Better (Jolyne Dysart)
May 12, 2016 18:12:13 GMT -5
Post by Dragon on May 12, 2016 18:12:13 GMT -5
Jolyne Dysart wasn’t happy.
That was, to those who knew her, not exactly a new concept. She had a bit of a hair trigger temper, and little patience for the ridiculous antics the people around her loved. It was a shortcoming of hers.
But she wasn’t angry right now. She was somber. Suddenly preferring quiet and becoming withdrawn, she tried her best despite that to keep up appearances. It wasn’t easy, and she wondered if anyone who lived with her in this ridiculous communal RV had noticed.
Not that she’d have cared, really, but having people wonder would just be a pain. They might ask questions, and she hated the very idea of having to once again come up with excuses to someone.
So she decided to try and avoid that, and to force the recent feelings off of herself. This day she could feel in herself the willpower she hadn’t had in weeks, to do what she knew she needed to do.
She needed to sit down and write an email.
That was, perhaps, not what anyone would associate with causing the change in Jo’s demeanor. But it wasn’t a normal email, meant to be sent to a normal person. It was...different. And if she didn’t do it the very moment she had the feeling she could force herself to sit through it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever have that will again. So she sat on her bed with her laptop in front of her, and began to write the message.
Two hours later, it was done.
She had gone over it multiple times, changing almost every little thing in it. Words she regretted putting in, words she regretted not putting in, words she wanted to take out but knew she needed to keep in. It had been as much of a trial as she had thought it would be, and more than once she had wanted to just close the laptop and walk away, and just try to forget the looming date. But she fought through it, and had reached the end. It was done.
For the last time, she began to read it over.
She finished re-reading the message, and just stared at it for a while. At the last words. She said multiple times that she knew it was just false hope to hope that things would return to normal, but some part of her felt like sending this, regardless of him being dead or not, was the final nail in that coffin. The final release of it all.
She moved her mouse over and clicked once, sending the email to the account of Peter Dysart.
That was it.
She sat back, pressing her back against the wall. Her left hand drifted over to her right arm, rubbing from her shoulder down to her elbow. Even through the shirt she wore she could feel the raised skin. She frowned, as she removed her hand from her arm. That was the past. Even though it was her present, she didn’t need to dwell on it. That was weakness, and she was better than that. She had other things to focus on. But even as she thought of that, she found herself standing up, heading for the door to her room, thinking of where she knew Davy kept his booze.
Saturday was coming fast, and she needed to do the non-fighting part of her job. And she would. She’d talk about the match.
But right now she needed a drink.
--
She finished the glass of rum she had poured for herself, setting it off to the side before opening her laptop. Quickly switching the webcam on, she started recording, waving to the camera.
Jolyne Dysart: Yo. Figured I’ve done enough trying to get my points across over Wulf’s...Wulfness. Decided I do this myself. So, wow, last Vertigo was something else. We did exactly what I said we were going to do, and we beat Project Continuum, hell I was the one who got the pin, and now we’re at the quarters of this tournament. And I...I guess I didn’t really react like people expected to winning. I haven’t said anything the last two weeks, really, come to think of it...
A pause, as she sighs, hand rubbing at her forehead for reasons only she knows.
Jolyne Dysart: Ah, hell. I don’t actually know if I’m even going to send this in. Maybe I just want to get this all out, hear my own voice say it, not have anyone else hear it.
She shrugs.
Jolyne Dysart: I dunno yet. We’ll see.
She sighs, before continuing on.
Jolyne Dysart: So now, on Saturday me and Wulf have another match, and it’s definitely the biggest match of my career so far.
She lets out a small laugh.
Jolyne Dysart: It’s kind of crazy to me, because since RW closed every match I’ve had has genuinely been bigger than the last. It’s a weird feeling, and while of course it goes to my head, it also kind of...makes me pause.
She pauses herself, as thoughts come by her.
Jolyne Dysart: I’ve been quite lucky, I guess. That I keep getting these opportunities. Some people can go their whole careers without the chances I’ve gotten. But at the same time, I know it’s not really luck. I get these opportunities because I keep proving that I am as good as I say I am. Which I say a lot.
