Post by Damon Cross on Jan 6, 2021 16:45:00 GMT -8
Damon was thankful that Danielle had been agreeable to the sudden change in destination. Though, request or not, he would have gone anyway. It might have required him to see her home safely first, but… he had put off this business long enough.
There is little need to rehash the war that Damon went through for most of 2020 before his arrival in NFW. Those who are privy to his trials and tribulations in HYBRID Wrestling, predominantly the Ascension brand, know all about the rise and fall of the man who once referred to himself as the God of Ascension. They watched him tumble from the mountaintop, fall through the crust of the earth and sink straight to hell. Only by the hand of Danni Anderson and a few others is Cross even alive today… figuratively and literally.
In NFW, they have watched him rise and fall as well, yet not in such a life-altering, reality-shattering way. Damon arrived and immediately fought his way to the top, going undefeated into the Vlad Blackheart Memorial Tournament, but falling just short by the end. A series of crushing losses followed and nearly sapped what momentum he had found again, but with the coming of the New Year, Damon has stated more than once that he feels his time has come. With entrance into the Collision-wide Battle Royale at this Sunday’s Aftershock, he has a chance to prove his assertions correct.
But is the confidence he exudes, not only after the events of Collision #89 but elsewhere, as powerful as he claims?
Damon Cross: You don’t have to come along. You can stay in the car where it’s warm if you want. I won’t be long.
Honestly, few would call 59 degrees cold, but given Danni’s delicate condition at the moment, Damon felt it would be wise to give her the option. That… and part of him truly hoped that she would stay put. What needed to be done here today was something he felt that he should do alone. They say outside Williams Cemetery, the sun steadily lowering, darkness encroaching as a result. While not disliking winter, Damon never did care for the shortness of daylight in the colder months for reasons he could not put to words.
Danni Anderson: A-are you sure…? I kinda feel like… you shouldn’t be alone…
Damon Cross: For this, I probably should be.
He hated saying that, but it was true. Damon turned to his fiancee and set his hand upon hers, fingers closing around it to give a gentle squeeze.
Damon Cross: You would not like what you would see and hear, Danielle. That is the best way I can put it.
Perhaps it’s the effects of her grade-four concussion, or perhaps it’s the spectrum of her mind, but Danielle seems dazed and confused. The feeling of his hand over hers brings her back to reality, if only for a moment. A look of genuine concern is upon her features, but her blue eyes express understanding.
Danni Anderson: I… alright. If you need me, please come back, okay?
For the first time since they touched down in Louisiana today, Damon smiled. It was faint and it did not last, but for Danielle, he managed a genuine one.
Damon Cross: I promise. When I’m finished, we’ll pick up some dinner and have it at the hotel. I’ll drive us home after we sleep a while. That sound all right?
To answer him, she offers him a little nod and a cute smile. She slowly leans over and kisses him sweetly, a gesture which he returns. By the time he exited the car, however, it was as though Danni wasn’t even there, so cold did the Black Ronin look. He walks through the open gates of the modest cemetery, moving past headstones, flowers both living and false and names long forgotten. Though he had not been in years, somehow his legs carried him in the right direction without need for thought.
A left here at the angel statue…
A right around the kissing cats…
And between the tattered old dog and the half-crumbled marker that, vaguely, the year 1871 could be read upon, though whether that was the date of birth or death none could discern…
...until Damon finds himself at a pair of gravestones, one a year or two fresher than the other. On the left, a simple yet smoothly-elegant headstone stands:
And on the right, the fresher of the two:
As Damon stands before the makers, his face becomes as hard, as cold, as the granite used to indicate these final resting places. Sliding off the sunglasses he had worn out of habit, tucking them into the pocket of the black suit jacket he wore over the black silk shirt and black trousers, Damon then returns his hands to his pockets… staring down at the gravestones. Silence reigns for several moments before he finally speaks, his tone laced with acidic humor.
Damon Cross: How many times have you turned in your grave yet, Mama, knowing that I buried him next to you? Are you shrieking and making a ruckus down in your fiery corner of hell? Are you cursing my name to any tortured soul that will listen?
Oh, that smirk is just awful. Thunder rumbles overhead at the sight of it. In the distance, lightning flashes against the darkening sky.
Damon Cross: Or has he found you already?
Laughing dryly, Damon crouches down, closer to the gravestones. His dark gaze lingers on the grave of the woman he called ‘Mama’.
Damon Cross: You deserve worse, you old wench. When Cynthia leaves this life face-down in a ditch, and bet your life that that’s how they’ll find her when the time comes... I’ll make sure she’s laid right here with you. Birds of a feather. But Aurora?
