It was a Wednesday

Shine bright once more
Guide me to you
Smile bright once more
This time I will never let you go

 

*     *     *

 

“It’s about time you’ve returned.”

At the time of his comment, CJ Wylde had known that he was already dead. 

The husk of a man once known throughout the professional wrestling industry, and the world, by many different titles – champion, husband, professional wrestler, and yes, even failure – was now nothing more than loose skin appearing draped over frail bone structures. Lying narrow and flat, he was in a hospital bed and hooked up to machines through a series of wires and tubes, recording his vitals and feeding him nutrients, saline, and the precious purified oxygen he now needed just to continue the struggle to survive. 

Tucked carefully beneath a grey cotton sheet, he’d spend his final moments in his study-turned-hospice, surrounded by the works of literature he had amassed and cataloged in his lifetime, between the large mahogany bookshelves – where they’ve since been collecting dust. Ghostly-white hairs riddled what was once his bushy red beard and about half of the medium-length hair resting on the pillow beneath his head. His old wrestling scars and the wrinkles of an old man twice his age somehow did little to undermine that unmistakable CJ Wylde face, and, just for a moment, his eyelids opened just enough to reveal his faded, dry hazel eyes hidden beneath. 

They opened to the sight of destiny. 

“…I was wondering when you’d come…”

He coughed through each word.

“…beginning to wonder… if you were ever going to come at all…”

CJ tilted his head forward to meet the gaze of a figure standing mere inches away from the foot-board, casting her shadow over him. 

Her chilly silver hair swayed in the artificial airflow of CJ’s bedside fan. She loomed large over him despite her overall slight stature and particularly dainty frame. She loomed like death. As she stood her eyes scanned over every crack and crevice of what was left of Lucy Wylde’s first true love… what was left of the once-proud Wylde family legacy. 

In a certain way, what she peered upon, too, was the sight of destiny, fate, and inevitability. 

But she peered down at him with absolutely no expression on her face, because she had no face. 

What she had… was a cold iron mask.

CJ chuckled, as best he could for a man with compromised lungs, and a deteriorating body. He lowered his head back down onto the pillow, sighed, and closed his eyes. 

“…go on. You know what you have to do.”

 

*     *     *

 

If you knew that you didn’t have too much longer left to live, would your thoughts turn toward your legacy?

Beebeep… Beebeep…. Beebeep

Two months ago, give or take a few days, CJ woke to the sound of his own heart, amplified through the heart rate monitor. Agitated, unable to silence the machine himself, he yelled for his caretaker.

“Morrie… Morrie!”

A middle-aged man with average height, average build, registered nurse Gary Morrison sprinted to the room.

CJ’s live-in caretaker frequently wore khaki pants and a tucked-in button down shirt, always wanting to keep up the appearance of professionalism despite the patient’s best attempts at getting him to dress more casually. On top of ever keeping up on CJ’s at-current medical status, he also kept most of CJ’s affairs in order, as well as the minor things the house needed: grocery shopping, cleaning, making sure the flowerbeds were watered and the lawns stayed trimmed.

“Yes, Mister Wylde?”

“That fucking machine,” CJ blurted out. “I thought I told you never to have the sound on-”

“Well, excuse me,” Morrison replied as he moved toward the monitor to silence its sound. “It makes it extremely difficult to make your breakfast and to make sure you don’t kick off before said breakfast if I can’t actually hear your heartbeat from the kitchen.”

CJ scoffed.

“Trust me, if my heart stops beating, I’ll be the first to know… wouldn’tcha think?”

“Well, Somebody’s just a wee bit cranky.” Morrie added. “I’m guessing you didn’t sleep well last night-”

“Of course I didn’t sleep well last night. I don’t sleep well any night anymore.”

“Not lately, no.” Morrie sighed. “You haven’t slept well since-”

“I know, I know, before you even fucking say it… ”

“You say you know, but yet you insist-”

“Of course I fucking insist.” CJ snapped back. “I mean, come on. Look at me. Do I honestly look like the type of person who… has a history of making good decisions?”

“Well you hired me, so… No comment.”

“Ahh. Pleading the fifth.” CJ coughed. “That’s a smart move, Morrie… except for one minor detail-”

“Which would be?”

