Life’s full of its little ironies. The person that drew CJ Wylde’s blood pre-match was the same one cleaning blood off of him now.

The bottom is different for everyone, this we already knew. CJ Wylde just happened to find his bottom in a small room, at the end of a dimly lit and narrow hallway. CJ found himself waking up within that small darkened room nestled in the back of the Rodgers Centre with the immediate realization of what had just happened moments prior. Hands shaking, he looked down to note that he was coated a soft crimson, looking much like a one-man murder scene. A quick self-check determined that there was no gash to be found anywhere on the back of his head, where the pain was, just a nasty bump where scalp came in contact with an exposed top turnbuckle after a nasty top rope Fall of Eden…

Coming to like this was akin to a nightmare, one where you wake up in a straight jacket while suspended upside-down in a glass box filled to the brim with water. There’s no visible way out of this Houdini-conceived torture device and a whole theater of spectators are surrounding you watching you drown. It’s a slow, terrifying, and painful death. It’s humiliating, it’s humbling. It lets you know exactly where you stand in the world – especially among the people in it.

Wylde’s only audience at the moment now was the UGWC trainer tasked with cleaning him up. Beyond him, there were shadows, and beyond those, the whisper-like resonances of fans that were attendance now leaving the arena permeating quietly the cinder block walls, the sure articles of tomorrow’s 410 Wrestling and whatever other news outlet that wished to comment on how great Eden Morgan was while in the same breath denouncing CJ Wylde. It was over, it was finished, it was done. One can only suck in so much water before their lungs tap out.

The blood covering him was the last bit of warmth that his skin would feel; winter’s chill was sure to set in. He knew this because everything in life had a cycle; a circle. And in CJ’s life’s circle, life had come full stop…

CJ knew that he had, indeed, been broken on the wheel.

“This may sting a little…” The trainer said, the calm that resides in the center of every great storm. He had treated patients with lacerations like these at least a thousand times, if not more. CJ Wylde would be no different, just like Eden was a hundred times… Like Donovan Hastings a hundred more… like Mil Vidas… Like both Travii’… and all four parts of the Engine…

The trainer touched the gauze to the back of CJ’s head, burying it deep into his scalp. It soaked up more blood that way. The sooner he finished up here, the sooner he could go home.

“Oh yeah,” he remarked, “That’s one hell of a bump you’ve got there.”

Wylde wasn’t interested in the bump.

The gauze dug deeper, seemingly erasing the blood that it had swiped. One gauze pad gave way to two, and two to three, and three to five. A little bit of history, a little bit of comfort on each pad. A small trash receptacle with a red plastic bag caught the blood soaked gauze that the trainer haphazardly tossed aside. He hit the mark most times… 

With each passing stroke, more of Eden’s blood disappeared. With each passing stroke, more of CJ’s skin was exposed to the comparatively chilly Canadian air.

The air seemed to make his skin boil, he knew this because he felt it. He felt it bubbling up; felt the blood that belonged to her covering him as the only protection to the elements of this harsh environment. Failure was distilled in the air and every passing stroke further stripped him of what little pride that he had left to cling to. Every passing stroke stripped him further of his hubris and dragged him further away from the beautiful and perfect garden that he once called his home.

Every passing stroke made him feel that much more naked. It was then that he realized that the trainer was undressing him, slowly. He knew it because he felt it.

“Hmm. I don’t see a cut anywhere.” His continual swipes felt more and more like gritty sandpaper with each passing stroke. More and more it not only exposed him, his weaknesses, his lies; it stripped him of manhood and dignity, of his self and of his sense of self. “I don’t think this blood is yours.”

A twinge. Did he strike a nerve? A rough spot? Did he find the hidden gash?

No, CJ Wylde felt like he was being raped.

“Don’t touch me!” CJ screamed all at once.

Then the back of the trainer’s head smashed into the hard cinder block wall…

The Thirteen Steps Saga
Step 4

“Broken on the Wheel”

Where am I?

Am I dead?

No

You just wish you were

*    *    * 

[Date Unknown – Time Unknown – Location Unknown – Present Company Unknown]

“What is this, Grandma?”

