Pedro Gonzales and the Haunting of Ghosts
Feb 19, 2016 16:15:51 GMT -5
Post by Anna on Feb 19, 2016 16:15:51 GMT -5
He could still feel it in his nightmares.
The limbs that tried to pull him apart. The teeth that dug into his flesh. He could see the wrestling ring just a few feet away and hear the crowd call for his blood. His compatriots standing back to back on the canvas, ready to fight off the ever-growing mob. On any other day, he would've joined them. But he had failed himself. He had gotten confident and thought that he would never feel that chill running down his spine again. The chill of cowardice. Running foolishly into the tsunami of rage all to escape whatever would happen in there, he paid the price a hundred fold. The bodies of people he tried so hard to entertain turn into vultures in his dreams. They peck at him with their jagged beaks and tear him apart into bite size bits. And even though he would awake in a cold sweat each time, the incident proved beneficial. For even as they devoured his mind, body, and soul, they swallowed his fear along with it.
At least that's the strange belief system of Pedro Gonzales as he bolts upright in bed. He has to believe in this in order to do what he wants to do. Regression is not an option. With a sigh, he looks outside. Snow. The white stuff is a rarity to his eyes: so pure and full of delight. In the right light, it glimmers like Mother Nature's own version of treasure. But it also brought about the chill in men's bones. Still, as it kept accumulating across the landscape, the young man from Mexico City can't help but feel an odd bit of peace.
His sewing machine sits in a corner of the room, its mechanics old school and second hand. Pedro puts his hands on it lovingly all the while looking for some scraps to put together. Within ten minutes, he was set up. The thump-thum-thump on the needle is a welcoming sound. A familiar sound every bit as close to a fetal heartbeat as a machine could muster on its own. It reminded him of his mother, long dead and a brilliant seamstress. Pedro couldn't say the same. As a garment maker, he was solid at best but his fate would not be following in his mother's footprints nor in the wandering suede of his father's. Stitch by stitch draws his mind inward into memory where experience dwells.
Shaking off the aftereffects of the dream, he had to remind himself that this is not that. Yes, it's wrestling and yes, these are wrestlers--every bit as varied as those he's see before. But there's no real threat of death here, aside from the obvious. LDFC was...normal. As normal as the business could possibly be. At least here, he can stay in the back of classes, listening to his teachers and committing everything to muscle memory. A man can go through a normal wrestling career here and not bat an eyelash. But there is no doubt that the weirdness of Gonzales' past had irreparably altered him.
There were two things that caused Pedro to win his debut match in LDFC. This first was instinct. As a boy play-wrestling with his older brother, the only thing he could do was to Houdini a pin against the sibling when he didn't expect it. The years had left that as a faint memory in his head, but it was buried in his subconscious waiting for the right time to strike. As a result of his training from before, he could now accomplish this in a multitude of ways. The second was Kellen Klein. The anger of being unable to put Pedro away mixed with his incredible ego led to the mistake that ultimately made him lose. But that was then. Now the Favorite Son had real adversaries.
Butcher.
Darby.
Although most would look down on them as mediocre at best, something about the Brits made his blood boil. Every word he said in front of that camera was true. He did want to protect Señor Malo and he didn't like their tactics. But he had also seen evil and malicious intent in their eyes. If that's left unchecked, if that keeps being shoved to the side by others...
This is not that. Mortals, mere mortals, mere men.
Mere men can do dangerous things. Especially in ignorance.
How do you know you're not doing the same?
The needle pricks against the Mexican's skin, sending him back into the present. Instantaneous lick of blood. It's only a flesh wound, but a necessary one. Perhaps it is a bit ridiculous, trying to keep some decorum in the art of wrestling, trying to nip potential destroyers in the bud.
But somebody had to try.
The limbs that tried to pull him apart. The teeth that dug into his flesh. He could see the wrestling ring just a few feet away and hear the crowd call for his blood. His compatriots standing back to back on the canvas, ready to fight off the ever-growing mob. On any other day, he would've joined them. But he had failed himself. He had gotten confident and thought that he would never feel that chill running down his spine again. The chill of cowardice. Running foolishly into the tsunami of rage all to escape whatever would happen in there, he paid the price a hundred fold. The bodies of people he tried so hard to entertain turn into vultures in his dreams. They peck at him with their jagged beaks and tear him apart into bite size bits. And even though he would awake in a cold sweat each time, the incident proved beneficial. For even as they devoured his mind, body, and soul, they swallowed his fear along with it.
At least that's the strange belief system of Pedro Gonzales as he bolts upright in bed. He has to believe in this in order to do what he wants to do. Regression is not an option. With a sigh, he looks outside. Snow. The white stuff is a rarity to his eyes: so pure and full of delight. In the right light, it glimmers like Mother Nature's own version of treasure. But it also brought about the chill in men's bones. Still, as it kept accumulating across the landscape, the young man from Mexico City can't help but feel an odd bit of peace.
His sewing machine sits in a corner of the room, its mechanics old school and second hand. Pedro puts his hands on it lovingly all the while looking for some scraps to put together. Within ten minutes, he was set up. The thump-thum-thump on the needle is a welcoming sound. A familiar sound every bit as close to a fetal heartbeat as a machine could muster on its own. It reminded him of his mother, long dead and a brilliant seamstress. Pedro couldn't say the same. As a garment maker, he was solid at best but his fate would not be following in his mother's footprints nor in the wandering suede of his father's. Stitch by stitch draws his mind inward into memory where experience dwells.
Shaking off the aftereffects of the dream, he had to remind himself that this is not that. Yes, it's wrestling and yes, these are wrestlers--every bit as varied as those he's see before. But there's no real threat of death here, aside from the obvious. LDFC was...normal. As normal as the business could possibly be. At least here, he can stay in the back of classes, listening to his teachers and committing everything to muscle memory. A man can go through a normal wrestling career here and not bat an eyelash. But there is no doubt that the weirdness of Gonzales' past had irreparably altered him.
There were two things that caused Pedro to win his debut match in LDFC. This first was instinct. As a boy play-wrestling with his older brother, the only thing he could do was to Houdini a pin against the sibling when he didn't expect it. The years had left that as a faint memory in his head, but it was buried in his subconscious waiting for the right time to strike. As a result of his training from before, he could now accomplish this in a multitude of ways. The second was Kellen Klein. The anger of being unable to put Pedro away mixed with his incredible ego led to the mistake that ultimately made him lose. But that was then. Now the Favorite Son had real adversaries.
Butcher.
Darby.
Although most would look down on them as mediocre at best, something about the Brits made his blood boil. Every word he said in front of that camera was true. He did want to protect Señor Malo and he didn't like their tactics. But he had also seen evil and malicious intent in their eyes. If that's left unchecked, if that keeps being shoved to the side by others...
This is not that. Mortals, mere mortals, mere men.
Mere men can do dangerous things. Especially in ignorance.
How do you know you're not doing the same?
The needle pricks against the Mexican's skin, sending him back into the present. Instantaneous lick of blood. It's only a flesh wound, but a necessary one. Perhaps it is a bit ridiculous, trying to keep some decorum in the art of wrestling, trying to nip potential destroyers in the bud.
But somebody had to try.