Sunday January 17, 2016
Highgate Cemetery
London, England

The Devyne family and friends who had gathered for Francis’ celebration of life were all giving condolences to each other. The funeral director, Nicholas McAllister had finished his speech and had asked for a moment of silence and then a short period for everyone to give sympathies to the family. Psyche had been given hugs from people she didn’t even know. Bryan had shaken the hands of almost every member of Psyche’s family without even knowing their names. Finally, Nicholas piped up again.

Nicholas: “Now, I’d like to take this opportunity to invite Psyche to the podium. She has written a few words about her father that she would like to share.”

Psyche’s head slowly came up, looking at the podium. She let out a quiet sigh before standing from her seat. She walked towards the podium as she unwrapped a folded piece of paper that she took out of the sweater she wore. She bit the inside of her cheek, staring at the words she wrote on the paper. Was she sure she could do this? She brought her head up, putting the paper down on the flat surface in front of her. She looked at her mother, who was nodding slightly, giving Psyche the okay to go ahead. She let out another sigh, preparing herself for the whole thing. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again and beginning to speak.

Psyche: “I’d like to start off by thanking everyone who was able to join us today to celebrate my fathers passing. I’m not surprised at how many people have showed up, to be honest. My father knew a lot of people. He was always the type of man to make sure he talked to anyone he could. He was the type of man to make sure that others were happy before allowing himself any kind of happiness. Everyone else was first. He lived by that code. And that shows by how many of you have come to be a part of this celebration today. He loved all of you. Every single one of you meant something to him. If anything, he’s up there right now, waiting to see us all smile. Once he knows we’ll all be okay, he can finally be at peace.”

She paused for a moment, reading further down into her speech.

Psyche: “My daddy was my biggest hero. And he knew that…”

She bit her lip, suppressing her feelings for the moment. She let out a breath and continued to speak.

Psyche: “He was what I wanted to be when I grew up. Yes.. I wanted to become a man with salt and pepper hippy hair.”

She laughed for a moment, joined by the others surrounding her.

Psyche: “I wanted to be my daddy and my mum. A mixture. And I think I got that mixture. From my mum, I got my patience and strength. From my father, I got my passion and drive. My drive to continue on, even when I fail. That was what he did. He pushed on until he got everything he needed and became the successful man he ended up being. I hope one day that I can get the level of success he had.”

She looked down at the paper for a moment, pausing.

Psyche: “I will always remember my father as the man who brought me with him on trips. The man I snuggled up next to while we watched Wrestlemania on the telly. Yelling at the screen when the man he was rooting for missed his mark and the other guy got the upper hand. And then I remember him doing it for me. Watching me wrestle in a small place, cheering for me. It was as if he was the only one I could hear. The only one in the room. He drove me. He was the one that made me who I am today as a wrestler.”

Her eyebrows furrowed for a split second, sadness hitting. She shook it off, continuing.

Psyche: “My daddy was my biggest fan. My mum never liked the idea of me wrestling, so he would sometimes come to shows in secret, telling her he was going to the pub. For a while, she thought he was a drunk.”

She laughed quietly, looking to her mother. She nodded, laughing as well.

Psyche: “The day she found out what was going on, she was mad. But dad had that charm to him. He calmed her and even convinced her to see a show. Mind you, she hasn’t come since.”

Another chorus of laughter came at Psyche. She smiled slightly. She looked down at her paper, frowning slightly.

Psyche: “When I found out my dad was in the hospital, I was devastated. I had to wait to come home because I had a match coming up. My father was stable, so there was still time. And luckily, I did get to come home. I spent the week with my mum in the hospital. One of those nights I spent alone with my daddy. I asked him to come back to me. To us. I asked him to come home. But I knew he couldn’t.”

She frowned, a pained look on her face. Tears starting to fill her eyes.

Psyche: “The hardest thing for me was hearing the last thing he said before slipping into a coma. My mother said this to me. I remember it as if it was yesterday. ‘He just told me to tell you he loves you. And he’ll see you wrestle soon.’”

She closed her eyes, holding back the tears that wanted to escape.