She says the last bit with a laugh, a small smile coming onto her face, though it fades quickly.
Jolyne Dysart: But it brings a lot of pressure with it. And I know from experience that I am fantastic at handling pressure, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel it pressing onto me. I just know that I have to shoulder it, ignore how it feels on me, and succeed despite it. And I guess that goes without saying, probably, but...ah, I dunno. Right now I’m just feeling it more than I normally do, I guess.
She smiles a bit again.
Jolyne Dysart: If I uploaded this and people are watching it, then you must be so confused. I’m not shouting about how great I am, or how easily me and Wulf will end up steamrolling this tournament. And I’m sorry for that, it’s just...I’m doing a lot of thinking about things right now, it’s the anniversary of some things, and it’s leaving me in a weird place right now. Sorry.
She lets out a sigh.
Jolyne Dysart: Right now someone’s probably thinking that that means I’m having a moment of weakness, of doubts. That now there’s some crack in the armor that can exploited on Saturday. But there isn’t. I still am completely and one hundred percent certain that Wulf and I will win on Saturday, and continue on to in the tournament and the FGA tag titles after that. There is zero doubts in my mind about that.
The smile appears again.
Jolyne Dysart: That must be really confusing. Sorry. But that’s just how I am. People think my complete belief in myself is just massive arrogance, that I just think I’m better than every other person who walks down to the ring to wrestle.
For a moment, that familiar look of superiority comes to her face.
Jolyne Dysart: And I am, of course.
And that look fades.
Jolyne Dysart: But it’s not just that, it’s more than that. I have to believe in myself, completely, at all times. I can’t let doubts ever enter my head, I have to just forge ahead no matter what is in front of me, whether it be a Lasiewicz or GRENDEL. I have to always be certain I’m going to win.
Her face takes on a very serious, focused look.
Jolyne Dysart: Because I have to be better.
She pauses for a few moments, one finger idly tapping on the table as she tries to get the right words in her head.
Jolyne Dysart: For a year now, I’ve been working my ass off. Putting in work, constantly improving myself. I’ve done that because I have to be better than I was the day before. Every day I have to put a new foot forward, or that day was wasted. For a year I’ve been bettering myself, getting stronger. And I have to prove that I’m better. Each and every time I go out there, the first thought in my head is that it’s time again to prove that I’m better than I was the last time I was in the ring. And I know that if I think for even a second, that I could lose, then I’m allowing a weakness that could be exploited.
Her jaw sets.
Jolyne Dysart: And I’m not weak. I’m strong. And I’m better. Because I have to be.
She lets out a sigh.
Jolyne Dysart: That’s why I took losses so badly when I started out. I’d get angry at everything, but mostly just at myself. I’d be reminded of...stuff. It took a lot of work before I could get past that. I can at least...accept losses now. I can use them to better myself. And learning to do that made me better too.
She smiles.
Jolyne Dysart: So that’s why even now, going into this match, I’m 100% certain me and Wulf will win. Not a sliver of doubt. Even though there probably should be, to other people. I mean, look at what’s in front of us.
Jolyne Dysart: Sophie El. Part of the legendary Kaiser dynasty. Incredibly physically strong. Amazing mind for wrestling. Unhinged weirdo. We were both called dark horses of the SSWA Young Guns Cup and, well, I guess she was better at being a dark horse than me, since she made it to the semis and I got stopped at the quarters. Which makes this a funny match. If she wins on Saturday then she’ll go to the semis, again, and I’ll be stopped at the quarters, again.
A wider smile comes to her face.
Jolyne Dysart: But that’s not what will happen. Because despite all she has going for her, I am completely certain that I’m better, and that my team will be the one winning. Because I have to be.