At this point, he could not even fake a smile. Not if he wanted to. Rain begins pattering down, lightly at first, but becoming heavier as Damon’s tirade reaches a crescendo.
Damon Cross: That rotten, serpent-fucking, mudblooded cunt of a whore? I would see her fed to wild pigs. And whatever they couldn’t swallow I’d toss into an incinerator and flush the ashes down the goddamn toilet. You hear me, you wrinkled, psychotic BITCH?!
If it were any consolation, which it likely was not, Damon could claim that the tears were actually just raindrops on his cheeks. More than ever he was happy that Danni stayed in the car. Keeping silence for several moments, Damon rests a hand on top of Mama Cross’s grave, leather gloves creaking as that one hand gripped the headstone so tight… as if… as if he meant to physically rip a chunk from the stone.
Damon Cross: I’m glad you’re dead.
He says it in a whisper, even though no one alive can hear him.
Damon Cross: I loved you once, I swear it. But if your heart had not ended things for you, I know, deep down, that I would have ended you myself. A thin line between love and hate, right? That’s what you said. One of the only things you ever told me that was the truth.
Lowering his hand from the grave, he turns to the other. That of Alcide.
Damon Cross: You went into the ground never once hearing me call you dad, didn’t you? Well, truth told? You didn’t fucking earn that privilege.
For how long had all this welled up inside the Saint of Bones? For how long had he waited to come here, to say these dark, hurtful, emotional things?
Damon Cross: You knock up a crazy bitch, leave before I could learn who you were and let her transfer all her vitriol toward me for my every living day. To the point where she dissociated from me so much that she adopted another child to take my place. With my still being alive and well and under her roof. Then mere months after you finally come around and spill the truth? You fucking croak. Ain’t that some shit?
He shakes his head lightly.
Damon Cross: And now here we are. One big, happy fucking family. Sans a slut and a whore to complete the circle of spice and crazy-
Another shake of the head. Then Damon reaches out to grip Alcide’s gravestone, presumably to rise to his feet. But instead, he retches loudly. Whatever lunch had been, it was unrecognizable at this point. A second time emptied whatever was left inside Cross, who sat back hard on the cold stone of the walkway, breathing heavily. Pulling a half-soaked bandana from his back pocket, he wiped his mouth and coughed into it a few times before throwing it aside.
Damon Cross: I hate you... both of you... and them, too...
Time is lost for a while; Damon is unaware of how long he sits there in the rain, the moisture soaking into his clothes, staring blankly ahead of him. Into the darkness. The headstones are in his line of sight, but he doesn’t see them. Not anymore. In truth it is only a few minutes but here, with the remains of his parents, it feels like an eternity.
Damon Cross: I took everything that you gave me and put it away where I never have to look at it again. The old house? Blew it to hell dealing with those Yakuza who were trying to put me in the ground. I don’t regret it for a moment. And once I leave this place, I’m never coming back. After that? I’ll just wait… day by day, moment by moment… until I can’t even remember your faces. When that day comes, I’ll know a happiness that the Bard himself could not put into words.
He is the furthest thing from happy, though.
Damon Cross: I know… I’m a monster. Go on, you can say it. How about you go first, Mama Cross? You called me everything else, so why not that? I'd let you have the chance too, 'dad', but I doubt you would care enough to try.
Finally getting to his feet, Damon is unsteady and almost falls over again. His upper body tenses and stiffens and he feels as if he will throw up again, but he just coughs harshly, spitting out more bile on the puddle already soaking into the grass and soil.
Damon Cross: And here I thought just letting it all out would make me feel better. More fool me.
Sighing, he turns and walks away from the graves without another word. Back to the path. Eventually, back to the car where Danni waited. In his mind, Damon worked out what he would say to keep his wife-to-be calm as they fetched dinner and, afterward, a little sleep before heading back to Asheville for a day or two. Then it was back to Chicago for Aftershock.
For the Collision Battle Royale.
For a shot at the World Heavyweight Championship.
He was still out of sight of the car when he threw up again, not out of hatred and pain this time, but out of fear and revulsion.
Damon Cross: The match... good God... what was I thinking?
Forward, however, was the only direction he could go. Staggering a few steps, stumbling, almost face-planting for the second time tonight, Damon finally managed to resume a proper gait by the time the gates and the car came into view. Save for a bit of a stain on his shirt which was easily explained away, Danni would not have to know what happened.