Psyche: “He never got to see me wrestle again.”

She bit her lip, trying to take her mind off of the idea.

Psyche: “Those words ended up being his last. His final words were a promise he couldn’t keep. And I knew it the moment she said them to me. I knew he wouldn’t see me wrestle again. But a small part of me had hope. Hope that he would spring up and be okay again. As if this never happened.”

She brought a hand up, running the backs of her fingers across her lips. She stared at the paper for a moment.

Psyche: “My wishes didn’t come true. My father passed away on January 14th, 2016. Fourteen days from the day he was brought into the hospital. I was lucky enough to get to see him before he passed. Both bits of news I found out while I was in America. Finding out that your father passed on over the phone is difficult to say the least. But I think my dad was there with me the night I found out he passed. I found out just before the match I had that night. I think he helped me win that match. I think, in his own way, he did see that match.”

She bit at the inside of her lip again. She looked around at everyone that was standing there. But they quickly faded away. All that was left was her fathers casket and her. She looked down at it, frowning. She spoke as if she was talking to only him.

Psyche: “I had a dream about you the night before you passed away. I was on my knees, watching you as you were hurting. Watching as you struggled to breath. The doctors told me your time had come. That you were about to go. But then, in seconds, you were lying on the hospital bed, wide awake. Nothing was attached to you. You were awake. You knew I was there. You turned to look at me, watching me as I tried to fight through the darkness that had filled me. I hadn’t even noticed. But when I did, light filled the room. I looked at you and you smiled. I got to see you smile again. And then you spoke. I remember your voice. You promised me you were ready. You promised me that you’d be waiting for me. Waiting to see me again. And then I woke up. And you were gone.”

She closed her eyes, tears falling down her face, hitting the papers in front of her.

Psyche: “I miss you so much. I miss you… so much.”

She opened her eyes again, looking at the people surrounding her. Some she didn’t know. Some family members who had never seen her lose control of herself. She had always been seen as the strong one. Nobody ever saw her give this much emotion. She silently walked back to her spot. Her mother instantly stood up, wrapping her arms around her. The two hugged for a bit of time. They finally separated, sitting down in their seats. Psyche wiped the wetness from her cheeks. Bryan put his arm around her, comforting her. Nicholas finally came back to the podium. He nodded sympathetically to Psyche and began to speak once again.

Nicholas: “Thank you, Psyche. Ladies and gentlemen, once again I’d like to thank you for attending the celebration of Francis Devyne. At this time, we will be lowering the casket. We have roses for everyone. These roses are to symbolize your love for Francis. To show your appreciation for the man you called friend and family. Please take one and place it upon the casket before it is lowered. Once it is done, the service will be over. You have all been invited to join Jude and the Devyne family to a continuation of the celebration at The Camden Head. Thank you.”

Nicholas stepped away from the podium, letting the rest of the events take place. An unknown person stood at the casket, holding a basket of roses, red and white in colour. Two other baskets were behind here to give everyone a chance to place a flower on the casket. One by one, friends and family made their way to the woman, taking a rose. The pile on the casket kept growing and growing. Once everyone finished, Jude, Psyche and Bryan stood up. Bryan went first, taking a rose and placing it on the others. Psyche was after. She picked a red rose, placing it at the top. She kissed the tips of her fingers, touching her hand to the casket afterwards. She moved to stand beside Bryan, linking hands with him. Jude took the last rose. She brought it to her lips, kissing the white petals. Her red lipstick had left a mark. She placed the rose on top of the others, looking at the casket for a moment. She finally turned and walked to Psyche and Bryan. Everyone stood and watched as the casket was lowered into the grave. Psyche just stared at it slowly moving down. This was it. This was actually the end. Her father was being buried. He was gone.

At the end, everyone turned away, not interested in watching the man in charge of the site set everything up to place the dirt over the grave. They all made their way to their cars, hugging each other and giving more condolences. When they were all finished, they all got into their cars, some going home and others meeting at the pub.

