Linen and Ash
In the wake of the footprints left behind in her kitchen, Kirsten Scott's paranoia has hit an all-time high. The boundaries of her own home have been completely violated, turning a safe haven into a psychological minefield. Now, sleep is at an absolute premium, replaced by a hyper-vigilant insomnia that refuses to break.
Strafing her own home like she's raiding an enemy bunker has quickly become her new daily norm. Every corner is cleared with geometric precision, every shadow analyzed as a potential threat. Insanity feels like it's looming just on the horizon, threatening to pull her under. She feels as if she is being systematically weaponized against her own shadow, constantly losing a war against a ghost.
This maddening feeling sends an unwavering, suffocating amount of guilt over her body. The heavy weight presses down on her chest, bringing with it the sickening realization that she is failing. She is failing her extended family by bringing this chaos to their doorsteps, and worse, she is failing her kidnapped parents, who are out there somewhere counting on her to be their savior.
Frustrations become the expected norm as day, once again, slowly turns into the suffocating quiet of the night. Downstairs sits Kirsten's makeshift "war room"—her garage. The space has been stripped of any comfort, transformed into a tactical hub. The walls are meticulously covered in red string, pinned surveillance photos, and local maps, all tracking the movements of her tormentors.
In the center of the cold concrete floor sits a lone canvas camping chair, a cheap plastic side table with a lukewarm drink sweating on the surface, and a single fluorescent light bulb overhead that constantly buzzes against the heavy silence of the night. Upstairs, Kirsten stands frozen in the bathroom. She washes her face off with freezing cold water over and over again, desperately trying to shock her system and wash away the terrifying feeling of an imminent mental breakdown.
But again, the fragile silence is abruptly broken. This time, however, it's not the faint scuff of a footstep or the familiar creaking of a loose floorboard. This time, the noise erupts from directly downstairs. It sounds like a heavy, violent bang followed by a sharp, echoing crash onto the solid concrete surface of the garage.
Unlike the other night, when fear had made her freeze, Kirsten doesn't move with cautious stealth and silence. Instead, she moves with raw speed and unadulterated vigor. The built-up frustration explodes into pure adrenaline as she furiously races down the stairs, wanting nothing more than to finally confront whatever or WHO it may be causing this relentless commotion.
As her boots violently hit the bottom of the stairway, the metallic ring of the crash is already fading. All she hears are the frantic, rapid footsteps of someone running in the distance outside. She sprints out of the open garage door, her chest heaving, only to see one lone, shadowy figure disappearing into the absolute darkness of the cul-de-sac.
She slows to a halt just past the driveway, panting heavily from the extreme intensity she attacked the situation with. The phantom is gone, leaving her alone in the cool night air.
Turning back toward the bright, buzzing square of the garage, she spots a foreign object. A rectangular item is sitting directly on the ground near the overturned side table. As she lifts it from the floor, she sees it is a coarse piece of linen wrapped tightly around a silver digital voice recorder.
Her thumb trembles slightly as she locates the button, and as she pushes play, a voice that she knows all too well begins to fill the empty space. It is a voice she hasn't heard in what feels like an eternity, beginning to tell her a deeply personal story of her youth. As she listens to the steady, raspy voice of her father, she finds herself feeling an odd, completely foreign feeling of happiness. Just hearing the cadence of his voice acts like a balm, and she begins to meander aimlessly around the garage, letting the sound wash over her.
Kirsten's Father: Kit... It's your dad. Firstly, I want you to know we are OK and being cared for fairly. They have a prepared statement for me, but I don't feel it'll let you know I am who I say I am by just reading something they want me to say, so I'll tell you something only we would know...
Do you remember the summer you turned five? It was that brutal July heatwave, and the old air conditioner in our little cabin completely gave out on a Friday night. Your mother and I were frantic, trying to keep the house cool, but you didn't care about the heat at all. You were completely obsessed with building that massive fort in the living room out of every blanket and pillow we owned.
When it got too hot to breathe, I didn't tell you to tear it down. Instead, I grabbed the old box fan from the attic, propped it right at the entrance of your blanket castle, and snuck out to the corner store. I came back with a pint of that cheap, generic mint chocolate chip ice cream you loved.
We didn't use bowls, Kit. We sat cross-legged inside that fort, under the heavy quilts, eating straight out of the carton with two plastic spoons while the fan roared against the fabric. You ended up falling asleep with green ice cream smeared all over your left cheek, holding onto my thumb like it was a safety line.
You told me the next morning that it was the best kingdom in the whole world because the walls were made of blankets and the king wore a mustache. It's me, Kit. It's really me.