The old woman knelt over with that familiar hunch in her back. She was frail, ghost-white in her hair and clouds in her eyes. Despite growing ever nearer of the end of her years (and the reminder of it with every glimpse the mirror) she still somehow managed to take joy in the simple pleasures in life. Warm sunshine. A home-cooked meal. Somebody guessing close enough to, but not going over, the actual retail price of the showcase showdown. But here and now it was her favorite simple joy of them all: a chance to teach one of her grand-kids.

Spectacles adjusted, she scanned the surface of the thin glass before her, not quite sure why the boy would be pointing at the face of a cabinet. In this light, after a few moments, her eyes would adjust and she would see the true item that her grandson was curious about. 

“Oh that, dear?” She’d murmur lovingly, straining for each breath as she had become so accustomed to doing. “That’s a plate.”

“A plate?” The naive child would reply questioningly, “Like the ones you eat on?”

“Yes, yes…” She said with a laugh. “Exactly like the ones you eat on.”

“Then why are there so many cracks in it?”

“Cracks?” The loving mother of his mother would respond. “That’s because the plate has been broken, dear.”

“Broken?”

“Somebody must’ve taken the time to fix it all back up.”

*    *    * 

If I’m not dead, then where am I?

What is this place?

A vision of darkness was his infinite prison. The sound of silence permeated everything.

We call it ‘The Median’

It rests between

Rests between what?

A familiar voice. No voice at all.

Deafening silence. Without a pulse.

Worlds

What worlds?

Questions, questions

So many, questions

You didn’t come here to ask questions

You came here for answers

I didn’t…

Don’t remember coming here.

Wasn’t that your blood on your hands?

No, it was Eden’s.

I’m not talking about that

*    *    * 

[May 13th, 2017  – Time Unknown – The Wylde Residence – Trophy Room]

A vision. Lucy Wylde sitting among the broken glass of the trophy room, as if viewing her through a grainy lens. She grins like a devil with her back against the grand case – the one where all of the Wyldes World Championship replicas are kept. Every glass case surrounding her in the room has been broken, but this case is the only one where a belt has been removed. There Lucy sits at the base of the case with the OWF World Heavyweight Championship belt draped over her shoulder. Bloodstains cover the main plate.

What’s going on here?

What’s wrong with her?

She’s grown weary, CJ

Don’t you understand what you’ve done to her

Like an omnipresent vapor, CJ Wylde watches on. Lucy’s arms cradle the OWF World Championship, a belt that she had never won. He knew that it wasn’t that she was not capable – she had her own World Championships still perched in the broken case above. Like most things in life, it was simply just a matter of timing.

But it never made anyone think or feel any less of her. Not CJ, and not herself. It was just a thing, if the OWF were still around today, there’s a good chance that Lucy Wylde, not CJ Wylde, would be it’s champion. And for good reason- and to a well deserved person, too.

None of these things meant anything at this moment. None of the logic was a clue. CJ didn’t understand why…

As Lucy’s wrists turned skyward, they were sliced like game of tic-tac-toe. X’s and O’s, proverbial hugs and kisses, up the road and across the street. Lucy’s life essence sprayed and sprayed and sprayed – and all she could do was… laugh.

Soon the sleep would take over. Soon the eternal nightfall would come, and she could rest.

No, no, no, NO!!!

Can’t you see what you’ve done

I didn’t do this to her!

It isn’t what you’ve done, CJ

It’s what you said

[Date Unknown – Time Unknown – Location Unknown – Present Company Unknown]

“Can we eat off of it, Grandma?”

The innocence in the child’s voice was more than she could bear. She couldn’t help but laugh; the healthy kind of chuckle, though she knew in the ears of her child’s child that he would feel embarrassed and shameful.

“No, no,” She replied with a grin. “But don’t you worry none. That’s what other plates are for.”

But the child couldn’t understand.

The plate in the cupboard was unique as it was ornate. A fifteenth century piece of fine china, blue and white porcelain with a myriad of depictions from a multitude of flower pedals with a hearty dragon whirling along the sides. The only thing wrong with it were the spider vein like cracks that ran all throughout its face – at some time the plate had been completely shattered, probably disintegrated beyond natural belief.

“If it’s not to eat on, then why have it?”

“It’s very pretty,” the wise old woman replied.

“Even though it’s been broken before?”

