Recovering from Loss...

Pavel Reznick, better known to wrestling fans as Rez Acid, sits alone at a local diner. He stares solemnly out of the large window, watching the people pass, some enter, most walk along on their way to what is surely an important destination. He reaches down and sips on his black coffee and the waitress comes by to refill it for him. He gives her a smile, and she returns the gesture. Hers was warm, Pavel's less so. He takes a sip of the steaming darkness and continues to stare out the window while he ponders his thoughts.

I'm days away from embarking on a very important journey. A journey that could define me in this upside down, world gone wrong. I'm so close to a major achievement, and all I can think about is my parents and how they won't be here for this moment.

Reznick takes another sip of coffee and watches as a woman walks along the sidewalk with her small son's hand in hers. He says something to his mother and she smiles down at him, like the sun shining down on the world during the first days of spring and responds. Pavel imagined that she had the voice of a thousand angles.

My parents were taken from me, nearly two years ago. My father, the drunk, killed himself and robbed me of my mother. No boy should be without his mother, especially at that age. I've spent two years learning the finer arts of the wrestling industry, but what I've really learned is how to shelter myself from the pain.

Rez reaches to pick up his mug and pauses, turning his arms over to reveal several scars from cuts on his wrists and forearms.

I never understood why people cut themselves, and I still don't. I didn't do it to feel physical pain that matched that which was inside of me, and I didn't do it because I like blood. I hate the sight of blood, it's never associated with anything positive. Blood is life, but we always assume it comes only with death. No, I cut myself to remind myself that I was still here. The scars are so I never forget that once, long ago, I hurt bad enough to do something unthinkable to myself.

He rubs his wrist with his hand, but quickly sets them palms down on the table as the waitress come by.

Waitress: Are you sure I can't get you something to eat, hun?

Rez: No thank you. I'm fine with coffee.

She smiles again, and Pavel watches her leave. She had a soft, sweeping stride to her step that she must have learned from years on the job. His mother had a similar walk, that she developed from years of chasing him around.

I can remember the night so clearly, if I reach out to it. My father had come home from work early. My parents were invited to a social gathering at a friends house. Mr. and Mrs. Mortenson's place. It was only across town, a short trip. My mother told me that they would be home around ten. She'd made a meatloaf and put it in the fridge, so I was free to heat some up in the microwave or have it on a sandwich. I still don't care for meatloaf.

Rez's attention diverts to a police officer that walks in the cafe and sits at the bar. The matronly waitress, that seemed so concerned for Rez's nourishment, walks over, smiles that warming smile of hers and pours him a cup of coffee. He orders a BLT and she whisks herself off to the kitchen.

I remember hearing that knock at the door. I woke up, I had fallen asleep. What time was it? More knocking. I mumbled something rather loudly, but I can't, for the life of me, remember what it was. I looked at the clock. It was half past eleven. The knocking continued, and this time there was a voice telling me that the police were on the other side. I opened the door, but already knew what he was going to tell me just by looking at his face.

Pavel studies the officer sitting at the counter. This one is shorter, fatter. He has a moustache, Pavel's didn't. He leers at him for only a moment, then sips his own coffee, trying to put the contempt for this other policeman out of his mind.

My dad had come home from work early, but that didn't stop him from going to work on his whiskey. My father was a ruthless drunk. The only thing he took more delight in than scotch, I think, was beating me and my mother. I'd tried to fight back once, and he broke my arm. My mother tried to stop him, and he broke her nose. I hate him. I'd rather trade all the beatings, all the drinking, all the broken bones and broken hearts, I'd trade it all to have my mother back.

He stands and reaches in his pocket and leaves a five on the table and exits the diner, out onto the streets, out toward his destiny.

Shadow Knight. I'm assuming that I'm in your way. I know that you have high aspirations of becoming a champion here, in the AAWA. I understand completely. Every single one of the wrestlers in this federation want a crack at the big time. Want the ref to raise their hand in triumph. Want to feel that twenty pounds of leather and gold around their waists. With all these dreams, you should know, that I don't consider you a hindrance, not at all. I consider you a healer.

I don't wrestle for the accolades, the fame, the wealth, or the titles. I'd be lying if I said that those wouldn't be icing on the cake, but they're not something that I live for. I live for the catharsis that competition brings. I live for the feeling I get when tens of thousands of fans are on their feet, and the energy that flows from them to me is like a balm, that washes over me, cleansing my soul and making me feel complete. To me, you're not an opponent, but a chance at redemption. You're a way to find myself. To evolve.

I welcome your competition, in fact I encourage you to bring everything you have and hit me with it. I want to feel the bite of your Sheathed Sword. I want to cry out in pain every time you lock me in an Iron Maiden. With every punch, I'll learn just a little more about you. With every grapple, I'll become a little more whole. With all the blood, sweat and tears we shed, I find my salvation. And at the end of it all, win or lose, I'm on the road to recovery.

Because moving forward is the only way to recover from loss...