Jolyne Dysart: And next to her is Magdalena. A fucking Lasiewicz, and I don’t really have to explain what that name means. It goes hand in hand with the highest tier of success. And Mags isn’t a slouch. She’s a world champion. She’s beaten people like Chris Strike. She’s kind of really crazy and unpredictable, I’d never be able to guess what she’s gonna do before she does it. Sophie is dangerous but she’s a mouse next to Magdalena. All it would take is one good hit from her and I’d be out. But.
The wide smile again.
Jolyne Dysart: Despite that, I don’t fear her. The crazy things she’s done, they don’t put fear into my heart and mind, they don’t shake me. I’m really familiar with crazy, and if there is one thing I’ve learned over the past year is that no matter what a crazy person does to me I’ll always prove myself to be better, and that she won’t be the winner on Saturday. Because I have to be.
A look of determination now comes onto her face.
Jolyne Dysart: So, tune in Saturday. Watch as Le Pacte de Immortels gets hit with a Justice Riot. Teacher and student vs. teacher and student, underdogs vs. a far stronger team, however you wanna write this one up in your heads. It won’t change the outcome. Justice Riot is going to win this match. Then we’ll win our semi match, then we’ll win this whole tournament, then we’re going to win the FGA tag belts. Of that, I am 100% certain. Not a doubt in my mind.
The determined look gains a smile to it.
Jolyne Dysart: Because I’m better. I have to be.
She reached over and clicked on her mouse, ending the recording. She pauses as she begins to upload it, just a slight hesitation, slight worry. Then she shakes her head, ignoring all of that, as she starts the upload of the video.
She leaned back, putting her back against the wall, a smile creeping onto her face. She could hear the usual chaos of the RV around her, distinctly hearing a man trying to sound like a pirate, yelling some nonsense about his rum being stolen. But it didn’t bother her, she barely noticed it. She just sat there, content.
She felt better.
That was, to those who knew her, not exactly a new concept. She had a bit of a hair trigger temper, and little patience for the ridiculous antics the people around her loved. It was a shortcoming of hers.
But she wasn’t angry right now. She was somber. Suddenly preferring quiet and becoming withdrawn, she tried her best despite that to keep up appearances. It wasn’t easy, and she wondered if anyone who lived with her in this ridiculous communal RV had noticed.
Not that she’d have cared, really, but having people wonder would just be a pain. They might ask questions, and she hated the very idea of having to once again come up with excuses to someone.
So she decided to try and avoid that, and to force the recent feelings off of herself. This day she could feel in herself the willpower she hadn’t had in weeks, to do what she knew she needed to do.
She needed to sit down and write an email.
That was, perhaps, not what anyone would associate with causing the change in Jo’s demeanor. But it wasn’t a normal email, meant to be sent to a normal person. It was...different. And if she didn’t do it the very moment she had the feeling she could force herself to sit through it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever have that will again. So she sat on her bed with her laptop in front of her, and began to write the message.
Two hours later, it was done.
She had gone over it multiple times, changing almost every little thing in it. Words she regretted putting in, words she regretted not putting in, words she wanted to take out but knew she needed to keep in. It had been as much of a trial as she had thought it would be, and more than once she had wanted to just close the laptop and walk away, and just try to forget the looming date. But she fought through it, and had reached the end. It was done.
For the last time, she began to read it over.
“It’s been a year.
Or close enough, I guess. Only a week off. I’d do this on the day, but I’ve been feeling this...I don’t know what to call it. Melancholy? Dread? Something like that. And I realized that I had the will to sit down and do this today, so I should take it. One reason is that I guess I have some hope that sending this will make that feeling go away. I have the most important match of my career coming up in a few days, and I can’t be distracted by thinking about you and what happened a year ago. And also because I know I might not have the willpower to do this any day after this. Take the chance while I have it. Not that it matters for you, since I don’t think you’ll see this.
I’ve finally accepted that you’re probably dead.
I don’t talk to people from my old life often, but every time I have the question comes up. “So where’s Peter?” they ask, not knowing. First few times I’d put on a fake smile and deflect it. And then I realized you weren’t worth that effort, and I’d just tell them I didn’t care. Even dad asked me about where you were, about a month ago, and I smacked that aside as hard as I could. Which is unfair to him, he deserves to know, but...well, he’d just say he had been right all along about what I chose to do. And I don’t need to hear that again. Not over this.
