Post by Benjamin Atreyu on Dec 8, 2013 17:23:03 GMT -5
The room is a prison. The four walls stretch far above his head, intimidating him with sort of looming nature. His mind is whirling as he tries to recall how he got there, unable to remember what he was doing last before he woke in this strange place. Had he been training? Had he been in his locker room? He couldn’t remember, they all seem equally possible, but none of them seemed right. He gets to his feet and looks around, trying to understand his surroundings to some degree; the wall paper a tacky flower design, a wooden floor with only a small shag rug to cover it, windows with the shades pulled together, and…and…what was missing from this room. There was no chairs or furniture, but that was not what was bothering him. Something was missing from this room and he couldn’t pin point what it was.
His back ached with a sort of throbbing pain, most likely from lying on the hard wooden floor for who knows how many hours. He continued to look around the room, his mind still a tad groggy from whatever had been done to him; his thoughts were a mess, simple thoughts were impossible to string together, and it felt as if his whole body was ready to collapse in on itself out of weakness. He started to make his way over to the window, stumbling for a moment he put his hand over on the wall to support himself before finding his footing again. He continued on his way, finally reaching the window a pulling back the curtains to find…that the window was closed off with bricks…fuck, he’s been Oldboy’d.
The door? Where’s the door? That’s what he couldn’t figure out what was missing, this room had no door. How had he gotten in here? If he had been taken, did they bring him in through the window and close it up? Suddenly, panic filled his veins with a sort of roaring intensity as he suddenly felt trapped in a room that seemed to be shrinking, but if the walls closing in were an illusion or not, he couldn’t distinguish. He suddenly felt as if he was being suffocated, all the air leaving his body in one quick breath. He started pounding against the wall and screaming for help, but the wall behind the wallpaper felt as solid as the brick in the window frame. No matter how hard he screamed, he heard nothing in return.
Why would someone do this time him? Who would do this time him? He had enemies, but none he would think would go to the extreme of knocking him out, taking him from where he was, and placing him in this awful room. Couldn’t anyone hear him, were all the walls brick, was there even anything outside this room? For all he knew, this was a solid box in the middle of the woods, assuring him that there would be no one around for miles to hear his cries for help. He went silent and tried to listen for some sort of activity outside, but no matter how much he strained his ears, he couldn’t hear anything and that made him feel all that much more trapped. He began to pace around and room, attempting to lay out his options, but he couldn’t tune out that little voice in his head that kept telling him he was doomed, that he would die in this shitty room. No one would know what happened to him, maybe there would be a small search, but it would eventually turn out to be hopeless, ending in its premature end, leaving Benjamin to waste away, a forgotten name, a lost human, an insignificant speck on an even bigger speck. He would simply be a bump in the road that no one would recall for any longer than a second. Even the losers, the absolutely pathetic would get more recognition than him. His fate, his legacy, would be to die here and let this new found home be the unmarked grave. He began to scream, not as a call for help, but in absolute frustration, being unable to hold in the feelings that were surely welling up inside of him.
His feet dragged across the floor as he realized just how futile his situation truly was. One of his feet kicked the shag carpet, dislodging it from its original position and revealing an odd change in pattern in the wooden floor that sat underneath, a sort of incongruence that stood out in such a vague way that Benjamin couldn’t quite name what it was, but it quickly captured his interest. He bent down and ran his fingers over the wood, feeling a slight indent where the rug had been sitting and Benjamin’s eyes widened in hopefulness. A trap door. That was how they probably got him in there and if he could move it, it would be his way out.
Quickly, his fingers scrambled over the structure trying to get some sort of leverage that would open this door and let him out, but there challenge proved to be quite difficult as he kept feeling around for some sort of ledge that he could grab hold or claw at. The endeavor almost seemed to prove fruitless until one of the boards suddenly came loose and revealed a handle. He did not hesitate to grab hold and pull for all of his life, lifting the incredibly heavy door until it fell in the other direction, leaving an opening in the middle of the floor. Peering down into, he saw nothing but a ladder as it led down into a black void which he could not see the end of.
