Post by Alexander Raven on Jul 19, 2023 6:10:58 GMT -5
Trust your Eyes
“No, there is no ‘The Raven’ here, stop fucking calling me.”
The Trials hadn’t started quite the way he would’ve liked. Not only did he fail to get the win, not only did he get pinned, but he got embarrassed. Losing was neither here nor there, but in this situation, he couldn’t afford a short step. He needed to be more aware. He needed to be…
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
The damn phone. For the last week it hadn’t stopped ringing. Flying in and out of places had been his only moments of peace. Times where he could turn the phone off. Why didn’t he just ignore the calls? He couldn’t ignore the calls because in his infinite wisdom, he had purged his contact list by accident, and needed to answer in case Luna called. Should he know his girlfriend’s phone number? Who knows.
“Alex speaking.”
“Is this really Alexander Raven?”
“Speaking. This better not be another fucking bird loving…”
“Leon Trucose is dead.”
The line went silent.
The world went silent.
They hung up, and Alex looked at the phone. Stared into it, looking at his call log. A private number. He could probably trace it back if he really wanted to give it a go, but…
“Leon’s dead?”
He was glad he was already sitting, because the world came rushing around him. Dizzy, suddenly ill. He’d put his search for his former missing friend on the back burner for a while now. Things were going well at home, and he’d rather have no jeopardised that. Was it even true? Was Leon dead? If he was, did James and Luna know this? Were they hiding it from him? Why where they hiding it from him? Why…
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
The phone ringing again. He stared at it, watched it ring and ring. Ring and ring, and then it cut. Went to voicemail. Left him to his own world.
“Thought you could get rid of me, did you?”
His mind had this funny little habit. It knew exactly when to start playing tricks on him. It knew exactly when to begin to mess with him. Make him doubt himself. Sitting at the small dining table, he knew the man across from him wasn’t real. He knew, because he was just told that.
“Leon.”
“Still seeing dead people, are we? Where’s daddy?”
Alex’s jaw tightened. He could feel those hands fall on his shoulder. The smell of bourbon heavy in the air. The laughter, the tightness. Leon sat across from him, and his dearly departed father had his hands on his shoulder.
“This isn’t real.”
“No, it’s not. But it is real to you, bird boy. That’s what matters.”
Red Street Light
A small laneway. Brightly coloured walls illuminated in a dull moonlight. The flicker of flames, a small pile of wood on the ground a sign of a makeshift firepit. Alexander Raven is standing in front of it, warming his outstretched hands on the small lapping flames. A sly smile sitting upon his lips, his eyes closed.
“I had been back in the ring maybe two to three months when I crossed paths with Matthew Knox. I’d been out of it for a long time, so the name meant nothing to me. Many people’s names had become main stays in my time away, but I hadn’t cared. I still don’t, really. Names are just that. Names. The people who are known, infamously or otherwise, are full of vanity. People who are selected, people who are chosen. Nobody gets to be a known name, unless they deem them their chosen ones. But, there was something different with Knox. He didn’t flaunt his attitude. He didn’t pretend to be something more than he was. He didn’t frown, or scoff at the virtual unknown. No Knox, he looked at me, and didn’t pretend to see through me. I respect, Matthew Knox. I respect him because he has always shown me that respect. Yet I know better than to assume anything of a person who associates with my birth bird.”
“I respect Knox enough to know that when the bell rings, when things get serious. Knox will be ready. A hurting father, a scorned beast. A man who takes himself almost as seriously as I do. Logically, I know that it was Knox who gave out my phone number. Playing mind games, but denying their reality. I know the simplicity of it. Yet, I cannot help but refuse the reality. Delusion makes me believe that this is far more in the lane of a layabout like LCP. Far more in the wheelhouse of a Catalina Cortes or Vhodka Black. No, it baffles me. It baffles me that Knox would play into the childish antics of messing with my mind. We’re all victims of wanting to be part of the joke, yet the joke stops being so at the expense of another’s reality. My reality, Knox. You spit upon my reality, and brandish the red flag.”