Hearing the story play out to its conclusion, the odd, completely foreign sensation continues to wash over Kirsten’s body. For the first time in over a year, the rigid, painful knots in her shoulders begin to relax, and a faint, bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. The profound, hollow loneliness of the empty house temporarily recedes, replaced by a warm, aching wave of genuine happiness. She continues to meander aimlessly around the cold garage, just listening to the cadence of his voice, letting the memory of the blanket fort shield her from the harsh reality of the concrete room she is currently standing in.
The seemingly happy emotion is quickly and violently killed, however, as she passes the dark glass windows of the garage. She looks at her reflection in the window and completely freezes. Staring back at her is a silhouette she despises. She sees herself standing almost identical to that of The Prophets when they would look upon their members enjoying themselves, believing it was all thanks to them.
Her arms are crossed in a very specific, rigid way over her chest, and her head is tilted at a precise, cold, and analytical angle. The view sends icy shivers straight down her spine and injects pure anger through her veins. A sickening realization takes hold as she stands in the dark; she realizes she isn't just hunting these two individuals. She is, instead, unknowingly mimicking one of the very two who convinced, coerced, and sculpted her into becoming the absolute monster that she once was.
Kirsteb Scott: AGH!!!
With the sudden scream of pure anger tearing from her throat, she reaches frantically across the workbench for a source of ignition. Snatching a lighter, she sparks the flame and immediately sets the coarse linen shroud ablaze. She stands entirely still under the buzzing fluorescent bulb, watching the glowing edges of the fabric quickly turn to black ash, slowly descending to the stained concrete floor below.
Breathing heavily, she raises her boot to completely smash the digital voice recorder into pieces, wanting to obliterate the tool they used to manipulate her. But she completely pauses just as she's about to slam her heel down onto the plastic casing. She hovers there, trembling, staring down at the device.
Kirsteb Scott: No... It's "evidence..."
Even though she audibly tells herself this is the logical reason she doesn't destroy the device—that it is a necessary "proof of life" of her father—she knows the darker, terrifying truth underneath the excuse. She knows she is keeping it because she is completely terrified that this could potentially be the last time she ever hears him speak. She is terrified that if she destroys it, she will eventually be the last one left alive to ever hear her father's voice again.
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PROMOOne of the biggest curiosities I had when I returned was simple... How would I be received? I mean, let's be entirely real for a second... Professional wrestling locker rooms are essentially just cages filled with starving vultures. They absolutely love to pick at the fresh corpses of those who couldn't handle the heat, or anyone who decides to leave the territory, for that matter. People in this back area are constantly paranoid. They desperately want to ensure that they remain the top dog, and they will do anything to guarantee nobody is ever going to come for their coveted spot, or steal their next meal.
So, naturally, I wanted to know exactly what would happen when those exact same people saw me casually strut my way back into the room...
Would it be welcoming? Would it be nothing but silent, icy stares? Would it be entirely judgmental because they all collectively assumed I just took my little ball and went home like a coward? Or would it be pure, unadulterated anger because they fully expected me to be completely dead to rights in this business?
I didn't know, honestly. But the reality of the situation was made pretty damn clear, pretty fast...
For starters, I will say it was mostly pleasant on the surface, but then there were those pathetic few who gave me a heavy side-eye from the very minute I walked through the door. People immediately started to whisper behind my back. People started to gossip like teenagers in a cafeteria. And people started to act like the exact, pathetic little bitches that most of them are deep down in their souls. And honestly? I can't even say I was surprised, for the most part. I can't say that anyone was really going out of character from what I distinctly remember about them.
But it still is kind of disheartening to see these self-proclaimed "precedents" of SCW treating someone like absolute ass when they already know that person has been through a living hell as it is. Let's get one thing straight: I wasn't there to make a scene, and I was not initially focused on farting in their cheerios. I certainly wasn't there to piss in their precious little sandbox, either. I simply returned to this company to do my own thing, and focus entirely on doing it the right way.
You see, I've been incredibly blunt from the jump about saying my focus was entirely elsewhere. It wasn't about treading on the ghosts of the past or endlessly rehashing any of it. I was focused completely on what was standing directly ahead of me, what could be my ultimate future, and what I have to do in order to get there. I am not anyone's patsy anymore. I am not doing anyone's dirty bidding. I am not palling around with toxic people who, in perfect hindsight, you just can't trust as far as you can throw them. I'm focused entirely on me.
And no, I don't mean that in some cliché, melodramatic "me against the world" type of way. It's actually me against myself. It's me pushing my own body harder than ever before. It's me proving to every single person out there that I am NOT just some fly-by-night competitor who shows up for a little bit of temporary clout and then scurries off when things get uncomfortable. It's ultimately me proving to my own reflection that I can accomplish MY GOALS, without trying to turn it into some cheap form of a public rallying cry, and without ever having to rely on the baggage of others. If other people want to come my way, fine. If not, so be it. But the fundamental fact is incredibly simple...