The woman chuckled once more.

“Yes, child,” She replied, wondering if the plate was even more beautiful now that it had been restored. “Even though it has been broken before.”

*    *    * 

[May 13th, 2017  – Time Unknown – The Wylde Residence – Trophy Room]

Look again

Who is it that you see on that Trophy Room floor

Like the fog lifting; like pulling the covers back away from one’s eyes. CJ Wylde watched intently as his wife Lucy looked back up at him, grinning wide – from ear to sinful ear. As the fuzziness faded from his head the light bulbs began to flicker, and the scene began to fade. Upon reopening one’s eyes, CJ saw himself sitting with his back against that cabinet. The OWF World Championship cradled in his arms like a baby. It’s face plate covered in blood.

A set of emblazoned emerald green eyes peered from the darkest corner of the room; a fire that lit its surroundings in green hues.

‘I’ll ask you once more,’ the Shadow emerged. ‘Whose blood is on your hands?’

CJ looked down to find a particularly sharp piece of glass in his own hand.

‘Is it yours?’

My grandmother died before I was born.

Never got the chance to meet her, even if just to say hello.

If I did meet her, though, I’d like to think that she’d comfort me. I’d like to think that she’d pick me up from the dirt. Scuffed knee? No problem. Not for her. She’d seen it all, been through more. Came from an era where some of her brothers and sisters died from things like measles and cholera. Came from a time where Depression meant breadlines and dirty water. Not this bullshit that I’m ‘going through’ now.

Down at the end of a darkened hallway I realized something. I realized something important to me; something vital that I wish to share. For once it’s not about Synergy, it’s not about getting back at Eden Morgan. It’s not about the vicious ‘clapbacks’ that I’m gonna hear, or those I come up with, on the internet sensation that we call Twitter. It’s not about UGWC, OWF, CWA or Joe’s WrestleBarn.

It’s simply about me. About the man that I’ve been, and how it’s not been the man who I am.

Now for those of you that are changing the channel (or if you’re watching the UGWC Promo channel on your personal PC – clicking away) I understand that the topic of discussion is not that interesting. I promise that I won’t hesitate, I plan to make it brief, and should I divert into something that neighbors anything close to the borderline of boring, heaven forbid I’d implore you to turn away. With that being said, I kindly and humbly ask for just a moment of your time. Just hear me out for a little while because tomorrow isn’t just my birthday. Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.

And for this Mother’s day I’d like to dedicate this to both my grandmothers. Both the one I knew and the one I’ve never met.

Grandmoms, tomorrow is for you.

At the end of a darkened hallway I found that who I was wasn’t who I am. I found myself soaked in Eden Morgan’s blood.

Was I happy? Was I content? Should have I been? It’s what I wanted – isn’t it? I said before the match that I didn’t really care about the UGWC World Championship. But didn’t missing out on it twice in four months make me at least want to have it a little more? Maybe even – a lot more?

And if I truly want to be UGWC World Champion so bad, why wouldn’t I just say it? Why did I have to run down the championship, the champion, the company who prizes it, and most importantly, the only person in this world that means anything to me – my wife Lucy?

Because that wasn’t me.

It’s not me. It’s not who I am, it’s not who I pride myself on being. It just isn’t. I can’t explain why. Was it pride? Was it greed? Was it selfishness? Arrogance? Tell me? Which one of the seven deadly sins am I guilty of the most? Am I guilty of them all? Of course I am. I am CJ Wylde, and CJ Wylde sins, but I am not CJ Wylde’s sins. 

I am just CJ Wylde. And I sinned. 

What I’m left with, are these shattered pieces.

One day a man broke a centuries old plate, a ceramic plate that was originally crafted in the fifteen century. As the story goes, this piece of china was virtually priceless. It’s owner, a woman, shrieked in horror the moment she heard it shattering – even from the other room she knew – as she heard it break on the dining room floor. 

The man, her husband, broke the plate. Careless, clumsy, purposeful. She could never really know. He claimed that he didn’t mean to knock it over, and that he was sorry that it fell. His story changed nothing. His apology changed nothing.

The woman, enraged, whisked him away as her eyes swelled with tears. It was never that she didn’t want to see him again, but he did feel that way. How careless, how cold. How fucking stupid. Oh how the man wished that he could just turn back time to stop himself from breaking the plate. Oh how foolish it is to waste time wishing, too.