“Determination is a funny thing. On one hand, you can use determination to do great things. Use it to bring people together, to change history, anything you could think of. But on the other hand, you can use that determination for great evil. It can be used to break someone. It can be used to take something away. In this match, we have people with both kinds of determination. Ones that look to hurt, ones that want to take, ones that want to end an evil reign, ones that want to break. Many of those people are very obvious in their determination. You can pinpoint who is here for what reason. Who is good and who is evil. Though selfishness tends to be a key factor in some of the goodness.”

“As you’re moving these names between the good an evil headings, we are left with one last name. The others were easy. A simple swipe to the left or right. But the last name remains in the center for the moment. Psyche Devyne. How could this name possibly be hard to place? Any person would know she belongs on the good side. But no… A person who underestimates her would think that way. But so much has changed in the last couple weeks. Changes that some haven’t even seen. And she’s wanted to keep it that way. So there she stays, lingering in the middle, waiting for a decision to be made. Waiting to decide if she should be determined for goodness or evil. And, you must admit, that is the hardest decision of all.”

“I am in this match for a reason. I didn’t decide to take part in it, as I have been accused of. I didn’t go to management and ask to be a part of this Rumble. I was placed here. Someone looked at my name on a list and pointed to it, deciding that I should have a chance at the Internet Title. But when I found out that this was my match for the week, I made a decision to make a statement. To show that I shouldn’t be underestimated by those who face me.”

“Even to this day, I am still being referred to as ‘Bryan’s girlfriend’. In fact, one person talked as if it was Bryan in this match instead of me. I am overlooked in a sense. People forget that I came here on my own. I didn’t come here just for him. I came here to branch out. To begin a new chapter somewhere else. Bryan didn’t bring me here. I did. He was just a perk of the move. But to ignore my talent and base everything you say off of my boyfriend is a stupid move. Anyone else thinking the same thing will be made a fool of. You have jumped into a pit and are slowly burying yourself in that hole as you try to climb back up. But for each person who tries to crawl their way back out, I’ll be right there, pressing my boot against your forehead, pushing you back in. And then, little by little, I’ll shovel dirt over your screaming, clawing body. Laughing as you attempt to get out. You won’t. You’ll have gone too far.”

“But then there’s another thing that I’m being underestimated over. The fact that I’m new blood. Going against the vets of the business. You people aren’t like Ric Flair or The Undertaker. You don’t have someone watching over your back, making sure you win the one match you’re part of every couple months to save face. As part of a storyline. You don’t come back to a place and expect to win ‘just because we have more years of skill’. I may be a rookie in the whole big business of wrestling shows and being on the telly… but this isn’t where I started. Where I started, Boardwalk pales in comparison. Boardwalk is the fleshy skin, the beauty some see of the wrestling world. Where I began is the muscly, bloody underbelly. The place where dried blood covers the walls and the canvas. But I keep that side hidden. I adapted. I changed my style so that I could fit into this wrestling world. But that hasn’t gotten me very far, now, has it?”

“Now… why do you think I want to win this? First, I want to show exactly what I can do, even through my grief. I can win this match. Secondly, I want the Internet Title. If I win this match, I get my chance to face CJ for the title he now holds. Not to give the fans a better champion. I want it to prove that I can just take it. If I win this title, I will no longer be referred to as ‘Bryan’s girlfriend’. I win that title and I will show this place why underestimating me was a big mistake. I let things go for a long time. I have finally begun to adapt better to this place. I’m not going to let myself struggle to find my own anymore. I am going to step up and take the things I want. This is my declaration. And I will sign in with blood.”

“So, I must face off against the ones in my way. The Hammer: Buddy Royal. The Great Child: Marisol. The Jackal: Morag. The Pilgrim: Myris. The Angry Princess: Amy Jo. The Juggernaut: Cyrus Riddle. The Bound Man: DudeJob. The Torn Prince: Devlin. And The Withered Lover: Julliet Brooks. All of these ‘ghosts’ that I must take down to win. To be honest, I’m not worried. I will take every step I can to break them. To end their chances at winning.”

