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Post by pwsstaff on Nov 30, 2022 0:20:44 GMT -5
PWS: APEX RIOT TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2022 ACCOR ARENA - PARIS, FRANCE Singles Match Devon Ryder vs. Richard Rider
DEADLINE IS SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4th 2022 AT 11:59PM EDT
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Post by Devon Ryder on Dec 5, 2022 23:40:00 GMT -5
ACT ONE: The Healing Process
"I think you should send it."
*Eyes open. You sit in a dull, nondescript room - an office, you can ascertain, just decorated enough to be homey but just generic enough to avoid being familiar. The ticking of the clock drones monotonously in the background of your consciousness. You want to focus on it, to let it guide you… but why? And where? You’re no longer certain. At one time, some part of you knows, you knew this information… but that voice has grown silent. Dormant. Dead. For now, you are adrift. Lost. You’re moving slowly - your mind is thick and sluggish, as if the very act of thought requires wading through a waist-high sludge of crushing existential apathy that threatens to drag your psyche into its depths like deadly quicksand. You need to keep moving… but why? What’s the point? What are you trying to reach, on the other end of this forgotten Hell? And could any reward be worth it… without her?
“Devon?”
*A voice.*
DesiNO.
NO.
*Your psyche reels at her name. It’s almost a physical reaction, with how quickly and how viscerally the thought rips through you. You feel everything all over again - the pain, the rage, the sorrow and confusion - all battling for dominance within your weary mind, dragging what you numbly understand to be a tear along your cheek. The voice reaches out again - unfamiliar, but comforting.*
“Devon? Stay with me, hon, remember your affirmations.”
*A plea. An urge. You cast your mind through its thick sludge again, valiantly struggling to push against the vicious current of destructive thoughts to find yourself a centre…*
“I… am enough.”
*Another voice, now. Yours? You think you can remember it. You feel your lips and tongue moving, forcing out the sounds by rote without really fully grasping them. You shut your eyes again and surrender to the ritual…*
“I… am worthy.”
*As the empty words flow from your skull, slowly the fog begins to lift. You feel yourself moving - your cognition becomes clearer. You continue through the mantras…*
“I am in control of my life…”
*A beat. You begin to feel yourself come back - the chair beneath your thighs, the fraying carpet at your feet. The memories start to abate - and with them, the regrets. You are still in pain… but you can survive this.*
“I am in control of my life.”
*One more. You know the drill by now. Your mouth forms the words - and THIS time, your heart believes them.*
“I am in control of my life!”
Tick… tick… tick…
Eyes open.
“Still with me, Devon?”
*Lights. Bleary. I realize I’ve been unfocused. Dissociating. The last half hour is a blur - but I know that Tina, my therapist, will understand. She regards me, as ever, with the same kind and patient smile I have come to appreciate from her. I am… disoriented, but alive. And that is making progress.*
“Yes. Sorry about that. I think I zoned out for a while there.”
*She shakes her head - not dismissing ME, but the need for an apology.*
“Don’t apologize; you’re hurting, it’s perfectly understandable for you to struggle during times like this. Just remember to be patient with yourself, okay?”
*A smile. I almost couldn’t remember what they felt like.*
“Thank you. I… I didn’t get what you last said. Could you repeat it, please?”
“Yes, no problem. I said I think that you should send it. That letter you were writing to Desiree.”
*A pang. Her name still stings me in my soul, but this time it is… dulling. I am building up a tolerance to that particular poison. I quirk one eyebrow, a tad incredulous. I expected she would tell me I was foolish, that I should not maintain contact.*
“You do?”
*Tina nods, her face taking on that inscrutable expression she gives me when she’s pensive.*
“I do. I think it would be good for you - it could be closure, if nothing else. Take some time to lay it out - sometime when you’re CALM, when you’re thinking clearly and not deep inside your feelings - and send it to her email. Give her a little bit of time - remember that SHE is probably hurting too - and if she responds, that’s great! But if she doesn’t… maybe it’s time to consider moving on.”