He breathes out heavily, opening his eyes. Bloodshot, speaking of a lack of sleep. The sly smile slips away, and melancholy replaces it as his overall expression. Staring into the flames, he slips his left hand into a pocket, drawing a cigarette and a small white lighter. White lighter to match his white slim fit jeans, the white plain tee and the pure white vans. White on white on white. He places the cigarette to his lips and ignites.
“Knox should know better. Maybe he wants to light the fire. Get the Alexander Raven who he threw into Santa’s sleigh, the fiery man who screamed at the top of his lungs. Called himself the Broken Messiah and the False Prophet. The delusional man who was so confident in his delusions that he refused to bend. That might be what you seek, Knox. I wonder, what does Pinkston seek? Chronically, I am ill-informed. Research, tapes, understanding. These things go a long way to prepare, but… I doubt my preparedness matters here. The Trials are more than just being prepared. No, before us sits a series of matches that demand peak performance. An array of talents far better than the one before them. Pinkston stands here, because he deserves to. They all deserve to, or at least. That is what I must convince myself of. If they deserve it, then I must deserve it. If they are the chosen of the Invisible Hands, then I too must be their chosen. Threatening to reveal them, they place obstacles in front of me. Have they warped Knox’s mind? Tricked him into following their ideology without even knowing it? I have to wonder. Is Pinkston another cog in their machine? An example of their own ineptitude. But no. I cannot have preconceptions of those who stand before me. In this, my eyes must be fresh.”
The deep inhale, the ember burning brightly. He takes a step, slowly beginning to pace around the small fire pit. The low wind whipping the flames and smoke upwards into the sky. He raises his hand, pulling the cigarette away from his lips, exhaling a plume of the off-white smoke. Flicking the ash into the fire, he holds that hand out over the flames. The fire flickering just beneath his fingers.
“Pinkston and I, will never get along. I know this. He reminds me too much of the fuckwads I’d kick out of the bar every week. Full of bravado and arrogance. At a dive bar, because the girls they were swooning with drinks, cigarettes and coke wanted to drink there. Loud and arrogant, full of confidence in themselves. Being escorted out every single Friday and Saturday night, because they got caught doing lines in the bathroom, again. Pinkston and I will never be friends, because he embodies that of which pushed me away from my passion. Pushed me out of my escape. Assholes who think the world revolves around them, but will deny it when you confront them with it. Ignorant of the truth of the world, living in their deluded and detached world. Mental alteration through medicinal application. There are choices we make. Pathways we can all take, and whilst the beginning of our journeys could have been identical, the paths we took after the crossroads, wildly different. The arrogant and mouthy petulant man-children deserve the pain that comes. Puerto Rico stands to be stained in our blood. The streets, Pinkston. I’m sure we both know them well. The only difference being, I have no qualms with what I must do. Born of abuse, the traumatised child relishes the freedom from the familiar beating.”
He drops the cigarette into the flames. Instantly being swallowed up. His eyes still focused on the leaping flames, lowering his hand a little. The fire dancing around his fingers and palms. The flesh turning pink as it continues to heat, beginning to burn.
“I promise you this. Pinkston and you too, Knox. I have no qualms with what I must do. I will not be embarrassed again. I’m so tired of stumbling. I’m so tired of being one step behind. I’m going to prove that there is a fucking reason that I was chosen. I will prove that there is a fucking reason that I get to main event twice. I am going to prove that I am the main fucking event. So I will not allow it. Puerto Rico will run red. There won’t be a fear of the mythical Chupacabra once we’re through. Oh no. Pinkston, Knox. I’ll be the fucking Chupacabra.”
He grunts, kicking at the ground. Kicking dust, dirt and muck over the flame. The flames struggling under the sudden blanket of filth, suffocating out. His hand remains held out over where the flames once were. Turning his palm upwards. In his palm, the flesh bright red, a single pink feather.
