Post by Eden Nova on Jun 23, 2024 18:38:48 GMT
They came in by the dozens
Walking or crawling
And what does your family think about the path you're choosing?
The soft, chiming alarm of her cell phone's alarm did little but make Justine Ballerini groan as her fingers raced across the heavy, clacking keys of her mechanical keyboard, banging out an email she'd surely end up scheduling to be sent at a reasonable hour. Her eyes darted from the monitor before her to the flashing screen of her phone, blasting the time in her face along with its racket and incessant vibration: 4:00 AM. She swore under her breath before ending the distraction, the phlegmy whirr of percolation from the coffee machine on the other end of her loft retaking its place as the ambient background noise of her morning routine.
She squinted as her fingers came to a stop, inspecting the body of the message she'd composed with her bottom lip drawn between her teeth. She moved on autopilot, scheduling the correspondence to send at 6:11 AM — an appropriate amount of time between her ostensible start time to being able to read, digest, and respond. The truth of the matter was she'd be in far sooner than that, an inevitability that while planned for, made her involuntarily shudder as the coffee maker gagged, sputtered, and died, spitting its last few drops along the way. Soon, the pot would be deposited in a thermos and she'd finish her breakfast — the last of a rapidly-browning bunch of bananas — in the thirty-seven seconds it took her to reach street level.
The city never slept, and she hardly did as well.
Which made the bright horns of her ringtone a frustrating, albeit unsurprising, diversion. Her brows furrowed and her gaze narrowed, however, at the sight of the name displayed: Eden. Justine's finger hovered over the screen for a moment, before she sighed and answered the call.
"You're up early," Justine teased, the corner of her mouth curling into an ironic smile as she rose from her seat and made her way to the kitchen. "Or is it late?"
"You're so funny," Eden replied following an exaggerated, almost mocking laugh. "I just got in from Denver."
"Now?"
A groan came from the other end.
"Yeah, flight got delayed, fucked up my whole connection schedule." Eden hesitated for a moment; Justine braced herself. She could mouth along to the next thing her younger sister said: "Can you pick me up from the airport?"
Justine pinched the bridge of her nose, pouring the coffee into her thermos. "Can't you get that little gremlin woman who crashes on your couch to get you?"
"Who, Charlotte? That bitch can't drive. Like, she can, I guess — she's got a license — but it'd be safer for me to walk the Holland Tunnel than for her to drive through it."
"Wait, what airport did you fly into?"
"Laguardia."
"I hate you," Justine muttered, rolling her eyes. "You know I have to work today."
"Relax," Eden said, chuckling. "The world's not gonna end because you decided to come in a half-hour early instead of an hour and a half early today."
Justine offered little in response but a sigh.
"Come on, please? We can get breakfast; I'll buy."
"I have breakfast ready already."
"Half a container of yogurt and a banana isn't breakfast, Justine; it's depression."
Justine groaned, peeling the phone from her ear and extending her middle finger towards the receiver. Clenching her eyes shut tight, a sigh left her mouth trailing the vocalized expression of her frustration as she brought the receiver back towards her mouth.
"Yeah, I'll come get you."
To quote one of our greatest living philosophers: I'm like hey, what's up, hello. It's me, ya girl. Out of the frying pan at a scorching medium rare, into the fire? Maybe? I don't know, I'd almost figure the barely organized chaos of the pre-season rumble would be the more flammable situation, but I don't think I felt the jitters quite as much as then as I do now.
Maybe it's the weight of expectations. After all, I strolled into Denver about a month ago open about the fact that I was throwing everything at the wall just to see what stuck. And wouldn't you know it, I did. A Cinderella run and one well-timed boot under my jaw later, and I wind up with a top five finish and the weight of more eyes on me than I could've expected. It's strange, I guess is what I'm trying to get at.
Am I wrong for feeling this way, Nightmare? I have to ask, it's not everyday you get a veritable legend of the business as something of a captive audience this early into your career. And I'm sure your insight holds more weight than any flavor of prodigies surrounding us, or even the condescending advice of my fearless, humongous partner for this grand voyage. Does this feeling ever go away, or do you just learn to live with it?
And if either are true, which is it for you? Fifty years old, a resume you could stack up against anyone else who's ever stepped between the ropes, and you're still here. Pushing yourself to the limit time and time again. Why? Is it an itch you just can't seem to scratch, a light that never goes out? Surely, you must feel as though you have something left in the tank, but that's a dangerous prospect. Adam Wainwright thought he had one more year in him and he did; a 7 ERA campaign where injuries saved him from being the worst qualified pitcher in the big leagues.
Every time you step between the ropes, legacy tentatively in hand, has to be a — well, pardon the pun — nightmare for you. That one wrong move could be your last, and the enduring image of the end of your illustrious career is indignity.
I hope that doesn't hold true.
After all, I want your name on my resume to be a credit to myself and Yuri rather than a demerit on you.
Do you even care what they think?