There was a moment where he felt a sort of violent fear rip through his body as he hesitated from crawling down the ladder into the unknown. Was this the right idea? What if there was someone waiting for him down there? What if was a trick and he was supposed to find the trap door so it would lead him down into some sort of trap? What choice did he have? He turned around and put one foot down on the first rung, beginning he slow descent down into the abyss, hoping that this was truly his way out. He needed to be right on this, there was no other way. It seemed the ladder went on forever, he kept climbing down, farther and farther, the light over his head shrank until it was a mere dot that he could barely see as he looked up, but as he got lower, he could hear a faint sound growing in the distance. A sort of roaring that made his heart pound. He was having second thoughts, but he kept going, he was too far now to stop. He kept going, suddenly feeling a low end vibration being sent through the ladder in pulses, shaking him, but not making him falter or stop, he continued until he finally reached the bottom.
He turned around and saw a familiar setting…a locker room. Not just any locker room, the S-PAC locker room, with his compatriots sitting so casually around as if they were expecting him. Waylon stood up and walked over to him with a smile on his face, Benjamin’s confusion was growing, unable to understand what was going on. Waylon simply slapped him on the back and asked him if he was ready for the match. Ready for the match? The match at Slam? Was that now? He wasn’t prepared, mentally or physically for the match-up, he couldn’t go out there now, but what choice did he have? He simply nodded his head, trying to not give away how lost he was. He tried to rationalize it, Night Rider, D’Evil, and Lavondyss was a pathetic team at best, he could beat anyone of them one on one on any given day of the week. There was no way they would be able to beat S-PAC…but that creeping fear, the kind of foreboding that made you shiver darted through his mind uncontrollably as he thought about the awful ‘what if’. What if they did lose? What would that mean? What if he was the one who was pinned or submitted? That would make him the weak one in the group, a link that they might try and sever.
Everyone’s eyes were on Gable anyways. All he ever heard about anymore was how Gable was the star of the team and it drove Benjamin insane. Wasn’t he one of the better competitors in the company? Hadn’t he his fair share of high profile victories? Why was he being ignored for a man who had pretended to be a turkey for a string of months? His mind was rattled with these thoughts and now it seemed as if he was less prepared than ever to go out and fight for his team. They would be able to see his worry, they would be able to pick it apart. As the rest of his team was fighting with confidence, he would be that seed of doubt that would destroy their chances.
His teammates made their way out of the room and he quickly followed suit, leaving the memory of the strange room far behind him, but he brought the isolation he felt in there with him. The trudged through the halls, Benjamin attempting to keep his eyes forward,, trying to pour his concentration into the moment and prepare himself for the physical and emotional onslaught he was about to face. His only hope of getting out of this with his pride intact was to endure, endure, endure. He could hear the roaring again and realized that it was the crowd, that unloving crowd, that unforgiving crowd, that evil crowd. They had always lusted after his blood, haven’t they? Since he had first stepped foot into the ring of a WCF event, they had labeled him with the stigma of being the bad guy, being the evil-doer, being the man who wanted to destroy his fun as if he kept a hate machine in the back of his car that was powered by the tears of orphans who have just realized that there is no Santa. To them, he was that guy.
They finally reached their position before the entrance ramp curtain and he could hear their music begin to play. Most of the time it would be a welcomed sound that could psyche him into the moment if he needed the extra boost, but this time he felt nothing but a sort of breathlessness take hold as he knew it to be the sound of his coming demise, the point of no return. Scott Savage stepped through first, followed by Waylon, then Gable, and now it was his turn, and even though he wanted to turn and run away, his legs pressed forward, defiant of his commands.