Not a one of them has seen you in a year. That means you’re probably dead, it’s the obvious answer. Someone put one in the back of your head, and dumped you in a shallow grave somewhere for the rats to pick apart. Or burnt your body. That’d be appropriate.
Reading that paragraph back, I’m surprised by how callous that was. You deserve it, without a doubt, but it’s just another reminder of how badly things changed that night in the cabin.
I guess you’d be happy to know that I think of you a lot. Every time I train, I think of you. As often as I can, I imagine your face over who or what I’m working with.
Someone told me once that I was hitting a punching bag like I was trying to tear it open.
They weren’t wrong, I guess.
...I type that and then realize that, yeah, that would make you happy. It’d put a smile on your face. You’d think you’re helping. That’s how it always was. You wanting us to be the best we could be, trying to “better” us. Everyone thought it was just an excuse you used to try and escape getting into trouble for the shit you’d do, but I knew better. You really believed all of that. I could see it in your eyes. Looking back, I guess that was the only time your eyes ever had the truth in them. Or maybe I was just not as good at reading you as I thought. I guess that depends on how much of what happens I want to blame myself for.
...I don’t know how much blame I put on myself. I think about it a lot.
Is it my fault for agreeing to work with you, when I know what kind of person you are? For agreeing to jobs that I knew could end like that? My dad always warned me that doing what I did would end badly for me, so do I put some of the blame on myself for not listening?
...nah.
It’s easy to blame myself. It’s what makes sense to my brain. By taking blame from you and putting it on me, it tries to keep some grip on how I use to view things. That in the end things could go back to normal somehow. It hopes I can wake up one day and find out it was all a dream, no scars on my body.
But that’s a false hope. It’s not reality.
The reality is that it’s your fault.
You made the choice. You said the words. And what happened to me after was directly because of those.
And I think what the worst part is is that I know how you had to have felt then.
You had to have been proud of yourself.
You’d feel like this was the ultimate act of your whole viewpoint. That if I survived that, I’d become “better,” beyond anything I was before.
No, that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that you ended up being right.
I am better.
The me of a year ago wouldn’t recognize the me of right now. Not just physically. I’m faster than ever. I hit harder than ever. But it’s more than that. I have a goal now. I didn’t have one before, besides just pull a job off and come home. I want to succeed at this, I want that more than anything else I’ve ever wanted. And I’ve never been so focused on something before. It’s a different me, in a different life.
And in this new life, this job I never paid a single thought to in my old life, I have found a...happiness.
That’s the biggest change. Despite the frustrations, the crazies around me, and the headstands. Even despite the weight of some stupid mistakes I’ve made so far. I’m happy.
And, in some way, I have you to thank for that.
The people I’ve met, the things I’ve done, the things I’ve accomplished, I can trace them all back to that night in the cabin. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have the life I do now. And that thought bothers me. That I could’ve just gone on with the life I had, having no idea of how much happier I’d be doing something I’d have thought ridiculous.
Early on, I always wished that night hadn’t happened. Before I broke into Mr. Gray’s house, before the training, before I realized how much I enjoyed this. It’s like I said, I wanted to wake up and find it was all a dream. But that was early on. Now, it’s different. It is something that I accept as part of me. It made me who I am now, without it I’d be less happy today.
But I’d never say I’m happy it happened, don’t misunderstand that.
Everything I own has to have sleeves so no one sees the burn scars on my arm.
I have to hope my tops don’t ride up enough that someone can see and ask about the scar from the bullet.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with either of those. Every time I look at them I get the same feeling in my stomach. Like getting shot all over again.
That’s because of you.
And it’s why I’d never let you have any credit for the good that’s come from this.
I want you to understand that clearly. You’re not allowed to feel proud about this, you’re not allowed to feel like any credit for what I’ve become is yours. It’s not. The only credit you get is for a hole in my stomach and a burnt down cabin.
I’M the one who survived that night.