“I don’t need help. And I don’t need pity. Pity that has been given to me by one already. My pain and grief is mine alone. We do not share a common ground. My grief is not a factor in this match. Just because I’m going through the death of my father, doesn’t mean you should go lighter on me. It doesn’t mean you should try any less. And it especially doesn’t mean you should help me get the win. If you want to win, take it. But know that I’ll be right there to take it back. My pain will do nothing but fuel me to win. And it will also help me to rip apart a certain dark haired twat that is also joining us in this match. Again, I stress that I will show everyone exactly what will happen when you try to step into the ring with me. It won’t be pretty. And you won’t come out pretty either.”

“There’s nothing left for me to say. Nothing for me to give. Just heed my warning. If you underestimate me, you’ll be left disappointed when you realize it was me who pushed you over the top rope. You’ll remember to never forget who I really am. The end.”

Tuesday January 19, 2016

Psyche stood in her bedroom for the last time before she was to go back to America. Her bags were packed along with Bryans, sitting in a corner, waiting to be brought home. On top of one of her bags was the teddy bear her father had given her. One of the things that meant most to her. No longer would it sit on her bed in England, collecting dust. Now it would join her everywhere she went. But that stuffy wasn’t where her focus laid at this very moment. Right now, her focus was on a painting on the wall. Her legs seemed to be stuck. She couldn’t move. She just stared at the painting.

The painting itself was simple. It was of her. Realism meets a bit of impressionism. It had been painted as if she was wrong. Imperfect. The colors were slightly off and didn’t match what would have been in real life, but they flowed beautifully together. It was just of her face, half covered in a bit of shadow and the other in the light. The inner struggle. The darkness versus the light. Before she even knew that this was what she did to herself, he knew. ‘He’ being the painter. ‘He’ being her father. He knew her mind better than she did, at a time. He could always tell what was wrong with just a look. So he painted that struggle. He knew what his daughter was going up against at a young age. And this was his way to show that. He believed that he could show her the light was better with this photo. But Psyche did always prefer the way he had painted the other side. The dark hues and gloomy nature. But she had never admitted that to anyone. That was her worst secret.

She continued to stare at it, her mind racing. What would she do now? How would she continue on? How is she supposed to act? The man that meant the most to her was gone. To her, at this very moment, she had nothing else. She loved her mother and she loved Bryan. They meant so much to her. But she was broken. She needed her father. But he wasn’t there.

And then, as she continued to stare at herself in a painting, she wondered; Why am I staring at myself like that? Why does that side have the eye of someone that is judging me? The lighter side knows what I am feeling. Am I mocking myself? Psyche tilts her head to the side a small amount. Her brows furrow as she tries to move away from the stare of the eyes. There was so much painted into those eyes that she had never noticed. But now, they bore into her soul, it seemed.

In an instant, her hand shot beside her, fingers curling around a pair of scissors that sat on the top of her vanity. Her hand came back up, jabbing quickly against the painting. A satisfying ripping sound rang through her ears as she drug the tool against the canvas. She pulled back, staring at the rip. But the eyes still stared at her. She did it again, ripping more. And then again, tearing holes into the skin of the painting. Then again. And again. And again.

The painting had fallen off of the wall in the end, face up. Psyche brought her gaze to the floor, staring at her work. But her heart sunk as soon as she saw it. As if mist had dissipated, allowing her to see clear again. Her heart began to race, realizing what she had done. The scissors dropped to the floor, abandoned.

Psyche: “No, no, no, no!”

She dropped to her knees, hands hovering over the damage she had just done. The shredded remains of her anger and sadness.

Psyche: “What have I done…”

She whispered the words, not wanting to believe she had done this. But she had. Tears escaped her eyes. She ran her fingers along the torn canvas. This painting was the only one he had done for her of just her. Nothing else. And now it was ruined. Her movements became frantic as she tried to force it back together. As if she could somehow undo what she did. But the damage was done.

Psyche stood up, leaving the canvas on the floor. She pulled the bear from on top of her lugging, taking it to her bed. She sat down, crossing her legs beneath her. She brought the bear to her chest, hugging it tightly against her. Tears still fell from her eyes as she stared ahead.

Psyche: “It’s gone… He’s gone…”