He pushed passed the curtains and looked out into the flashing lights, into the angry mob, into the roaring fire that was the ring, but he did not see the three he had thought they were facing, instead there were just three shadowy figures watching him as he slowly and begrudgingly walked down to the ring. He looked for his partners, but he could not see them, they had disappeared somehow, he was alone. How many sat in the stands watching him? One thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? He couldn’t tell, the stands went on and on into forever, but he tried not to look, looking at it just made him feel dizzy. Upon reaching the ring he slid in and quickly jumped to his feet, moving back into his corner as his eyes met with the shadow figures that did not flinch as he tried his weak attempts at intimidation. Who were they? They weren’t competitors here. They didn’t even look human. They weren’t human. He heard the bell ring, it rang louder than it ever had before and filled his ears with a painful high frequency that forced him to cup his hands over his ears. He tried to gather himself, but it was too late, the three figures were already on him, pounding against him violently until he was on the ground. What damage had they done already? Had they already cracked a few of his ribs, broken his arm? He tried to get up, but he was unable to, a weird sensation was creeping over his body and he suddenly realized that it was the ring melting over his arms and legs, trapping him in this vulnerable position as the figures continued to beat down on him. Was this his end? Was he to be beaten to death in front of the fans like a sacrifice in the time of roman gladiators? Was this worse than dying in the room he had been trapped in only a few moments before hand? Before any of those questions could be answered he felt the violent attack of his enemies come to a sudden stop. He looked up at them and saw them only staring back, as if their job had been completed and needed nothing more to do than just watch. That sensation started to creep over him once more. His eyes looked back to the ring and he saw that it was continuing to devour him, closing over his upper legs and shoulders, working its way up his back until all that was left was Benjamin’s head. Again, like in the room, he cried out for help, but it was left unanswered again. It crawled up his neck and slowly encased him, smothering him, leaving him unable to gasp for air, his world was covered in blackness.
But…
He could feel relief wash over him. The match was over, he was no longer under the strain of what would be, it was over and now he was lost in a state of inconsequentiality, hanging in this sort of purgatory, he could breathe again. He heard a voice Benjamin calling out to him. He looked around, Benjamin but he couldn’t see anything. The voice was gentle and soothing, without reproach Benjamin and without hate. A womanly voice that echoed in his ears Its okay and made him feel comfortable. He closed his eyes and just listened to it. Don’t worry, it’ll all be okay. it was closer now, Just relax, there is no reason to fret. There is no pretense here, it is just me and you. He felt her embrace, but he did not open his eyes. He continued to just listen and feel. Its alright.[/b] Along with her voice, he could hear music begin to play. Atmospheric, but powerful music flooded his sense, giving the perfect cadence to the moment. As far as he was concerned, there was world peace. He could be this way forever and die happy, unafraid, almost willing.
Then it began to fade; the music, the touch, her voice. It all slowly faded into silence and a cold breeze. His eyes opened and he found himself back in his room. HIS room, the one he has lived in for the last seven years. The window off to the side is open and he can see snow cascading to the ground…he feels empty. There is no one beside him, there is no warm embrace for him to crawl into. He is alone as he has been all his life. He looks to his clock and it reads 4:50 am, and in the little corner of the screen it says Dec. 8th. The match is today, he feels tired, his head falls back onto the bed, trying to drift back to sleep in hopes of finding himself in her arms once more. It isn’t just his room that’s cold, he thinks, its this world that’s cold.
The general consensus is wrong; life is not the real tragedy. It is brutal, it is depressing, and it is hopeless, but it is not the real tragedy, because the disappointments and shortcomings that we all suffer from can be hidden and repressed, but in the world of dreams, it all comes out, there is no hiding. In the waking world we could blame those around us for our suffering, we could justify our hatred and our violence as a product of our environment, but in a dream, we are truly absolutely completely alone in our suffering, lost in our subconscious twisted in our perverted and distorted thoughts where our depravity is thrown in the light for us to look upon. The world of dreaming, the one we must all succumb to, is the real tragedy.
Every night we close our eyes we play roulette with our subconscious; will we drift in effortless dreaming or are we going to be thrown into a cacophonous nightmare, unable to direct ourselves into either direction, unable to control the muscle that sits inside our skull, the thing that is partly us. Oh, and what horror do we face if we go cascading out of control and find ourselves on the receiving end of a feverish apocalypse? The worst of our fears realized? The failings of our greatest attempts? Staring our secrets in the eye as they expose themselves to us? We suddenly realize how powerless, how hopeless, how weak we truly are. The call of those who suffer from these night terrors: Why does it feel so real? It’s not fair. Please someone wake me up! Do you hear the words of the many in your own screams late at night when you feel the weight of your phobias piling on top of you? Does it fill you with dread as you are about to lay yourself down to sleep?