He flexes his fingers, and then crushes it, squeezing it. Red oozes from between his fingers, the crimson liquid dripping from his palm to the extinguished fire pit. Opening his hand he flicks it down. Splattering of the red, the feather no where to be seen. Smiling, he drags his palm across his chest. The white being smeared with the red, a streak of the handprint. A bloody handprint.
“I’ll paint the town red, and they. The Invisible Hands. They will not be able to save you.”
And then...
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
Lies of Omission
“Thought if you just stopped looking, stopped asking that I’d just go away? Not fucking likely, bird man.”
For Alex, this made little sense. He saw the ghosts of the dead, people his past. His father to torment him, his dead wife to remind him of his humanity. Leon may or may not be dead. He didn’t even know if the phone call could be trusted. Why would someone call and tell him? It didn’t make sense. Yet, there he was. Leon Trucose, just as he remembered him.
“You nearly killed Luna. Crashed the car, drove drunk. You’re a fucking idiot, and if you’re really dead. Then I’m sure there is a good reason for Luna and James not telling me.”
Leon laughed, a raucous thunder. The hands of his father tightened on his shoulders, his fingers edging towards his throat. Alex could feel the hands, the weight. Why where they so heavy?
“They’re all hiding something from you, Alex. Why are they hiding it exclusively from you? Why won’t they tell you the truth? I wonder, I wonder.”
His father’s hands, the rough, boxers fists. They were around his throat now. Tigthening around his windpipe. He could feel them choking him. He could feel them tightening and beginning to squeeze the life out of him. Why where the hands so heavy?
“Luna will tell me the truth.”
Leon smiled, and shook his head.
“You don’t believe that. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”
He gasped deeply, shooting upright. He was in bed, the world around him dark. Luna lay quietly next to him, her breath raising and lowering her chest beneath the sheets. He groaned, his own hand was gripping at his throat. Was he choking himself in his own dream? When did he go to sleep? He didn’t remember. Alex grabbed his phone, and opened the call log. The private number was there. The call was real.
Was Leon really dead?
“No, there is no ‘The Raven’ here, stop fucking calling me.”
The Trials hadn’t started quite the way he would’ve liked. Not only did he fail to get the win, not only did he get pinned, but he got embarrassed. Losing was neither here nor there, but in this situation, he couldn’t afford a short step. He needed to be more aware. He needed to be…
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
The damn phone. For the last week it hadn’t stopped ringing. Flying in and out of places had been his only moments of peace. Times where he could turn the phone off. Why didn’t he just ignore the calls? He couldn’t ignore the calls because in his infinite wisdom, he had purged his contact list by accident, and needed to answer in case Luna called. Should he know his girlfriend’s phone number? Who knows.
“Alex speaking.”
“Is this really Alexander Raven?”
“Speaking. This better not be another fucking bird loving…”
“Leon Trucose is dead.”
The line went silent.
The world went silent.
They hung up, and Alex looked at the phone. Stared into it, looking at his call log. A private number. He could probably trace it back if he really wanted to give it a go, but…
“Leon’s dead?”
He was glad he was already sitting, because the world came rushing around him. Dizzy, suddenly ill. He’d put his search for his former missing friend on the back burner for a while now. Things were going well at home, and he’d rather have no jeopardised that. Was it even true? Was Leon dead? If he was, did James and Luna know this? Were they hiding it from him? Why where they hiding it from him? Why…
Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.
The phone ringing again. He stared at it, watched it ring and ring. Ring and ring, and then it cut. Went to voicemail. Left him to his own world.
“Thought you could get rid of me, did you?”
His mind had this funny little habit. It knew exactly when to start playing tricks on him. It knew exactly when to begin to mess with him. Make him doubt himself. Sitting at the small dining table, he knew the man across from him wasn’t real. He knew, because he was just told that.
“Leon.”
“Still seeing dead people, are we? Where’s daddy?”