I’M the one who fought tooth and nail to keep from falling into depression.
I’M the one who found this opportunity.
I’M the one who trained, pushed myself, until I was good enough in the ring.
I’M the one who gets the credit for MY success.
You get nothing, you pyromaniacal nutcase.
It’s like I said. Early on I wanted the night to have not happened. But now, I accept that it did. And I use it. Because there was one thing you were right about.
I am better.
I’m better than you.
And proving that is what pushes me forward, each and every day.
You know, I dreaded writing this. I hated the idea of it, I hated having to think about all of this yet again. But now, I’m glad I did. Getting this all off of my chest, it feels like another weight I’ve pushed off of me from that night. And there’s only one thing I have left to say to you.
I’ve thought about the rest of this message, analysed and changed every word of it so many times, but I never had to rethink how I wanted to end it. I couldn’t bring myself to say it to my dad, but nothing will feel better than to say it to you.
I hope you’re dead, big brother.”
Or close enough, I guess. Only a week off. I’d do this on the day, but I’ve been feeling this...I don’t know what to call it. Melancholy? Dread? Something like that. And I realized that I had the will to sit down and do this today, so I should take it. One reason is that I guess I have some hope that sending this will make that feeling go away. I have the most important match of my career coming up in a few days, and I can’t be distracted by thinking about you and what happened a year ago. And also because I know I might not have the willpower to do this any day after this. Take the chance while I have it. Not that it matters for you, since I don’t think you’ll see this.
I’ve finally accepted that you’re probably dead.
I don’t talk to people from my old life often, but every time I have the question comes up. “So where’s Peter?” they ask, not knowing. First few times I’d put on a fake smile and deflect it. And then I realized you weren’t worth that effort, and I’d just tell them I didn’t care. Even dad asked me about where you were, about a month ago, and I smacked that aside as hard as I could. Which is unfair to him, he deserves to know, but...well, he’d just say he had been right all along about what I chose to do. And I don’t need to hear that again. Not over this.
Not a one of them has seen you in a year. That means you’re probably dead, it’s the obvious answer. Someone put one in the back of your head, and dumped you in a shallow grave somewhere for the rats to pick apart. Or burnt your body. That’d be appropriate.
Reading that paragraph back, I’m surprised by how callous that was. You deserve it, without a doubt, but it’s just another reminder of how badly things changed that night in the cabin.
I guess you’d be happy to know that I think of you a lot. Every time I train, I think of you. As often as I can, I imagine your face over who or what I’m working with.
Someone told me once that I was hitting a punching bag like I was trying to tear it open.
They weren’t wrong, I guess.
...I type that and then realize that, yeah, that would make you happy. It’d put a smile on your face. You’d think you’re helping. That’s how it always was. You wanting us to be the best we could be, trying to “better” us. Everyone thought it was just an excuse you used to try and escape getting into trouble for the shit you’d do, but I knew better. You really believed all of that. I could see it in your eyes. Looking back, I guess that was the only time your eyes ever had the truth in them. Or maybe I was just not as good at reading you as I thought. I guess that depends on how much of what happens I want to blame myself for.
...I don’t know how much blame I put on myself. I think about it a lot.
Is it my fault for agreeing to work with you, when I know what kind of person you are? For agreeing to jobs that I knew could end like that? My dad always warned me that doing what I did would end badly for me, so do I put some of the blame on myself for not listening?
...nah.
It’s easy to blame myself. It’s what makes sense to my brain. By taking blame from you and putting it on me, it tries to keep some grip on how I use to view things. That in the end things could go back to normal somehow. It hopes I can wake up one day and find out it was all a dream, no scars on my body.
But that’s a false hope. It’s not reality.
The reality is that it’s your fault.
You made the choice. You said the words. And what happened to me after was directly because of those.
And I think what the worst part is is that I know how you had to have felt then.
You had to have been proud of yourself.
You’d feel like this was the ultimate act of your whole viewpoint. That if I survived that, I’d become “better,” beyond anything I was before.
No, that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that you ended up being right.