But it is a double edged sword. Even when sleep gives way to a perfect dream, it is then our curse to be forced to wake; leaving us feeling empty, as if our life is a shade of grey, as if we have no God to speak of. To feel a pair of arms wrapped around us, a voice unabashedly in love with who we are, left unjudged, unprovoked, then to wake up alone and under the microscope where a thousand prodding eyes watch us, that is the lie of the ‘dream’. We wake to find our vices are still scrutinized, our crutches still make us weak, and our jobs are still slowly killing us. Dreams offer perfection and then take it away. It shows us how pathetic we are.
His back ached with a sort of throbbing pain, most likely from lying on the hard wooden floor for who knows how many hours. He continued to look around the room, his mind still a tad groggy from whatever had been done to him; his thoughts were a mess, simple thoughts were impossible to string together, and it felt as if his whole body was ready to collapse in on itself out of weakness. He started to make his way over to the window, stumbling for a moment he put his hand over on the wall to support himself before finding his footing again. He continued on his way, finally reaching the window a pulling back the curtains to find…that the window was closed off with bricks…fuck, he’s been Oldboy’d.
The door? Where’s the door? That’s what he couldn’t figure out what was missing, this room had no door. How had he gotten in here? If he had been taken, did they bring him in through the window and close it up? Suddenly, panic filled his veins with a sort of roaring intensity as he suddenly felt trapped in a room that seemed to be shrinking, but if the walls closing in were an illusion or not, he couldn’t distinguish. He suddenly felt as if he was being suffocated, all the air leaving his body in one quick breath. He started pounding against the wall and screaming for help, but the wall behind the wallpaper felt as solid as the brick in the window frame. No matter how hard he screamed, he heard nothing in return.
Why would someone do this time him? Who would do this time him? He had enemies, but none he would think would go to the extreme of knocking him out, taking him from where he was, and placing him in this awful room. Couldn’t anyone hear him, were all the walls brick, was there even anything outside this room? For all he knew, this was a solid box in the middle of the woods, assuring him that there would be no one around for miles to hear his cries for help. He went silent and tried to listen for some sort of activity outside, but no matter how much he strained his ears, he couldn’t hear anything and that made him feel all that much more trapped. He began to pace around and room, attempting to lay out his options, but he couldn’t tune out that little voice in his head that kept telling him he was doomed, that he would die in this shitty room. No one would know what happened to him, maybe there would be a small search, but it would eventually turn out to be hopeless, ending in its premature end, leaving Benjamin to waste away, a forgotten name, a lost human, an insignificant speck on an even bigger speck. He would simply be a bump in the road that no one would recall for any longer than a second. Even the losers, the absolutely pathetic would get more recognition than him. His fate, his legacy, would be to die here and let this new found home be the unmarked grave. He began to scream, not as a call for help, but in absolute frustration, being unable to hold in the feelings that were surely welling up inside of him.
His feet dragged across the floor as he realized just how futile his situation truly was. One of his feet kicked the shag carpet, dislodging it from its original position and revealing an odd change in pattern in the wooden floor that sat underneath, a sort of incongruence that stood out in such a vague way that Benjamin couldn’t quite name what it was, but it quickly captured his interest. He bent down and ran his fingers over the wood, feeling a slight indent where the rug had been sitting and Benjamin’s eyes widened in hopefulness. A trap door. That was how they probably got him in there and if he could move it, it would be his way out.
Quickly, his fingers scrambled over the structure trying to get some sort of leverage that would open this door and let him out, but there challenge proved to be quite difficult as he kept feeling around for some sort of ledge that he could grab hold or claw at. The endeavor almost seemed to prove fruitless until one of the boards suddenly came loose and revealed a handle. He did not hesitate to grab hold and pull for all of his life, lifting the incredibly heavy door until it fell in the other direction, leaving an opening in the middle of the floor. Peering down into, he saw nothing but a ladder as it led down into a black void which he could not see the end of.
There was a moment where he felt a sort of violent fear rip through his body as he hesitated from crawling down the ladder into the unknown. Was this the right idea? What if there was someone waiting for him down there? What if was a trick and he was supposed to find the trap door so it would lead him down into some sort of trap? What choice did he have? He turned around and put one foot down on the first rung, beginning he slow descent down into the abyss, hoping that this was truly his way out. He needed to be right on this, there was no other way. It seemed the ladder went on forever, he kept climbing down, farther and farther, the light over his head shrank until it was a mere dot that he could barely see as he looked up, but as he got lower, he could hear a faint sound growing in the distance. A sort of roaring that made his heart pound. He was having second thoughts, but he kept going, he was too far now to stop. He kept going, suddenly feeling a low end vibration being sent through the ladder in pulses, shaking him, but not making him falter or stop, he continued until he finally reached the bottom.