“The implication of guilt.” 

CJ smirked at Morrie with a glimmer of happiness in his eyes. CJ loved to analyze everything and dissect information whether he could gather it. He also always loved to play games, of which, sarcasm was his favorite.

Morrie sensed this. He rolled his eyes and the bedridden man and shook his head, dismissing him.

“You lost me there, Mister Wylde. You aren’t dead yet, so I must be doing something right.”

“I’ve been dying for so long Morrie, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel alive.” 

A hushed silence fell over them. 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Morrie finally said in reply.

“Yeah, I know. I get it. As long as that damn machine’s still beeping, right? Steady job, steady checks. If I kick the bucket, it doesn’t look too good on your resume now does it?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Morrie shot back, sarcastically. “How did you know? Not only did I not want you to die right after I moved in but I was also hoping you’d still be around so that for my next job I could still use you as a character-reference.”

CJ chuckled. “Post-mortem, Morrie. That’s the only way you’re ever gonna get rid of me.” 

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Sorry.” CJ smirked. “But if it makes you feel any better I’ll just have your reference added to  the very bottom of my epitaph: ‘yada yada… beloved somebody and reviled nobody… yada yada oh and also Morrie was an alright caretaker all the way till the bitter end’.”

Morrie smirked back. 

“Oh really? Well I’m honored that you’d make that consideration – to label me as just an ‘alright’ caretaker to you for immortality – to have it etched in stone at your grave.”

“Well maybe not etched per se. Maybe just a little plaque… or a post-it note. Or I could still have it etched, but in just, really, really fine print.”

“I see. If that’s how you feel… I guess you must not want breakfast then.”

“No no, I want breakfast.” 

Morrie smirked at CJ’s quick turnaround. 

“But if you don’t mind, could you hand me the remote as well?”

Morrie nodded his head cautiously. He picked up the remote from the bedside table but was a bit cautious into handing it over right away.

“Why? So you can obsess over all of the perceived failures of your life for the, what, nine-millionth time?”

“Ten-millionth actually. So how about you just uhh… give me the damn remote and go on about your merry way?”

“Here. Take it.” Morrie tossed it down on the bed next to CJ’s right hand. “I sure as hell wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do with it.”

He turned and went to leave the room before the situation escalated; quickly as it had frequently in the relatively short-time that they had spent together getting to know one another. 

“Morrie, wait-”

“What?” He turned in the doorway, glancing back at CJ. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just… She got hurt again last night and I-”

“Oh-” Morrie sighed. “Again? It seems like she has just the worst streak of luck huh? It seems like every week it’s something new with her.”

“Must be a Wylde thing.”

“Ugh. How bad is it this time?”

“Unsure,” CJ replied softly. “That’s why I needed the remote. I was… hoping to find out.”

 

*     *     *

 

What would you do if you were suddenly unable to move?

How would you see yourself moving forward in life if there truly wasn’t much life left to live? Surely, all of our days are numbered, and in such a way that not even someone in CJ’s position could truly know how many more they would have left to endure. But being bedridden, a prisoner in a body that he could barely feel and relying solely on machines and the help of others to survive, CJ felt as though his final days were a burden. At this point he was just waiting to die, and the most tragic part of being mostly paralyzed was that he couldn’t even take his own life even if he wanted to. 

Ever since the post-match attack; the one that shaped what his final days would consist of, CJ suffered from the effects of a spinal-contusion that, at first, left him motionless from the neck down. Over time, extensive physical therapy, surgeries and other courses of treatment, he was able to regain some sense of feeling in his arms; yet by that time atrophy had already taken its toll. Still, it was a joyous occasion just to be able to eat on his own again. To scratch his own chin. To feel, even if just barely, how long he had allowed his beard to grow out. 

Truly, it was a lot to process. Even now, CJ Wylde couldn’t tell you if the reality of that day in a UGWC ring has fully set in. The most crippling part of the entire ordeal was that CJ was on the back-nine of his professional wrestling career. Sure, one wrong move in the ring – it doesn’t matter if it’s your debut match or your retirement – doesn’t really matter when or where, things can and sometimes do happen that can never be taken back. Every wrestler knows that. But with the end in sight, CJ had one eye on the finish-line and one eye on life beyond the ring. Cementing a legacy and building up the foundation to retirement all came crashing down on the day that he was driven head-first through a table and the subsequent concrete floor below. 