I am better.
The me of a year ago wouldn’t recognize the me of right now. Not just physically. I’m faster than ever. I hit harder than ever. But it’s more than that. I have a goal now. I didn’t have one before, besides just pull a job off and come home. I want to succeed at this, I want that more than anything else I’ve ever wanted. And I’ve never been so focused on something before. It’s a different me, in a different life.
And in this new life, this job I never paid a single thought to in my old life, I have found a...happiness.
That’s the biggest change. Despite the frustrations, the crazies around me, and the headstands. Even despite the weight of some stupid mistakes I’ve made so far. I’m happy.
And, in some way, I have you to thank for that.
The people I’ve met, the things I’ve done, the things I’ve accomplished, I can trace them all back to that night in the cabin. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t have the life I do now. And that thought bothers me. That I could’ve just gone on with the life I had, having no idea of how much happier I’d be doing something I’d have thought ridiculous.
Early on, I always wished that night hadn’t happened. Before I broke into Mr. Gray’s house, before the training, before I realized how much I enjoyed this. It’s like I said, I wanted to wake up and find it was all a dream. But that was early on. Now, it’s different. It is something that I accept as part of me. It made me who I am now, without it I’d be less happy today.
But I’d never say I’m happy it happened, don’t misunderstand that.
Everything I own has to have sleeves so no one sees the burn scars on my arm.
I have to hope my tops don’t ride up enough that someone can see and ask about the scar from the bullet.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with either of those. Every time I look at them I get the same feeling in my stomach. Like getting shot all over again.
That’s because of you.
And it’s why I’d never let you have any credit for the good that’s come from this.
I want you to understand that clearly. You’re not allowed to feel proud about this, you’re not allowed to feel like any credit for what I’ve become is yours. It’s not. The only credit you get is for a hole in my stomach and a burnt down cabin.
I’M the one who survived that night.
I’M the one who fought tooth and nail to keep from falling into depression.
I’M the one who found this opportunity.
I’M the one who trained, pushed myself, until I was good enough in the ring.
I’M the one who gets the credit for MY success.
You get nothing, you pyromaniacal nutcase.
It’s like I said. Early on I wanted the night to have not happened. But now, I accept that it did. And I use it. Because there was one thing you were right about.
I am better.
I’m better than you.
And proving that is what pushes me forward, each and every day.
You know, I dreaded writing this. I hated the idea of it, I hated having to think about all of this yet again. But now, I’m glad I did. Getting this all off of my chest, it feels like another weight I’ve pushed off of me from that night. And there’s only one thing I have left to say to you.
I’ve thought about the rest of this message, analysed and changed every word of it so many times, but I never had to rethink how I wanted to end it. I couldn’t bring myself to say it to my dad, but nothing will feel better than to say it to you.
I hope you’re dead, big brother.”
She finished re-reading the message, and just stared at it for a while. At the last words. She said multiple times that she knew it was just false hope to hope that things would return to normal, but some part of her felt like sending this, regardless of him being dead or not, was the final nail in that coffin. The final release of it all.
She moved her mouse over and clicked once, sending the email to the account of Peter Dysart.
That was it.
She sat back, pressing her back against the wall. Her left hand drifted over to her right arm, rubbing from her shoulder down to her elbow. Even through the shirt she wore she could feel the raised skin. She frowned, as she removed her hand from her arm. That was the past. Even though it was her present, she didn’t need to dwell on it. That was weakness, and she was better than that. She had other things to focus on. But even as she thought of that, she found herself standing up, heading for the door to her room, thinking of where she knew Davy kept his booze.
Saturday was coming fast, and she needed to do the non-fighting part of her job. And she would. She’d talk about the match.
But right now she needed a drink.
--
She finished the glass of rum she had poured for herself, setting it off to the side before opening her laptop. Quickly switching the webcam on, she started recording, waving to the camera.