Alex’s jaw tightened. He could feel those hands fall on his shoulder. The smell of bourbon heavy in the air. The laughter, the tightness. Leon sat across from him, and his dearly departed father had his hands on his shoulder.
“This isn’t real.”
“No, it’s not. But it is real to you, bird boy. That’s what matters.”
Red Street Light
A small laneway. Brightly coloured walls illuminated in a dull moonlight. The flicker of flames, a small pile of wood on the ground a sign of a makeshift firepit. Alexander Raven is standing in front of it, warming his outstretched hands on the small lapping flames. A sly smile sitting upon his lips, his eyes closed.
“I had been back in the ring maybe two to three months when I crossed paths with Matthew Knox. I’d been out of it for a long time, so the name meant nothing to me. Many people’s names had become main stays in my time away, but I hadn’t cared. I still don’t, really. Names are just that. Names. The people who are known, infamously or otherwise, are full of vanity. People who are selected, people who are chosen. Nobody gets to be a known name, unless they deem them their chosen ones. But, there was something different with Knox. He didn’t flaunt his attitude. He didn’t pretend to be something more than he was. He didn’t frown, or scoff at the virtual unknown. No Knox, he looked at me, and didn’t pretend to see through me. I respect, Matthew Knox. I respect him because he has always shown me that respect. Yet I know better than to assume anything of a person who associates with my birth bird.”
“I respect Knox enough to know that when the bell rings, when things get serious. Knox will be ready. A hurting father, a scorned beast. A man who takes himself almost as seriously as I do. Logically, I know that it was Knox who gave out my phone number. Playing mind games, but denying their reality. I know the simplicity of it. Yet, I cannot help but refuse the reality. Delusion makes me believe that this is far more in the lane of a layabout like LCP. Far more in the wheelhouse of a Catalina Cortes or Vhodka Black. No, it baffles me. It baffles me that Knox would play into the childish antics of messing with my mind. We’re all victims of wanting to be part of the joke, yet the joke stops being so at the expense of another’s reality. My reality, Knox. You spit upon my reality, and brandish the red flag.”
He breathes out heavily, opening his eyes. Bloodshot, speaking of a lack of sleep. The sly smile slips away, and melancholy replaces it as his overall expression. Staring into the flames, he slips his left hand into a pocket, drawing a cigarette and a small white lighter. White lighter to match his white slim fit jeans, the white plain tee and the pure white vans. White on white on white. He places the cigarette to his lips and ignites.
“Knox should know better. Maybe he wants to light the fire. Get the Alexander Raven who he threw into Santa’s sleigh, the fiery man who screamed at the top of his lungs. Called himself the Broken Messiah and the False Prophet. The delusional man who was so confident in his delusions that he refused to bend. That might be what you seek, Knox. I wonder, what does Pinkston seek? Chronically, I am ill-informed. Research, tapes, understanding. These things go a long way to prepare, but… I doubt my preparedness matters here. The Trials are more than just being prepared. No, before us sits a series of matches that demand peak performance. An array of talents far better than the one before them. Pinkston stands here, because he deserves to. They all deserve to, or at least. That is what I must convince myself of. If they deserve it, then I must deserve it. If they are the chosen of the Invisible Hands, then I too must be their chosen. Threatening to reveal them, they place obstacles in front of me. Have they warped Knox’s mind? Tricked him into following their ideology without even knowing it? I have to wonder. Is Pinkston another cog in their machine? An example of their own ineptitude. But no. I cannot have preconceptions of those who stand before me. In this, my eyes must be fresh.”
The deep inhale, the ember burning brightly. He takes a step, slowly beginning to pace around the small fire pit. The low wind whipping the flames and smoke upwards into the sky. He raises his hand, pulling the cigarette away from his lips, exhaling a plume of the off-white smoke. Flicking the ash into the fire, he holds that hand out over the flames. The fire flickering just beneath his fingers.
