Hands Held High

Hands Held High: Part 1 of 2

If we met in a scissor fight, I'd cut off your wings on principle alone.

Life begins beautiful, and pure, and then descends into a shadow of itself. A gray, bleak world where the jaded rule with an iron fist, and all who dare to believe in change and making a difference are snuffed out. Every day, in each and every life, it begins with a pure moment. A glistening memory that each man and woman will always have. The day starts with the break of dawn, a deep violet giving way to the sun-fire as the minutes pass. The sun, stirred from its slumber, forced into the sky to brighten our days. 

I'm rambling, please forgive me. I tend to do that.

We've never met before. But don't worry, we will soon, friend.

Picture this, if you will.

It is a bright, clear morning. There are two children - one boy and one girl - sitting beneath the comfortable shade of a willow tree. Its cascading shadow grants them reprieve from the blistering heat of a summer sun. They are sweaty, and smiling, their hair mattered from the perspiration. A deep, lush meadow surrounds them on all sides. 

One child turns to the other and asks, "Where do you think it came from?"

And the other will reply, "I dunno. Maybe from somebody who used to live out here."

And the girl will nod, tilting her head to the side. Her red, rosy cheeks are becoming flushed. She is exhausted, but her curiosity will outweigh that. She looks at the boy, then down at the tiny, metal airplane that he holds in his hand. Her attention is drawn then to the sky.

She points, her tiny, chubby finger, nothing more than a meager dot against the landscape, and she asks, "Does that look like a mushroom?"

The boy will turn his head, and he will look to where she points, he will see what looks like a mushroom, and it will remind him of something he saw in a video game the night before, and he'll say, "Reminds me of Super Mario brothers."

The girl will turn, frown and ask, "What's that?"

And the boy will smile, a smug look on his face, and he'll explain the game to her. What he won't tell her is how at night when he's playing he can hear her dad shouting next door.

That doesn't matter right now. All around them is nothing but beauty. They cannot be harmed. The boy will give the girl the airplane before he goes home. He knows that secretly she is jealous that she didn't find it first. 

He wants to say something about the black eye she has, but he can't bring himself to. His mom once told him to not ask people questions that make them feel uncomfortable. Before he gets up to leave, she will yank his arm to pull him close, kissing him on the cheek.

She will say, "Thanks for being my friend, Anj"

Do you understand now?

No?

Picture this, then.

There is a young man, his skin fair, with a head full of dark hair. He is sitting cross-legged beneath a willow tree. Its shadow no longer as deep and fruitful as remembered. Its wood is rotting, falling to pieces. The tree is dying, but the young man seems not to notice. His eyes are closed, and he's thinking on a lot of things. It's been a summer since he has been home.

The girl, herself, now older, her chubby fingers have grown into long, slender things, as agile and dexterous as spider legs. Her hair, once long and blonde, is now shorter, with a purple streak in it. 

He sees her coming through the tall grass,  looking beautiful in the almost awkward way about her. He tries to suppress a smile, but he can't.

He'll say, "You remembered."

The girl nods amiably enough, and without hesitation walks toward him.

She'll say, "Of course I did."

They'll talk for awhile, each pretending that they are unaware of how their lives intertwined before. He'll talk about traveling through Europe, getting drunk in Paris, and how now he's thinking about a semester abroad.

She'll talk about catching fireflies in the field behind the high school last week and how she hates her job, that it doesn't give her enough time to do what she wants to be doing.

"I never thought you'd come back here," she'll say. 

"It's home."

"Yeah, but you were always too big for this place, Anj."

The sun begins a long descent from the sky and yet they keep talking. Before the night is through she tells him her plans to run away. That living at home is not in the cards anymore. He asks where she's running to.

She'll say, "Los Angeles"

He'll ask what's there for her and she says nothing, but she likes it that way.

Then she asks him to open his hand, and he does, and in it she places a tiny, metal airplane.

Shall I continue, friend?

Okay, picture this.

It'll be a long time before he hears from her again. Many years have gone by and on certain days he sometimes can't remember what she looks like. A call comes in the middle of the night, he answers, and is greeted with sobs.

"Hello?" he asks, but no answer just more crying.

Then, finally: "Anj?"

"Yes?"

"I'm in a bad way right now. I… I need you to come and get me."

He's in Boston at the time and after getting an address takes the next flight out to LA. The City of Angels. The city skyline is dotted with brilliant white lights. The rain has ceased to fall, and the night life was just beginning. Down on the streets, the wet pavement provides subtle noise beneath the feet of all who walk across it. It is an exciting, bustling time, but not for him.

He takes a cab to the address he had written down on a piece of paper. It's an old motel, deep in the valley. Palm trees adorn the glass sign that advertises the hotel and indicates that there is a vacancy. 

He stops in the motel office to inquire about a guest, but then it strikes him that he hasn't seen her in years, has no idea what she looks like anymore, how to even begin to describe her. So he tells the motel manager that he's looking for a young girl, around his age, and the manager says he's seen a lot of young girls come through tonight, but for an extra fifty bucks he'll divulge a little more.

Room 213.

He stands outside it. Breathing heavy. Shoulders hunched. He kicks the door open, and he's surprised by how easy it caves in. A large man, in a white tank top leaps from one of the double beds, the leap is more in surprise than anything.

The man tries to go for a snub nose that he has tucked in the waistband of his jeans, but he's too slow. Anj is fast. Always has been. He floods into the room and lands a kick that sends the man flying over the double bed and into the far wall.

He scours the room, looking… eyes moving… where is she?

The bathroom.

He goes there and finds her sitting on the toilet. Naked aside from her panties and the jeans around her ankles. She's slouched over. A needle hanging out of her arm. He kneels, grabs her by the head, it feels so light. A hand goes to her pulse…

Nothing.

He's too late.

Now, now do you understand?

I hope so.

Before you go, picture this.

He sits on a  plane, it's a red-eye flight from New Orleans to North Carolina. In three days he'll be in the main event. He has a lot to prove, but he's never backed down from a challenge before.

There's a lot of business to take care of in North Carolina.

Shane Carver.

Sarah Saint James.

He sits in the window seat staring out. He thinks about girls and how they tend to get lost in this world. How they desire so much, yet want very little. He thinks a lot about bad choices.

He thinks about Sarah Saint James calling him a talentless, polished turd and realizes that she doesn't get it. That she doesn't have what it takes. In the "sport" of professional wrestling you either have it or you fade into the sunset and Saint James' time had already passed.

When he got to the arena he'd meet up with Sayors or Weinberg and he'd tell them what everyone else already knew. Saint James was flawed. That there was no road to glory for her to walk.

He thinks about evolution. Then he realizes that Sarah knows nothing about him. The type of man that he is. He'll ask Sayors what hope does Saint James have when confronted with these truths? What does the the Mighty Ms. James plan to do in the heat of competition? What plan does she fall back on when she's standing in the middle of the ring wondering if she hasn't made the biggest mistake of her life?

You have the right to be amazed?

He had the right to laugh. See what Saint James failed to realize was that he was a man of great discipline. On Saturday she would realize that. She would also realize the truth about herself.

She was not She-Hulk. 

She was not the most dangerous person -- let alone woman -- in the XWF.

She didn't have what it took.

She would never be Angelus. Because he was the whole damn show. And no matter how far ahead of the game she thought she was, he was always just one step further.