The interior lights of Justine Ballerini's cherry-red 2001 Toyota Camry flickered to life as her sister tossed her luggage in the back and settled into the passenger's seat. The car couldn't have been stopped any longer than ninety seconds, yet the officer sorting traffic through the terminal had already begun waving her along. Swallowing her annoyance, a cold, mirthless smile dotted the corners of the elder Ballerini's lips as she obliged. Her eyes darted up to her rearview mirror.
"How's it going?"
"You know that mushroom I was telling you about? The one I found a week or so ago? Still nothing. Nobody knows anything, anyone who thinks they do brings up some species it certainly isn't—"
"Christ, Eden," Justine interjected, shaking her head. "I meant with Denver. How'd it go?"
"Oh." A beat passed as Eden brushed hair from her face. "It went well, I think. Finished fourth-ish. Don't really know how that got recorded — whether it was a tie for the spot or one of us hit first."
"Holy shit! That's amazing; why didn't you lead with that?"
Eden shrugged, still pawing her brow. "I dunno, I guess the closer I got to it actually being possible to pull it off, not doing it feels anti-climactic?"
She flipped down the sun visor and opened the mirror. In the faint glow of the adjacent bulbs, Justine spotted a familiar faded "Free Mumia" insignia on her sister's shirt.
"Is that mom's—"
"Yeah, I borrowed it when I moved out."
Eden bit the inside of her cheek, squinting at her own reflection, before flipping the visor back up with a frustrated huff. Whatever the source of her discomfort was, she couldn't identify it.
"Speaking of," Eden continued. "How are they? Still…"
"Not angry anymore. It's morphed into 'concern'."
"Right, yeah." Eden shifted in her seat, resting her head against the window. Justine shrugged, her focus re-settling on the road.
"It's not nothing."
And I guess I hold the same hope in regards to the relative spring chicken on the other side. Wait, is that phrase insensitive? Considering the whole, yeah, you know why. Should I cut that? I should cut that, right? Fuck. Goddammit. Shit. Okay, alright. We're moving on. Please, please do not murder me, Mr. Birdman. I know not what I've done.
Anyway, where was I? Where am I supposed to be? Oh, right, yeah. Hello, Mr. Generalissimo. Are you my reality check? The one-hit wonder who got one-hit by Wonder is surely too cocky for her own good, and you're here to backhand my brain out through my ears and get your payback on Yuri in one fell swoop. It'd be a hell of a first act for someone who already captured such a big opportunity in the prelude.
But the problem with all the nice, little narratives of dominance, is that you actually have to pull it off. And while I don't doubt what you're physically capable of, that's only half the battle now, isn't it? Your hands are bigger than my head; all it would probably take is getting ahold of me for a second to crush my skull like a grape. You're as built as anyone on this roster to take the fight to Yuri, too. On paper, this is a great matchup for you.
This could be the moment where you plant your flag in the dirt, where you and yours make an indelible mark on the fabric of this nascent promotion. To make it indisputably clear that the monsters rule the roost. But will it, though? That remains to be seen; because for every advantage you clearly have at your fingertips, you still fell short when faced with the prospect of picking on someone your own size.
And he's right there in the opposite corner. Just like the namesake of your partner, this golden opportunity can just as easily become a nightmare in its own right. Don't pardon the pun this time, this was on purpose.
I said it in Denver to anyone who'd listen, and I'll say it again to you directly: catch me if you can. Because the game plan hasn't changed; it's been emboldened. It isn't about what you can do, if you fail to do it at all.
And those giant hands of yours don't scare me when they're already wrapped around your own throat.
All pressure, Generalissimo.
Don't fuck it up.
And how do you feel about it?
A familiar, annoying ache seared between my shoulderblades as I settled into the booth of the 24 hour diner we'd decided on for breakfast. Justine noticed, drawing her lip between her teeth and wincing at the sight of my discomfort.
"You okay?"
"Never better," I chirped back in response. "Just tweaked something, I guess."
That was the quicker, more convenient way of saying 'this is the spot I landed on when I fell from the ring apron to the floor'. God bless her, but even if she was supportive of my choice to pursue this industry, Justine wasn't ready to hear the blow by blow.
"You never really told me what it was all like. Y'know, outside of letting perfect be the enemy of great with your result."
And yet, here she was, asking for it by proxy. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch as my head cocked to the side. "How's work going for you? Still on track to—"
"—Be Hess' errand girl until the sun burns out? Yeah, definitely. God forbid anyone else have any sense of initiative."
"Mom always said not to get into Big Law."
Justine scoffed. "Guess she has two daughters who don't listen."
"Guess so."
"Still, I'm not the one who went gallivanting half-way across the country. Spill."
Her eyes bore into me, unwilling to let me divert the train of conversation. I don't know what she wants me to say anymore than I even know how to explain the feeling. It was a blur of lights and motion, spiked adrenaline and the sickening scent of sweat. My skin felt like it was on fire. And yet, I felt something like a claw deep inside me, pulling me in deeper. I was compelled. Hooked.
I needed to keep going as much as I needed to be free of this phantom itch along my hairline, like I needed to be free of this chronic sinus inflammation.
"It was good," I finally uttered in response, as I noticed the waitress approaching our table from the corner of my eye.