“Pinkston and I, will never get along. I know this. He reminds me too much of the fuckwads I’d kick out of the bar every week. Full of bravado and arrogance. At a dive bar, because the girls they were swooning with drinks, cigarettes and coke wanted to drink there. Loud and arrogant, full of confidence in themselves. Being escorted out every single Friday and Saturday night, because they got caught doing lines in the bathroom, again. Pinkston and I will never be friends, because he embodies that of which pushed me away from my passion. Pushed me out of my escape. Assholes who think the world revolves around them, but will deny it when you confront them with it. Ignorant of the truth of the world, living in their deluded and detached world. Mental alteration through medicinal application. There are choices we make. Pathways we can all take, and whilst the beginning of our journeys could have been identical, the paths we took after the crossroads, wildly different. The arrogant and mouthy petulant man-children deserve the pain that comes. Puerto Rico stands to be stained in our blood. The streets, Pinkston. I’m sure we both know them well. The only difference being, I have no qualms with what I must do. Born of abuse, the traumatised child relishes the freedom from the familiar beating.”
He drops the cigarette into the flames. Instantly being swallowed up. His eyes still focused on the leaping flames, lowering his hand a little. The fire dancing around his fingers and palms. The flesh turning pink as it continues to heat, beginning to burn.
“I promise you this. Pinkston and you too, Knox. I have no qualms with what I must do. I will not be embarrassed again. I’m so tired of stumbling. I’m so tired of being one step behind. I’m going to prove that there is a fucking reason that I was chosen. I will prove that there is a fucking reason that I get to main event twice. I am going to prove that I am the main fucking event. So I will not allow it. Puerto Rico will run red. There won’t be a fear of the mythical Chupacabra once we’re through. Oh no. Pinkston, Knox. I’ll be the fucking Chupacabra.”
He grunts, kicking at the ground. Kicking dust, dirt and muck over the flame. The flames struggling under the sudden blanket of filth, suffocating out. His hand remains held out over where the flames once were. Turning his palm upwards. In his palm, the flesh bright red, a single pink feather.
He flexes his fingers, and then crushes it, squeezing it. Red oozes from between his fingers, the crimson liquid dripping from his palm to the extinguished fire pit. Opening his hand he flicks it down. Splattering of the red, the feather no where to be seen. Smiling, he drags his palm across his chest. The white being smeared with the red, a streak of the handprint. A bloody handprint.
“I’ll paint the town red, and they. The Invisible Hands. They will not be able to save you.”
And then...
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
Lies of Omission
“Thought if you just stopped looking, stopped asking that I’d just go away? Not fucking likely, bird man.”
For Alex, this made little sense. He saw the ghosts of the dead, people his past. His father to torment him, his dead wife to remind him of his humanity. Leon may or may not be dead. He didn’t even know if the phone call could be trusted. Why would someone call and tell him? It didn’t make sense. Yet, there he was. Leon Trucose, just as he remembered him.
“You nearly killed Luna. Crashed the car, drove drunk. You’re a fucking idiot, and if you’re really dead. Then I’m sure there is a good reason for Luna and James not telling me.”
Leon laughed, a raucous thunder. The hands of his father tightened on his shoulders, his fingers edging towards his throat. Alex could feel the hands, the weight. Why where they so heavy?
“They’re all hiding something from you, Alex. Why are they hiding it exclusively from you? Why won’t they tell you the truth? I wonder, I wonder.”
His father’s hands, the rough, boxers fists. They were around his throat now. Tigthening around his windpipe. He could feel them choking him. He could feel them tightening and beginning to squeeze the life out of him. Why where the hands so heavy?
“Luna will tell me the truth.”
Leon smiled, and shook his head.
“You don’t believe that. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”
He gasped deeply, shooting upright. He was in bed, the world around him dark. Luna lay quietly next to him, her breath raising and lowering her chest beneath the sheets. He groaned, his own hand was gripping at his throat. Was he choking himself in his own dream? When did he go to sleep? He didn’t remember. Alex grabbed his phone, and opened the call log. The private number was there. The call was real.
Was Leon really dead?