Her heart would not been able to take it, Damon thought.
His certainly couldn’t.
There is little need to rehash the war that Damon went through for most of 2020 before his arrival in NFW. Those who are privy to his trials and tribulations in HYBRID Wrestling, predominantly the Ascension brand, know all about the rise and fall of the man who once referred to himself as the God of Ascension. They watched him tumble from the mountaintop, fall through the crust of the earth and sink straight to hell. Only by the hand of Danni Anderson and a few others is Cross even alive today… figuratively and literally.
In NFW, they have watched him rise and fall as well, yet not in such a life-altering, reality-shattering way. Damon arrived and immediately fought his way to the top, going undefeated into the Vlad Blackheart Memorial Tournament, but falling just short by the end. A series of crushing losses followed and nearly sapped what momentum he had found again, but with the coming of the New Year, Damon has stated more than once that he feels his time has come. With entrance into the Collision-wide Battle Royale at this Sunday’s Aftershock, he has a chance to prove his assertions correct.
But is the confidence he exudes, not only after the events of Collision #89 but elsewhere, as powerful as he claims?
Damon Cross: You don’t have to come along. You can stay in the car where it’s warm if you want. I won’t be long.
Honestly, few would call 59 degrees cold, but given Danni’s delicate condition at the moment, Damon felt it would be wise to give her the option. That… and part of him truly hoped that she would stay put. What needed to be done here today was something he felt that he should do alone. They say outside Williams Cemetery, the sun steadily lowering, darkness encroaching as a result. While not disliking winter, Damon never did care for the shortness of daylight in the colder months for reasons he could not put to words.
Danni Anderson: A-are you sure…? I kinda feel like… you shouldn’t be alone…
Damon Cross: For this, I probably should be.
He hated saying that, but it was true. Damon turned to his fiancee and set his hand upon hers, fingers closing around it to give a gentle squeeze.
Damon Cross: You would not like what you would see and hear, Danielle. That is the best way I can put it.
Perhaps it’s the effects of her grade-four concussion, or perhaps it’s the spectrum of her mind, but Danielle seems dazed and confused. The feeling of his hand over hers brings her back to reality, if only for a moment. A look of genuine concern is upon her features, but her blue eyes express understanding.
Danni Anderson: I… alright. If you need me, please come back, okay?
For the first time since they touched down in Louisiana today, Damon smiled. It was faint and it did not last, but for Danielle, he managed a genuine one.
Damon Cross: I promise. When I’m finished, we’ll pick up some dinner and have it at the hotel. I’ll drive us home after we sleep a while. That sound all right?
To answer him, she offers him a little nod and a cute smile. She slowly leans over and kisses him sweetly, a gesture which he returns. By the time he exited the car, however, it was as though Danni wasn’t even there, so cold did the Black Ronin look. He walks through the open gates of the modest cemetery, moving past headstones, flowers both living and false and names long forgotten. Though he had not been in years, somehow his legs carried him in the right direction without need for thought.
A left here at the angel statue…
A right around the kissing cats…
And between the tattered old dog and the half-crumbled marker that, vaguely, the year 1871 could be read upon, though whether that was the date of birth or death none could discern…
...until Damon finds himself at a pair of gravestones, one a year or two fresher than the other. On the left, a simple yet smoothly-elegant headstone stands:
Ophelia Lyanna Cross
1954 - 2019
1954 - 2019
And on the right, the fresher of the two:
Alcide Evan Debaillion
1959 - 2020
1959 - 2020
As Damon stands before the makers, his face becomes as hard, as cold, as the granite used to indicate these final resting places. Sliding off the sunglasses he had worn out of habit, tucking them into the pocket of the black suit jacket he wore over the black silk shirt and black trousers, Damon then returns his hands to his pockets… staring down at the gravestones. Silence reigns for several moments before he finally speaks, his tone laced with acidic humor.
Damon Cross: How many times have you turned in your grave yet, Mama, knowing that I buried him next to you? Are you shrieking and making a ruckus down in your fiery corner of hell? Are you cursing my name to any tortured soul that will listen?
Oh, that smirk is just awful. Thunder rumbles overhead at the sight of it. In the distance, lightning flashes against the darkening sky.
Damon Cross: Or has he found you already?
Laughing dryly, Damon crouches down, closer to the gravestones. His dark gaze lingers on the grave of the woman he called ‘Mama’.
Damon Cross: You deserve worse, you old wench. When Cynthia leaves this life face-down in a ditch, and bet your life that that’s how they’ll find her when the time comes... I’ll make sure she’s laid right here with you. Birds of a feather. But Aurora?
