Forged Steel's Wrestling Journal

Entry 19

One week until the rematch, and my vengeance is all that consumes my thoughts… Until Sunday. On Sunday Glitter Jewel returns from her gem show. I shouldn’t meet her at the station as I’m injured, but she will save me the trouble by coming to my apartment. This is the first time I’m not looking forward to seeing her.

This is the first time since we’ve been together that I’m kayfabing an angle. I can see in her eyes when we’ve talked that she does love wrestling, even if she denies it. The big problem is I don’t know if she’s smart. If she is, it’s nothing. If she’s not…

It’s perhaps the biggest taboo in the art to expose the work to anyone. There’s even rumors of some keeping up their gimmick around their family until the day they died. Papa never really factored into either side, his “gimmick” was himself, and the same is true for Dedushka. North Star and his family are smart, but that wasn’t my doing.

Glitter though… In our limited conversations about wrestling, she does strike me as being smart to it, but as she talks more about it, I just as easily begin to doubt the notion. I suppose part of the problem is I can’t really tell because we just don’t talk much about my work. But at the same point, I don’t talk much about it because I don’t want to expose it.

I don’t know what to do, kayfabe around her or explain it all? If I kayfabe, I lie to her. I protect the art, but at what cost? I’ve never felt this level of affection for anyone before. I feel like I can’t bring myself to do it. What will I do? Hearing her walk in through the door and out onto the balcony where I’m laid out means I have to decide now.

Glitter Jewel loudly drops her bags beside my lounge, delicately climbs on top of me and smothers my face into her bust with her hug, “I missed you so much,” her voice trembles a bit, “And the damned train ride felt like it took forever once I read you got hurt…”

That’s not what I wanted to hear, that means she doesn’t know it’s gimmicked. Keeping my chin on her breasts, she cradles my head with one hand and runs her fingers through my hair with the other, kisses my forehead and asks “How is it feeling today, my anvil?” She knows I don’t like being called that, but does it anyway.

With a snort of hot air down her shirt that makes her giggle, I groan “First off, stop calling me that. Second,” I then stand up, carrying her inside and causing her to give a startled squeal, “Does this answer your question?”

She’s looking around at my body, eyes wide in surprise. I’d forgotten, even in story I’m not injured. Fissure only thinks that I am, but will be in for a rude awakening. By surprising her with this display of my strength, I’m really not breaking character. “Kovanaya Stal,” she then angrily yells into my ear, breaking my thoughts and sending an eerie chill down my spine as she resorted to my true name, “What the icy hell is going on?!” Our eyes meet and hers carry a fire that could melt the tundra outside. “Okay,” I respond, obviously defeated in my tone, “I guess I have to explain some things.” I set her down on the couch and sit on the other end.

The wrestling you see is entertainment. The outcomes of all matches are predetermined. Maneuvers are done with full cooperation of opponents involved. Storylines and champions are planned often several months in advance. Wrestlers themselves are often good friends outside the ring.

That's not to say that it's not athletic, far from that. It takes an incredible amount of skill to do many things. Sure, an opponent will help you get him up in the air for a slam, but you still have to be strong so you can set him down right. If you don't, you can hurt his back, drop him on his head, dislocate his shoulder, many things. When I lift someone up for a piledriver, I need the strength to guide him up in a specific way to keep him in a safe position, and the strength to keep myself in a specific posture when I come down to keep him from dropping all his body onto his head and neck.

And even with all of this training, even with all of this athleticism, accidents will happen. Sometimes your footing will slip as you jump from the ropes and twist your ankle. Sometimes your adrenaline will get the better of you and you throw someone down too hard, dropping them on the head. All of the training in the world will not protect you from plain, old fashioned bad luck. Though the stories and competition may be “Fake,” the pain and risk of injury is very real.

Why do we portray it as real? Why does any work of fiction portray itself as real? It was created to entertain us. It's supposed to give us an outlet to escape from our cruel reality, if just for a few hours a week, and be a part of a world where good will always triumph over evil. A world where someone can win an unfair fight against all odds. We portray ourselves as real because we seek that suspension of disbelief.

As for me specifically, my leg is not hurt, not even in story. Though Fissure put a great effort into smashing my leg, trying his hardest to break it, a doctor gave me a clean bill of heath. This, however, is not going to be revealed until next show, when I challenge him. In the story, this means that bounty he sought he will now have to pay back unless he can finish the job.

“So that's everything,” I say, looking over at her, “That's the short of how wrestling is.” She only looks down, trying to digest it all. I can only watch her, hoping that maybe she wouldn't react angrily. After a long moment, she walks over to me.

“So it's all faked,” she asked, her voice not giving a hint of how she felt, “it’s not real?” I grit my teeth a bit before responding, “Some would say that, yes.”

“And what you just told me is the ultimate crime against it?”

“Yes, if anyone else knew I'd told you, I'd be ostracized. A pariah.”

Her expression now seems pained “Then why would you tell me all of this? Why risk ruining your life?”

“Because I love you, Glitter Jewel. I know we're only known each other for a few months, but I know from the bottom of my heart that I love you more than anything or anyone. More than wrestling. If you want me to quit, then I'll do it right now, without a second thought.”

Suddenly I feel her lips pressed against mine and her body embracing me. Her kiss was firm, as was her grip upon me. She doesn't say a word, but I know that she feels the same way as I do. I let her body pin me helplessly against the sofa as she breaks, her eyes wet with tears and her smile bigger than I've ever seen before.

Suddenly I feel a sharp slap against my face. “Hey now,” I protest, “What was that for?”

“Rule number one when we started dating,” her voice not doing well to hide her laughter “Don't ever flatter me.”

“I'm not trying to…”

I'm met with another stiff slap from her “Shut up and hold me, you big galoot.”