Since that moment, CJ Wylde has had no say on his legacy. Instead of burning out or fading away, CJ just… disappeared. 

How would you come to terms with an existence where you barely existed at all?

 

*     *     *

 

“…go on. You know what you have to do.”

CJ had waited for this moment for quite some time, and yes, he was nervous. Even the girl stalking him, shrouding him with her shadow could see his heart rate climb on the monitor display. He wasn’t sure how she’d do it, but he was confident. Confident enough to resist every urge in his body for self-preservation – he just wanted to relax. Things would be better this way… and above all else… absolutely nothing would change. 

The woman in the iron mask inched closer. Head tilted, she continued to scan him and his condition almost in a reflexive way, the same as we’d slow down to bare witness to the aftermath of a violent automobile collision, or so I’d presume. She passed the footboard on the left side, CJ’s right, to see the television remote lying next to his hand. 

Moments passed, and CJ’s nervousness grew into full-fledged anxiety.

“If you’re waiting to see something different out of me, I can assure you that you’re wasting your time.” He uttered, and then coughed. “I am, nor do I have the ability to become…”

“…afraid?” 

Her first word uttered so softly, so succinctly, from behind that mask. 

CJ grinned.

“So you do understand.”

The woman turned her head down and shook it.

“Splendid. Then don’t let me stop you.” He urged. “You’re here now, that’s all that matters. You’ve already done the hardest part… you’ve already taken your first step.” 

“Why?”

CJ opened his eyes to see the girl kneeling at his bedside. 

“Why? What do you mean, why?”

“I don’t…” She muttered. “Don’t… understand.”

“Don’t understand what exactly? Why I chose you?” CJ asked. “Of all the things… I thought that part was the most obvious.”

No response. CJ was growing agitated.

“I chose you because I believe in you. I chose you because… hell… I knew that you’d understand the significance of it. And that’s who you are, isn’t it? Or at least… that’s who you used to be.” 

The girl remained silent, motionless, on one-knee at CJ’s side.

“You used to be the self-proclaimed artist. All I’m asking you is to see the art in all of this. That’s not too much to ask, now is it? I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t think that you wouldn’t get this… that you wouldn’t understand… and deep down inside, I still think that you do understand everything that I hope to accomplish perfectly. Now whether you just haven’t thought about it long enough or maybe your mind is not allowing you to see the bigger picture isn’t for me to assess. You’ll figure it out on your own, I know you can, and more importantly than that, I truly believe that you will. But either way, it’s no excuse for you to quit now. So I say again: You put on the mask… So you know what you have to do.”

“I do,” The silver-haired girl replied with a nod as she stood upright. She leaned over the bed and put her metal face right down into CJ’s and whispered: “But you also know what I need-”

Suddenly, she is silenced… from a thick, rigid blade of a kitchen knife is thrust to her throat from behind enough to scratch the surface of her skin and to even draw a bit of blood. 

“You move, you die,” Morrison said from behind a hospital-grade face mask as he used pressure on the sharp edge to bring the woman back to her feet, forcing her to back away from CJ. 

With what seems to be all of the might CJ had left, he barely lifted his right arm up off of the bed as if reaching out instinctively:

“No wait, don’t!”

 

*     *     *

 

Even before the paralysis, CJ Wylde struggled with health issues.

The end of his career was in plain sight, both due to the wear and tear that years of professional wrestling ravages a human body and from lung disease that had been contracted through no fault of his own. Steroids aided his ability to breathe normally but due to an unfortunate misdiagnosis in the early stages, certain damage to the tissues of the organ had already been done. But with that being said, CJ still had a few matches left in the tank, and was in great position to wrestle the famed Eden Morgan for yet another World Championship to add to his trophy room. To him it was an opportunity too good to pass up. 

The choices we make. The chances we take.