Eventually the man did what only he could do. He gathered the shattered remains of the plate, being more careful than he had ever known himself to be. He gathered up each shard, each sharp edge, gathered the tiniest bits with broom and pan; and then he set out on the task to piece the plate back together.

How long? It is rumored that it took weeks, months, maybe years. The nature of the brake meant more and more pieces to try to fit. Every sharp edge cut his fingertips until he became too calloused to feel himself bleed. Half of the pieces that he was able to glue needed to be reglued and some of those reglued again and again.

What he was left with was a plate, unusable to most standards. A wiry mess – more like a shell of its former self. With a squint and a faint memory one could briefly depict the original design in one’s mind’s eye… that is if one could get past the litany of visible cracks, that is.

However long it took, however careful he needed to be, that man devoted that time and that patience towards completing his goal. Upon completion, he presented the fixed plate, bearing cracks, glue and all, to his estranged wife who had never quite forgiven his clumsiness that day.

And what she saw was beautiful.

It was more beautiful than the plate had ever been – in her eyes at least. It had turned into something that was beyond its original art; it had trans-mutated into something much much more. 

It had become a visual representation of that man’s dedication, his passion, his desire, and love.

Of his strength, and suffering, and willingness to do whatever it took to rectify his mistake; no matter how long that rectifying might take. 

That is where I’m at now.

I’m the man sitting at the base of these broken cases. Her broken plate.

She loved the plate, but not as much as she loved me. But I accused her, I’m the one who broke things. I’m the one who said something hurtful, I’m the one who hurled the first stone. Did Eden Morgan beat me? Yeah. She fuckin’ did. Congratulations to her, I hope she’s happy, truly. But all I’ve got to say for her is that there is no breaking CJ Wylde upon the Wheel – CJ Wylde had already been broken.

I’ve been broken for far too long. I’ve been the shattered glass, I’ve been the broken bone.

The one thing that I’ve never done is try, truly try, to pick up the pieces of my life. Let them show, let the light shine through. I’ve never tasted my own defeat, I’ve never touched a dab of glue. For once, I need to let my own advice guide me. I need to let my losses teach me how to truly win. And in this case, where I want to truly win.

I can’t force Lucy to come back to me, but I can damn sure keep myself from slicing my own wrists. If you want real, then you’ve got it. My heart and my soul are two shattered things lying on the floor. Care to go for three, care to go for four?

My body is broken, too. Come at me, Gabriel Montgomery. I’m a beaten man already; I’m thirty-six… a few hours away from thirty-seven. I can’t take the medicine that I need in the quantity that I need it, therefore my body has struggled to heal from the hellish ordeal that Seven Deadly Sins put it through. I’m at my weakest that I’ve ever been, but like a fool that won’t stop me from going out there to try to right the path. To work once more towards that seemingly ever-fleeting goal of one day becoming UGWC World Champion. The only solace that I’ve got is now, at least, this time I want it. And this time, I know what to do that I’ve never done before.

So please, Montgomery. Beat me. It’s Mother’s day, consider it a gift, if you’d please. Hey, I didn’t watch your leaked porno tape – and quite frankly I think it’s cool that you and Ben are thinking about suing the shit out of this place. Hell, I might even go that route myself – who knows. But hey, you deserve it. You’ve been through enough to try to prove yourself here… you know that you’ve paid your dues. Don’t feel sorry for me, not one bit. Put me through the wringer, if you have to. Walk on me just like I did when you and I fought each other at Rise or Fall.

But please, don’t think I did that out of spite. It wasn’t a metaphor, and that’s not how I feel people should treat you. Fuck Eden Morgan, as far as her words go they mean nothing to me. I simply did what I had to do to win, and that’s nothing that neither of us shouldn’t expect out of the other. Our match at Synergy will be no different. I will do what it takes to win – but if I don’t – oh well.

My victory is somewhere, but it isn’t here. It’s not with you, and perhaps, it’s not with Eden Morgan, either.

Perhaps it’s a day, a far away day – one a long time from now where I can present my broken plate

Full of cracks and of glue.

Will she love me again?

I hope changes come.