At this point, he could not even fake a smile. Not if he wanted to. Rain begins pattering down, lightly at first, but becoming heavier as Damon’s tirade reaches a crescendo.
Damon Cross: That rotten, serpent-fucking, mudblooded cunt of a whore? I would see her fed to wild pigs. And whatever they couldn’t swallow I’d toss into an incinerator and flush the ashes down the goddamn toilet. You hear me, you wrinkled, psychotic BITCH?!
If it were any consolation, which it likely was not, Damon could claim that the tears were actually just raindrops on his cheeks. More than ever he was happy that Danni stayed in the car. Keeping silence for several moments, Damon rests a hand on top of Mama Cross’s grave, leather gloves creaking as that one hand gripped the headstone so tight… as if… as if he meant to physically rip a chunk from the stone.
Damon Cross: I’m glad you’re dead.
He says it in a whisper, even though no one alive can hear him.
Damon Cross: I loved you once, I swear it. But if your heart had not ended things for you, I know, deep down, that I would have ended you myself. A thin line between love and hate, right? That’s what you said. One of the only things you ever told me that was the truth.
Lowering his hand from the grave, he turns to the other. That of Alcide.
Damon Cross: You went into the ground never once hearing me call you dad, didn’t you? Well, truth told? You didn’t fucking earn that privilege.
For how long had all this welled up inside the Saint of Bones? For how long had he waited to come here, to say these dark, hurtful, emotional things?
Damon Cross: You knock up a crazy bitch, leave before I could learn who you were and let her transfer all her vitriol toward me for my every living day. To the point where she dissociated from me so much that she adopted another child to take my place. With my still being alive and well and under her roof. Then mere months after you finally come around and spill the truth? You fucking croak. Ain’t that some shit?
He shakes his head lightly.
Damon Cross: And now here we are. One big, happy fucking family. Sans a slut and a whore to complete the circle of spice and crazy-
Another shake of the head. Then Damon reaches out to grip Alcide’s gravestone, presumably to rise to his feet. But instead, he retches loudly. Whatever lunch had been, it was unrecognizable at this point. A second time emptied whatever was left inside Cross, who sat back hard on the cold stone of the walkway, breathing heavily. Pulling a half-soaked bandana from his back pocket, he wiped his mouth and coughed into it a few times before throwing it aside.
Damon Cross: I hate you... both of you... and them, too...
Time is lost for a while; Damon is unaware of how long he sits there in the rain, the moisture soaking into his clothes, staring blankly ahead of him. Into the darkness. The headstones are in his line of sight, but he doesn’t see them. Not anymore. In truth it is only a few minutes but here, with the remains of his parents, it feels like an eternity.
Damon Cross: I took everything that you gave me and put it away where I never have to look at it again. The old house? Blew it to hell dealing with those Yakuza who were trying to put me in the ground. I don’t regret it for a moment. And once I leave this place, I’m never coming back. After that? I’ll just wait… day by day, moment by moment… until I can’t even remember your faces. When that day comes, I’ll know a happiness that the Bard himself could not put into words.
He is the furthest thing from happy, though.
Damon Cross: I know… I’m a monster. Go on, you can say it. How about you go first, Mama Cross? You called me everything else, so why not that? I'd let you have the chance too, 'dad', but I doubt you would care enough to try.
Finally getting to his feet, Damon is unsteady and almost falls over again. His upper body tenses and stiffens and he feels as if he will throw up again, but he just coughs harshly, spitting out more bile on the puddle already soaking into the grass and soil.
Damon Cross: And here I thought just letting it all out would make me feel better. More fool me.
Sighing, he turns and walks away from the graves without another word. Back to the path. Eventually, back to the car where Danni waited. In his mind, Damon worked out what he would say to keep his wife-to-be calm as they fetched dinner and, afterward, a little sleep before heading back to Asheville for a day or two. Then it was back to Chicago for Aftershock.
For the Collision Battle Royale.
For a shot at the World Heavyweight Championship.
He was still out of sight of the car when he threw up again, not out of hatred and pain this time, but out of fear and revulsion.
Damon Cross: The match... good God... what was I thinking?
Forward, however, was the only direction he could go. Staggering a few steps, stumbling, almost face-planting for the second time tonight, Damon finally managed to resume a proper gait by the time the gates and the car came into view. Save for a bit of a stain on his shirt which was easily explained away, Danni would not have to know what happened.
Her heart would not been able to take it, Damon thought.
His certainly couldn’t.