I'm back for a very specific reason... And it's to permanently become THE ONE who people chase, and absolutely not the one doing the chasing...
She sniffs in air real quick, letting the tension simmer for a brief moment before continuing.
... But I'm not getting ahead of myself. Not yet, anyway. I'm certainly not here to demand handouts from management, but I am absolutely not going to sit back and be patient, either. Hence why I made it crystal clear on Breakdown that Kirsten Scott won't be waiting around in long lines for anyone. She will be the exact person kicking the legs out from under those fools who decide to wait in the normal, everyday line... Because I'll have earned my way directly to TSA Precheck, or a VIP FastPass, or Priority Seating. Whatever commercial analogy you want to give it, the point remains the same: I'll have earned it.
Hell, I already started carving out my path when I was openly told by the locker room that I wasn't going to have anyone handed to me as a convenient stepping stone... Isn't that right, Oskar? Didn't you arrogantly tell me to my face that Kirsten Scott's big return wasn't going to involve anyone just rolling over and playing dead for her? Well, while you did managed to put up SOME semblance of a fight, that was a pretty meager attempt at trying to hold me back. You really didn't do yourself much justice proving you weren't a stepping stone, buddy. And if that tragic performance was truly your absolute best effort? Might I strongly suggest you try out the "Kirsten Scott" strategy of taking a massive amount of time off, and coming back with a brand new sense of actual piss and vinegar?
But for now, that's all the charity you get from me, Oskar, because my focus will continue to be strictly one-directional, and that direction is forward...
As I continue my steady move forward, I look toward the next episode of Breakdown and I look toward someone who, like I was not too long ago in SCW time, happens to be a relative newcomer to the organization. And this particular newcomer seems to arrive with an awful lot of pomp and circumstance trailing behind her, and I don't just mean in her ridiculous, self-entitled nickname of "Princess." Oh no, she has a lineage. She has a pristine wrestling history. She has parents who have thoroughly proven themselves at the highest levels in this business, and you know, that is genuinely nothing for me to scoff at, if you're asking for my honest opinion. I mean, wow... The literal daughter of TWO former World Champions. That's a hell of a resume to print out. But it also carries a bit of a massive, glaring drawback to it, if you ask me...
And Buttercup, I promise you, that exact drawback is going to be your absolute downfall come Breakdown...
You see, "Princess," you have an impossible amount of expectations to live up to every single time you lace up your boots. You have to constantly carry the heavy torch of your family legacy. You have to desperately prove to the entire world that the actual wrestling talent didn't just end with your parents... And you plan on achieving that how, exactly? By beating up on the fresh face newcomers? You want to build a legendary career by selectively picking on what you perceive to be low-hanging fruit? Is that how this entire match came to be in the first place? Did you happen to hear a name on the roster sheet that you thought was a complete nobody, or someone with absolutely no current background, and decide you could just use them for your own personal shits and giggles?
Well, bitch... I am incredibly sorry to break it to you... That's just not me...
That's not who The One is...
I may have been gone from this ring for a full year. I may not be in the exact, pristine physical shape I was back then. But I've already outlasted every expectation placed on me in Taking Hold of the Flame, and I have officially started my OWN personal journey back to being a somebody in this industry. And I can assure you, it doesn't involve chewing on the leftover scraps of SCW. It doesn't involve picking fights with complete nobodies. I want everyone. I want the absolute best this company has to offer. I want the absolute worst. I want every single person floating around in between because THAT is exactly how you create and cement a lasting legacy. You go out there into that ring and you ensure that you're ready, willing, and entirely able to leave ANYONE broken in your wake. And in your specific case, that will be you.
Come Breakdown, you're going to have a very rude, very painful awakening. Your back is going to be incredibly sore, but it's not going to be from sleeping on some hidden green pea under your mattress. Your fairy-tale clock is officially going to strike midnight. You'll be left scrubbing the floors while the real stars go to the ball. Just imagine whatever other basic Princess reference you want to insert right here, because the reality is going to be brutal. The fact is, you're not going to get a single ounce of royal treatment from me. You're going to get a harsh, violent dose of reality. And that reality is remarkably simple... You may have a famous lineage propelling you around the SCW card, but I have the raw drive and the guts to do whatever is humanly necessary in order to make my goals an absolute reality...
I won't be treated like a nobody or a helpless newbie... And you are going to learn that the hard way. Because when you step into my light... You'll watch your entire world GO DARK!