He turned around and saw a familiar setting…a locker room. Not just any locker room, the S-PAC locker room, with his compatriots sitting so casually around as if they were expecting him. Waylon stood up and walked over to him with a smile on his face, Benjamin’s confusion was growing, unable to understand what was going on. Waylon simply slapped him on the back and asked him if he was ready for the match. Ready for the match? The match at Slam? Was that now? He wasn’t prepared, mentally or physically for the match-up, he couldn’t go out there now, but what choice did he have? He simply nodded his head, trying to not give away how lost he was. He tried to rationalize it, Night Rider, D’Evil, and Lavondyss was a pathetic team at best, he could beat anyone of them one on one on any given day of the week. There was no way they would be able to beat S-PAC…but that creeping fear, the kind of foreboding that made you shiver darted through his mind uncontrollably as he thought about the awful ‘what if’. What if they did lose? What would that mean? What if he was the one who was pinned or submitted? That would make him the weak one in the group, a link that they might try and sever.
Everyone’s eyes were on Gable anyways. All he ever heard about anymore was how Gable was the star of the team and it drove Benjamin insane. Wasn’t he one of the better competitors in the company? Hadn’t he his fair share of high profile victories? Why was he being ignored for a man who had pretended to be a turkey for a string of months? His mind was rattled with these thoughts and now it seemed as if he was less prepared than ever to go out and fight for his team. They would be able to see his worry, they would be able to pick it apart. As the rest of his team was fighting with confidence, he would be that seed of doubt that would destroy their chances.
His teammates made their way out of the room and he quickly followed suit, leaving the memory of the strange room far behind him, but he brought the isolation he felt in there with him. The trudged through the halls, Benjamin attempting to keep his eyes forward,, trying to pour his concentration into the moment and prepare himself for the physical and emotional onslaught he was about to face. His only hope of getting out of this with his pride intact was to endure, endure, endure. He could hear the roaring again and realized that it was the crowd, that unloving crowd, that unforgiving crowd, that evil crowd. They had always lusted after his blood, haven’t they? Since he had first stepped foot into the ring of a WCF event, they had labeled him with the stigma of being the bad guy, being the evil-doer, being the man who wanted to destroy his fun as if he kept a hate machine in the back of his car that was powered by the tears of orphans who have just realized that there is no Santa. To them, he was that guy.
They finally reached their position before the entrance ramp curtain and he could hear their music begin to play. Most of the time it would be a welcomed sound that could psyche him into the moment if he needed the extra boost, but this time he felt nothing but a sort of breathlessness take hold as he knew it to be the sound of his coming demise, the point of no return. Scott Savage stepped through first, followed by Waylon, then Gable, and now it was his turn, and even though he wanted to turn and run away, his legs pressed forward, defiant of his commands.
He pushed passed the curtains and looked out into the flashing lights, into the angry mob, into the roaring fire that was the ring, but he did not see the three he had thought they were facing, instead there were just three shadowy figures watching him as he slowly and begrudgingly walked down to the ring. He looked for his partners, but he could not see them, they had disappeared somehow, he was alone. How many sat in the stands watching him? One thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? A million? He couldn’t tell, the stands went on and on into forever, but he tried not to look, looking at it just made him feel dizzy. Upon reaching the ring he slid in and quickly jumped to his feet, moving back into his corner as his eyes met with the shadow figures that did not flinch as he tried his weak attempts at intimidation. Who were they? They weren’t competitors here. They didn’t even look human. They weren’t human. He heard the bell ring, it rang louder than it ever had before and filled his ears with a painful high frequency that forced him to cup his hands over his ears. He tried to gather himself, but it was too late, the three figures were already on him, pounding against him violently until he was on the ground. What damage had they done already? Had they already cracked a few of his ribs, broken his arm? He tried to get up, but he was unable to, a weird sensation was creeping over his body and he suddenly realized that it was the ring melting over his arms and legs, trapping him in this vulnerable position as the figures continued to beat down on him. Was this his end? Was he to be beaten to death in front of the fans like a sacrifice in the time of roman gladiators? Was this worse than dying in the room he had been trapped in only a few moments before hand? Before any of those questions could be answered he felt the violent attack of his enemies come to a sudden stop. He looked up at them and saw them only staring back, as if their job had been completed and needed nothing more to do than just watch. That sensation started to creep over him once more. His eyes looked back to the ring and he saw that it was continuing to devour him, closing over his upper legs and shoulders, working its way up his back until all that was left was Benjamin’s head. Again, like in the room, he cried out for help, but it was left unanswered again. It crawled up his neck and slowly encased him, smothering him, leaving him unable to gasp for air, his world was covered in blackness.