Tethered to a supply of concentrated oxygen, barely able to move. There was a certain irony about choosing to be surrounded by an entire library’s worth of knowledge, and yet, having a flat-screen tv installed right across from his bed. 

In the days, weeks, months that followed, CJ knew that he would inevitably retreat into his mind, perhaps the only thing he still had some control over; perhaps the only thing he had left. And yet, while there were many a man before him who overcame the obstacles and still somehow managed to provide to society, all Wylde wanted to do was to torture himself. He wanted to watch the one thing he had spent his entire life living so passionately for. He wanted to watch other people do that which he no longer could. 

He wanted to watch wrestling.

He watched every wrestling program that the cable package would offer; and streamed every other syndicated wrestling programming that the networks failed to provide. He watched in silence, from a sideline so far away that no one knew that he still existed. He watched Eden Morgan die. He watched JC carry a dead championship. He watched his ex-wife suffer… and suffer… and suffer… and suffer. 

He clenched his fist every time.

“So how’s Lucy doing?” became the thing that Morrie would ask every time he’d see CJ on a Tuesday morning, after each episode of Monday Night Chaos.

It was rarely – “She’s doing alright” or “Looks like she’ll finally get a shot at the (insert promotion name) World Title soon”. It was more like:

“JC hasn’t found her yet… I really hope she’s okay.” To: “Her sister damn near crushed her windpipe with that fucking cage-” and most recently: “That fucking Mia bitch tried to kill her with a fucking golf club, and she had the audacity to laugh about it!”

Morrie hoped for better endings. But he sighed each time they never came. 

“That’s terrible, CJ. I’m sorry.” Tuesdays weren’t the best of days anymore. “I wish there was something we could do… but unless you want to call Lucy herself and ask her to retire, I’m not sure what else can be done.”

Deep down, CJ knew that even if he had picked up the phone, he knew Lucy wouldn’t listen.

“I’m just so fucking sick of seeing her fight these battles alone…” CJ would often repeat with the exact same level of disappointment. “…I just wish I could-” 

But no amount of wishing ever made anything change.

 

*     *     *

 

What would it mean to you to have some effect, any effect, on anything?

Especially, to something… someone… that mattered to you?

Morrie was finding out first-hand how difficult it really is to keep someone at knife-point while also fumbling his phone while attempting to dial 9-1-1. 

The girl, for the most part, remained as still as Morrie’s shaking hands would allow her, and to her credit had not uttered a single syllable since feeling the steel pressed against her windpipe. 

“Listen, I don’t know how you got in here, or who the hell you think you are, but you picked the wrong person to try to mess with.”

“Morrie, for the love of God, put down the fucking knife-” CJ plead.

Morrie, still in shock from the surprise of seeing an intruder in the Wylde home, wasn’t able to adhere to the command.

“But CJ, what if she’s positive for COVID-19? Breathing in your face like that-”

“Oh shut the fuck up R-N-Morrison,” CJ snapped back. “She’s wearing a mask… what more do you want?”

“…”

“You’re the one holding the fucking knife Morrie- Seems like the biggest threat in here is you.”

Still shivering from the adrenaline rush, Morrie slowly and carefully began to pull the blade aside. But as soon as there was just a bit of clearance between the knife and her throat, the girl in the mask threw a palm strike right into Morrie’s wrist, causing the sharp instrument to go flying off into a corner of the room.

“Stop, stop!” CJ yelled, which then caused another coughing fit. 

The woman squared off in a defensive fighting stance, which kept Morrie pinned with his back against one of the bookshelves. 

Morrie clutched his wrist in pain. “God-damnit! I think she broke my-”

“Well, you were… the one… trying to… cut her head off-”

“I was not!”

“She’s bleeding… from her neck… that wasn’t… that’s not on you?”

“I told her not to move… shit!”

The masked woman didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t blink. She didn’t charge at Morrie but she didn’t back away from him, either.

“What the frick was I supposed to do? I leave for one second a-and I come back and there’s a… stranger in a metal mask who I thought broke into your house and was standing over your bed looking down at you menacingly-” 

“Oh cut the horseshit… I invited her here Morrie…”

“…and you didn’t once think it was a good idea to let me know that little tidbit first?” 

“I wasn’t sure that… she… was going to show up… in the first place!”

