Truth and Suicide

"When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, 'Do you want to get well?'" (John 5:6).

***


AWOL points the remote at his television, turning off the exceedingly depressing “leaked” last will and testament of his opponent this week, Hurse. He slowly puts the remote down on his coffee table, turning in his chair towards the camera set up in his living room. The image is clearly being recorded by a home camcorder. The upper left of the screen has the red circle of a “record” flashing, while a timer in the bottom left slowly ticks away the seconds. At twenty seconds past initiation, he stares at the lens, opening his mouth to unleash one of his patented venomous tirades.

And then he stops, biting off his words just as quickly.

He sighs, shaking his head. Rethinking things apparently, he points an accusing finger at the screen at thirty five seconds, another fiery retort coming. And just as quickly he gets stuck, dropping the finger and rubbing the bridge of his nose in irritation. Finally, at forty seconds, he sighs, not even bothering to look at the camera this time.

AWOL- Christ, Hurse, what the fuck is your problem?

He grimaces at forty two seconds.

AWOL- I mean, I know what your problem is, or I guess I know what some of them are. Hell, you come up with new ones on a weekly basis and if you’re not doing it your love partners are doing it for you. But, seriously, could you be any more passive aggressive? Recording your will and testament because you volunteered to face me so I could kill you? Really? That’s what you’re going with? What are you, the fat chick that couldn’t make the cheerleading squad?

At one minute three seconds he gives a grim chuckle and looks up into the screen.
AWOL- This is hardly the first time you’ve tried this ploy, I would point out. I vividly remember rushing across town when you, Kingdom, and I were facing each other and some other scrubs in the Weapon’s Lair to try and take a gun out of your hands. Most people call that a cry for help, someone reaching out through threatening suicide to garner sympathy from the people around them. Essentially, they don’t feel like they can get help on their own, or that no one cares about them, and this is the only way to get the help they need. I should point out, at this point, that this is a strategy primarily employed by women, Hurse. While women are two to three times more likely to attempt suicide, men are by far more successful at it, something like eighty to ninety percent.

He leans forward conspiratorily to the lens.

AWOL- You’ll excuse the lecture. My head’s been filled with a lot of these statistics recently. For some reason people think I might want to kill myself.

This occurs at one minute twenty eight seconds.

AWOL- Anyway. So, as I was saying, people may think that this is a cry from help for you, another one, because of the grimness of your situation. It’s a mess, I’ll give it to you. One ex turns on you and takes away your title belt, in doing so joining forces with another one. Two of your exes in one group opposing you is sort of like a perfect storm, and I sympathize. I really do. I know how much you’re hurting right now, or at least as much as you seem to want us to believe you’re hurting. With you, no one can be sure that the emotions one typically associates with normal human beings apply, or whether you are actually capable of feeling anything besides scorn for your opponents and a need for self-pity. I know that when it happened to me, it felt like there was no tomorrow waiting. There was nothing to wake up for, no reason to get out of bed, no reason to keep going day after day in a world that had clearly turned its back on you. It’s no wonder people turn to suicide in situations like yours. Nothing looks sweeter than the barrel of a forty-five or a glock, polished up to a mirror finish and ready to be shoved to the back of your throat while you wrap your finger around the trigger, your last official act to fire a projectile that blows bone, blood, and brain matter against whatever wall or piece of furniture is unfortunate enough to be located behind you. You start to see opportunities everywhere. A beautiful view from a balcony is an opportunity to jump and end it all in one gore-drenched splatter on the pavement below, your body popping like a water balloon on the concrete. A bus driving down the street is an out of control projectile with no chance to stop if you can just work up the nerve to step in front of it, and maybe wave goodbye as it plows over you. All it takes is the will to do it, the force of strength to act and end it all, and the pain stops. There is no afterlife, no heaven or hell or limbo, so you can just end it all and not have to feel the pain any longer. So yeah, Hurse, I get it. I get why you would say you want me to kill you in the ring on Riot! this Friday.

He leans back in his char, two minutes twelve seconds ticking off the counter.