But…
He could feel relief wash over him. The match was over, he was no longer under the strain of what would be, it was over and now he was lost in a state of inconsequentiality, hanging in this sort of purgatory, he could breathe again. He heard a voice Benjamin calling out to him. He looked around, Benjamin but he couldn’t see anything. The voice was gentle and soothing, without reproach Benjamin and without hate. A womanly voice that echoed in his ears Its okay and made him feel comfortable. He closed his eyes and just listened to it. Don’t worry, it’ll all be okay. it was closer now, Just relax, there is no reason to fret. There is no pretense here, it is just me and you. He felt her embrace, but he did not open his eyes. He continued to just listen and feel. Its alright.[/b] Along with her voice, he could hear music begin to play. Atmospheric, but powerful music flooded his sense, giving the perfect cadence to the moment. As far as he was concerned, there was world peace. He could be this way forever and die happy, unafraid, almost willing.
Then it began to fade; the music, the touch, her voice. It all slowly faded into silence and a cold breeze. His eyes opened and he found himself back in his room. HIS room, the one he has lived in for the last seven years. The window off to the side is open and he can see snow cascading to the ground…he feels empty. There is no one beside him, there is no warm embrace for him to crawl into. He is alone as he has been all his life. He looks to his clock and it reads 4:50 am, and in the little corner of the screen it says Dec. 8th. The match is today, he feels tired, his head falls back onto the bed, trying to drift back to sleep in hopes of finding himself in her arms once more. It isn’t just his room that’s cold, he thinks, its this world that’s cold.
The general consensus is wrong; life is not the real tragedy. It is brutal, it is depressing, and it is hopeless, but it is not the real tragedy, because the disappointments and shortcomings that we all suffer from can be hidden and repressed, but in the world of dreams, it all comes out, there is no hiding. In the waking world we could blame those around us for our suffering, we could justify our hatred and our violence as a product of our environment, but in a dream, we are truly absolutely completely alone in our suffering, lost in our subconscious twisted in our perverted and distorted thoughts where our depravity is thrown in the light for us to look upon. The world of dreaming, the one we must all succumb to, is the real tragedy.
Every night we close our eyes we play roulette with our subconscious; will we drift in effortless dreaming or are we going to be thrown into a cacophonous nightmare, unable to direct ourselves into either direction, unable to control the muscle that sits inside our skull, the thing that is partly us. Oh, and what horror do we face if we go cascading out of control and find ourselves on the receiving end of a feverish apocalypse? The worst of our fears realized? The failings of our greatest attempts? Staring our secrets in the eye as they expose themselves to us? We suddenly realize how powerless, how hopeless, how weak we truly are. The call of those who suffer from these night terrors: Why does it feel so real? It’s not fair. Please someone wake me up! Do you hear the words of the many in your own screams late at night when you feel the weight of your phobias piling on top of you? Does it fill you with dread as you are about to lay yourself down to sleep?
But it is a double edged sword. Even when sleep gives way to a perfect dream, it is then our curse to be forced to wake; leaving us feeling empty, as if our life is a shade of grey, as if we have no God to speak of. To feel a pair of arms wrapped around us, a voice unabashedly in love with who we are, left unjudged, unprovoked, then to wake up alone and under the microscope where a thousand prodding eyes watch us, that is the lie of the ‘dream’. We wake to find our vices are still scrutinized, our crutches still make us weak, and our jobs are still slowly killing us. Dreams offer perfection and then take it away. It shows us how pathetic we are.
