window. Retrieving my phone from my pocket, my eyes burn at the brightness of the display as the time stares back at me: 4:46 AM.
My mouth is dry, my body trembles. Before me, the lake beckons, waves rolling lazily under the glow of the moon. A voice in the base of my skull agrees, pushing me along, further ever further, closer to the water's edge. I see myself in the waters — pupils like silver dollars, eyes puffy, jaw clenched.
I exhale slowly as the voice beckons louder. My whole life has been a leap of faith, after all.
What's one more?
My lips reflexively curl into a grin as I first backpedal, build to a running start, and launch myself into the water.