AWOL- The problem is, Hurse, you and I and, I like to think, the majority of the viewing population know that its bullshit. You’re really going to off yourself because you lost some chick you’ve been married too for a matter of weeks and who, from what I’ve seen, was impressed by you taking her to Red Lobster? That’s what pushed you over the edge? Or, no, maybe it was the loss of your glorious mid-card belt that finally broke the camel’s back. Or, no, I get it now. Clearly what’s finally brought you to your lowest point, the event that has left you in the no-win scenario with no chance of ever improving your circumstances, is the staggering odds of having to face the wrath of the Brat Pack week in and week out. I mean, come on, there’s five chicks and Jackson Adams in that stable. Who wouldn’t be terrified?

At two minutes forty seven he gives a derisive snort.

AWOL- No, this isn’t a real suicide attempt. This isn’t even a cry for help. It’s a cry for attention. Poor Steven, his life’s a wreck. His TV wife left him and now he’s got a busted up wing and a group of PMSing women who are out to get him, or at least, you know, write nasty things on the mirror of his dressing room with lipstick. Quick, everyone drop what you’re doing and feel sorry for poor Mr. Parkwood. Clearly, his sob story is the most tragic thing to happen here in the IWC. And maybe, just maybe, if we shed enough tears for him, and pray, and cheer loud enough for him at Riot! he’ll find the will to live and overcome the odds against the big, nasty AWOL so he can go fight the good fight once again! And what a story it’ll be, comeback of the year, as Hurse drags himself up from the bottom to regain what was taken from him. Pfft. It’s almost too ridiculous for words.

He pauses at three minutes twenty four, reaching around on the side of his chair and coming up with an old picture frame. In the middle of it stands Hurse, soaked in sweat and blood, standing at the base of a steel cage with the ULW world heavyweight title lifted triumphantly over his head.

AWOL- Do you remember this guy, Hurse? Because I do, and that’s what really pisses me off about all of this. You used to be somebody. For one shining moment in the rest of your miserable, pathetic fucking life you put your own self-imposed limitations aside and rose to the highest point in this company. You went into the Lair with five other competitors. You survived me throwing your ass off the top of the second cell. Hell, you pulled the fucking world title literally out of the grip of Johnny Kingdom, probably the greatest and most accomplished champion either federation has ever known, and you did it on the highest stage in the company. For that bright, shining moment you were the star that everyone saw the potential for you to be. You had it made, man. You had the fucking world on a plate, and now look at you. You’re wasting away in the mid-card, embroiling yourself in feuds with people that are so far below you that they’re barely worth mentioning, and now you want to give up? Now you want us to believe that you’re ready to pack it in and call it a day? Please. Don’t make me laugh. The Brat Pack is maybe the most ridiculous heel stable I’ve seen in my entire career. Robin Brooks is the best wrestler they have. I’m going to repeat that so you understand the full meaning of what I’m saying. Robin Brooks, the running joke, the town bicycle, is their best wrestler. Everyone else would barely qualify for a participation award at a high school wrestling meet, and you’re going to throw in the towel? I could break them apart in a month without even trying, and I know that if you would just fucking get over yourself you could do the same. It’s really just pathetic when you get right down to it.

He stands up, the top of his head barely framed in the shot.

AWOL- So no, Hurse, I’m not going to kill you. You’re not worth the time and paperwork to be honest. I’m just going to go out to the ring and beat you, simple as that, same as I’ve done every other time we’ve been matched up one on one. Hell, all those other times I did it when you had both arms working, this shouldn’t even take more than a few minutes, which is fine with me. Matter of fact, why don’t you save us both some time and just not show up. That would fit this new “Woe is Me” image you’re portraying pretty well, I would say. Maybe the camera guys could even cut to the back to find you crying in your locker room, too depressed to go on. That would generate some real sympathy, Steven, and we all know that’s what you’re really going for here. And hell, any night I can get a bonus for a win without even having to break a sweat, I’m a happy man.

He flashes an unpleasant smile at the camera before flipping it off, just as the camera passes four minutes thirty seven.