There is no such thing a silence. An empty room, but yet still a clock ticks. Still the wind blows. Still the distant chatter of people permeates the corridor. Garth Black had a headache, and he did not appreciate the sound. Sat at a desk, slumped over a laptop. He would add to the sound of silence periodically with a series of taps on the keyboard, his pace gradually declining as the surety of his words declined dramatically.
Tap tap tap tap tap...tap tap tap... tap...tap...
More often than not, this sound was followed by the sound of the delete key, liberating his tortured words from the screen while casting them out to an indeterminate position of loss and uncertainty. Ten steps forward, nine steps back. Progress, but reciprocal at the same time. His typing betrayed his emotions far better than his words ever could.
It wasn't clear what Black was typing, but it was clear that the heaviness of its content was reflected by the manner in which he hit the keys. There was an area of uncertainty in the room, made far more salient by the lack of lighting. The only light was the word processor glow that illuminated Garth's face. In this light, it was very difficult to see his eyes, so the emptiness behind them was not apparent to a casual observer, but made itself clear after time.
The glare of the screen was making the headache worse, but still Garth attempted to focus, though unfortunately to little avail. The object of his typing still as much a mystery as the manner in which he had crumbled in recent weeks. From the top of the mountain to the pit of despair in two easy weeks. He didn't deserve this fate. Not in his mind. But the thought of his collapse at the hands of the two men that would be competing in the main event of Kingdom Come ate away at him. Both had beaten him fair and square. For the first time in his entire career he had been unable to compete on his own merits. Is that fair to say? Possibly, possibly not. Ultimately he wasn't at his best against Cooper, and Mikey well, yeah, 1 defeat from 3 or 4 matches isn't too bad.
The thought of it upset Garth dramatically. The distant stare began to be clouded by a layer of salt water. He. But this idea ate away at Garth.
They say that those who don't learn from their mistakes are doomed to repeat them over and over again. Seven years ago Garth beat Phoenix a number of times, but the powers that be kept flogging that horse until their guy got a win. Garth grew disillusioned, hung around for a bit but after being attacked by a guy in a chicken suit, he realised that he was never going to be understood or used effectively. So he left, took stock, and took a long time to return.
And yet here we are, seven years later. And the same WZCW management that underappreciated them didn't seem to appreciate him now. He kept fighting Mikey till Mikey won, in exactly the same way and then they stopped. Garth understood why guys like that deserve a chance, but when a series is so heavily weighted in one wrestler's favour, surely they have the right to reply. Or at least some manner of direction in where they go next. But it's not. Wrestlers are taken for granted, and the wheel keeps spinning.
Phoenix too, was a fool destined to repeat the same mistakes. He picked a fight with Garth an awful long time ago, and yet here he stands now, at the precipice of the abyss, about to try again. Phoenix lost the lion's share of the matches back then and now was no different. However, it was difficult for Garth to focus on this match when there was a much more pressing issue hanging over his head.
Wrestlers that have been around a long time become part of the furniture, but it was clear from the sparsity of this room that Garth was not the sort of person to let furniture clutter up the place. He wanted to be understood, appreciated and was determined not to be an afterthought. But the WZCW cartel were making it incredibly difficult.
The whole thing had been weighing on his mind for some time now. He wasn't sleeping. He wasn't eating. And now as he sat in the electric glare of a computer screen he was a rabbit in the headlights. If he wasn't going to be given a road to redemption by his superiors and rivals, he was going to have to find his own way back to the top. The trouble is, there isn't a map for that.
So what? Black had to decide what he wanted. In the short time, that was clear. Take the 7 year old opportunity to avenge his sole defeat to Phoenix. Take the frustration of the years in the wilderness and focus them on the matter at hand. Phoenix may have called himself the Hollow One, but Black was no stranger to hollowness himself. He had been left empty, running on fumes and not sure where the next petrol station was. But there's enough in the tank to vanquish an old foe once and for all.
But then what? Mid term. Kingdom Come. It was all well and good that Black was frustrated by the recent events and the manner in which he was sleepwalking to the jewel in the crown but what was he offering himself? Indecisive and lethargic, slumped before a laptop - there could be no clearer indication of a man who was a spent force. He had been to the top. He had proven his point. Where else was there for this man to go? What else was there for this man to achieve? Was he content being a one hit wonder? Not only did he not have the answers to these questions, the very idea of the questions filled him with an impending dread.
And what beyond that? His mentor Daddy Mack was always a hero of his, always someone he felt was an excellent role model, but Black always felt he had gone on too long. The tears continued to well in Garth's eyes to such an extent that the reflection of the words he was typing could be read in the watery haze covering his irises. He had not typed very much, but he had finally committed some words to the screen.
Dear Mr. Banks,
I am writing with a heavy heart tender my resignation from Wrestle Zone Championship Wrestling with immediate effect.
With regretful sincerity,
Garth Black
Garth stared at the words, and they stared back at him twice as hard. It was now that the words seemed to provoke an interrogation from his own internal monologue. A barrage of questions were firing at him. This was trench warfare in the grey matter.
He was hit by a question. Had he gone on too long?
And then another. Had he proven his point?
The onslaught kept coming. Was he letting them win?
And then the final, loudest shot. When do you give it all up?
This question ricocheted around his head for an eternity. It could have been a few seconds, but equally it could have been minutes or hours the whole moment seemed to detach itself from time. He sat in front of the screen in silence as it sounded through his synapses until suddenly there was sunlight through the clouds.
As Black closed his laptop, the answer to the last question began to be heard above the melee, like birdsong in the Somme. He was energised. Refreshed. Prepared. The light came on in his soul as he turned on the light in the room. By now the answer was all he could hear, all that he could be focussed on.
Not today.