*Moving on. The notion hurts. It is terrifying, but also… somehow liberating? It is all at once overwhelming and cathartic, as if I’m standing at the precipice of some vast and fathomless pool, my healthy life awaiting somewhere deep beneath the murky waters… and I’ve just stepped towards the edge. I steel myself, and nod.*
“Y-yes. Yes. I will send it. I’ll tell her how I’m feeling, ask her if she’ll just TALK to me - we do not have to go in with expectations, just an open mind - and if she does, we’ll see what happens. If not… then perhaps it IS the end. But maybe that’s okay.”
*Tina cracks another smile, nodding sagely. I feel trepidation building in my core - yet, somehow, I’m also feeling better. As if a weight is being lifted slowly from my soul. I’m beginning to feel… like me.*
“Good! Don’t shy away from it. Yes, you hurt her, but remember that she hurt you too, and YOU have worth as a human being. You can’t be afraid to see that anymore.”
*A jolt. A fire. I have not felt this way since… since before she Broke me. I am not Titanium… but I am getting closer. I can feel the corners of my lips turn up. A smile? No… a smirk.*
“No. Not now, not EVER again. I am DONE being controlled by my emotions.”
*Tina beams at me, putting down her notebook to meet my gaze.*
“That’s great! So what are you going to DO about it?”
Tick… tick… tick…
What indeed?
ACT TWO: The call to action…
*Fade in. We open on a shot of Devon Ryder’s locker room - so denoted by the large Canadian flag hanging proudly on one wall. The man currently known as the Dark Horse is taping up his wrists - the same black tape we saw him wearing at Dishonored, in mourning of his lost relationship. This time, though, the back of each hand has a red maple leaf emblazoned in the centre. This more closely resembles the Canadian Hero we have come to know. He stares into the camera, his gaze steely and determined. The PWS: Apex PURE Championship sits on the bench beside him.*
“Richard Rider…”
*A beat. Ryder smirks.*
“Some folks call you the ‘Hollywood Heartthrob’. A man who fancies himself a true Action Hero, stepping bravely off the silver screen to bring his ‘heroics’ into the squared circle. Heh.”
*Devon clicks his tongue, a sharp exhale of air escaping his nose.
“I will keep this brief, Richard, because if I may be perfectly frank with you, I’m still not in a fantastic headspace. You fancy yourself a hero, Richard - a true MARVEL of the silver screen, dashingly handsome and daring, winning over all the ladies with your rugged looks and bland, Caucasian masculinity. I have seen your ilk before, Richard. You are not UNIQUE. You are not SPECIAL. And you are most DEFINITELY not a HERO. I could go on about how Hollywood has twisted your fragile male body image - how the American psyche is warped by biased messaging paid for by corporations trying to subtly sell their products to consumers by placing them in films, how the messaging in mainstream Hollywood is often inextricably linked with problematic social attitudes towards minorities, the police and the United States military-industrial complex, often fuelled by inaccurate, aggrandized portrayals bought by special-interest groups who ‘invest’ in motion pictures… but I’m not going to do that. There was a TIME when I would’ve reveled in that tirade - when I would’ve taken extra care to target everything that you believe in, with well thought-out and researched arguments to disabuse you of those notions. But that time is not today. Today, Richard, I’m not looking to ‘elevate you in the eyes of the PWS faithful’ by showcasing the full extent of your abilities; my goal is not to give you the greatest wrestling match of your career, and finally prove to the WORLD that you’ve been overlooked… no. Tonight, Richard, I really just kinda want to fuckin’ hurt somebody.”
*A beat. Devon’s smirk is gone, and he glares down the camera lens with an odd sort of intensity, a note of some contrition in his eyes.*
“And I am SO, SO sorry that you were the one who had to volunteer.”
*Another beat. Devon stands up, having finished taping up his wrists, and hoists the PURE Championship onto his shoulder.*
“See ya in the ring… ‘hero’.”
*With that, the opening riff of the Guess Who’s “American Woman” begins to blare to play Devon off, as the Canadian Dark Horse pushes past the camera, walking out the door of his personal locker room towards gorilla for his match. We hold for just a second as the door swings shut behind him, and then we fade.*
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