“If you invited her here then that’s all well and good, but what’s with the freaking mask?Why is your guest so keen on hiding her face?”

Who. What. Where. When. But the why always seems most important.

“But I’m not trying to hide anything.”

The girl lowered her fists. She stood upright. She raised her fingertips to the edge of the mask. She slid the iron away.

Morrie looked at her like he’s seen a ghost… perhaps two.

“I-I… I’ve seen your face before… I… I know you.”

 

*     *     *

 

“Breakfast time.”

It was a Wednesday morning. Morrie couldn’t point to it on a calendar, but he knew the Tuesday that came before it. 

“Not hungry.” CJ replied.

The TV was off. CJ was up but the TV was off. It was strange. Morrie shuffled in and placed the tray on the table at CJ’s bedside.

“Since when are you not hungry?”

CJ tried to shake his head.

“Not in the mood.”

“Well, come on, at least take a sip of your juice then. I don’t want you getting dehydrated. Keep this up and I’ll be feeding you through a tube.”

“I already breathe though a tube, piss through a tube, shit into a bag from a hole in my stomach connected to a tube. What’s the fucking difference with one more tube?”

Morrie wanted to help, but he could tell by the look on CJ’s face that even if he would put the straw up to CJ’s lips, there’s no way that he’d take a drink; he wasn’t in the mood. Morrie feared that the depression had finally taken hold.

“Bigger than you think.” Morrie sighed. “Like it or not, there are still things that you can do for yourself. But I can’t, and won’t, force you. If you change your mind, just call for me. I won’t be far. Plus, the remotes right here if you’d like to watch some wrestling… maybe that’ll cheer you up.”

Morrie passed the remote down to CJ’s hand. CJ just laid it beside himself on the bed.

“Okay then. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

But CJ didn’t answer. He just laid there in silence, looking angry.

Morrie had all but left the room before CJ finally decided to speak up.

“You know what? Fuck it. There is something that I’d like for you to do for me.”

“Oh really? You’re not going to ask me to pull the plug, now, are ya?”

“No. I’m being serious right now. Like, dead fucking serious-”

“Alright, alright. Fine. I’m all ears. What is it that you want me to do?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while… wondering if I should. But you’re right, you know? It’s really important, what I’m about to ask, so listen carefully. In my room, in the closet… there’s a little brown box beneath the clothes on the… uhh… right side I think.”

“…and you want me to go get it and bring it to you?”

“No, I want you to get it and let me see it for a moment before I have you take it to the post office. I’ll give you an address you can send it off to.”

“I thought you said you were being dead f’n serious right now.”

“I am.”

 

*     *     *

 

“I know you.” Morrie said, not even realizing that his eyes were now scanning her face. 

He had seen her before… but he couldn’t exactly place where from.

“The box… that package…  she was… who you… sent it to.” CJ replied breathy, trying best to diffuse the situation even at the risk of his own health.

Morrie rushed over to his bedside. He checked CJ’s vitals. He turned up the concentration of oxygen being ventilated into his lungs.

“Take deep breaths, okay?” Morrie pleaded. “Just relax. Nice calm natural breaths.”

The silver-hair woman approached the opposite side. Morrie glanced up at her, his eyebrows sank with disdain.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, lady. You need to leave.”

“No-” CJ gasped. “She needs to stay.”

“You know what I came here for.” She reiterated. “You know what I need.” 

CJ’s gaze fell down to his shirt pocket, and back up to the girl. 

He smiled.

“…and you know the only way I’ll give it to you, don’t you?”

The girl reached out her hand, but Morrie was quick to shield CJ, almost instinctively. 

“Look, I still don’t know what’s going on here and I don’t exactly like what I’m seeing. You shouldn’t get so close to my patient Miss- I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m-”

“Morrie,” CJ said, cutting her off before the big reveal. “I apologize I didn’t introduce you two sooner, but I’d like for you to meet… Jenova.” He said just as calmly as can be. 

“Jenova? What kind of pro-wrestling-esque, made-up stage name is that?”

“All names are made up, Morrie.”

CJ looked right into Jenova’s eyes.

“But that’s not what really matters. right?”