Jolyne Dysart: Yo. Figured I’ve done enough trying to get my points across over Wulf’s...Wulfness. Decided I do this myself. So, wow, last Vertigo was something else. We did exactly what I said we were going to do, and we beat Project Continuum, hell I was the one who got the pin, and now we’re at the quarters of this tournament. And I...I guess I didn’t really react like people expected to winning. I haven’t said anything the last two weeks, really, come to think of it...
A pause, as she sighs, hand rubbing at her forehead for reasons only she knows.
Jolyne Dysart: Ah, hell. I don’t actually know if I’m even going to send this in. Maybe I just want to get this all out, hear my own voice say it, not have anyone else hear it.
She shrugs.
Jolyne Dysart: I dunno yet. We’ll see.
She sighs, before continuing on.
Jolyne Dysart: So now, on Saturday me and Wulf have another match, and it’s definitely the biggest match of my career so far.
She lets out a small laugh.
Jolyne Dysart: It’s kind of crazy to me, because since RW closed every match I’ve had has genuinely been bigger than the last. It’s a weird feeling, and while of course it goes to my head, it also kind of...makes me pause.
She pauses herself, as thoughts come by her.
Jolyne Dysart: I’ve been quite lucky, I guess. That I keep getting these opportunities. Some people can go their whole careers without the chances I’ve gotten. But at the same time, I know it’s not really luck. I get these opportunities because I keep proving that I am as good as I say I am. Which I say a lot.
She says the last bit with a laugh, a small smile coming onto her face, though it fades quickly.
Jolyne Dysart: But it brings a lot of pressure with it. And I know from experience that I am fantastic at handling pressure, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel it pressing onto me. I just know that I have to shoulder it, ignore how it feels on me, and succeed despite it. And I guess that goes without saying, probably, but...ah, I dunno. Right now I’m just feeling it more than I normally do, I guess.
She smiles a bit again.
Jolyne Dysart: If I uploaded this and people are watching it, then you must be so confused. I’m not shouting about how great I am, or how easily me and Wulf will end up steamrolling this tournament. And I’m sorry for that, it’s just...I’m doing a lot of thinking about things right now, it’s the anniversary of some things, and it’s leaving me in a weird place right now. Sorry.
She lets out a sigh.
Jolyne Dysart: Right now someone’s probably thinking that that means I’m having a moment of weakness, of doubts. That now there’s some crack in the armor that can exploited on Saturday. But there isn’t. I still am completely and one hundred percent certain that Wulf and I will win on Saturday, and continue on to in the tournament and the FGA tag titles after that. There is zero doubts in my mind about that.
The smile appears again.
Jolyne Dysart: That must be really confusing. Sorry. But that’s just how I am. People think my complete belief in myself is just massive arrogance, that I just think I’m better than every other person who walks down to the ring to wrestle.
For a moment, that familiar look of superiority comes to her face.
Jolyne Dysart: And I am, of course.
And that look fades.
Jolyne Dysart: But it’s not just that, it’s more than that. I have to believe in myself, completely, at all times. I can’t let doubts ever enter my head, I have to just forge ahead no matter what is in front of me, whether it be a Lasiewicz or GRENDEL. I have to always be certain I’m going to win.
Her face takes on a very serious, focused look.
Jolyne Dysart: Because I have to be better.
She pauses for a few moments, one finger idly tapping on the table as she tries to get the right words in her head.
Jolyne Dysart: For a year now, I’ve been working my ass off. Putting in work, constantly improving myself. I’ve done that because I have to be better than I was the day before. Every day I have to put a new foot forward, or that day was wasted. For a year I’ve been bettering myself, getting stronger. And I have to prove that I’m better. Each and every time I go out there, the first thought in my head is that it’s time again to prove that I’m better than I was the last time I was in the ring. And I know that if I think for even a second, that I could lose, then I’m allowing a weakness that could be exploited.
Her jaw sets.
Jolyne Dysart: And I’m not weak. I’m strong. And I’m better. Because I have to be.
She lets out a sigh.
Jolyne Dysart: That’s why I took losses so badly when I started out. I’d get angry at everything, but mostly just at myself. I’d be reminded of...stuff. It took a lot of work before I could get past that. I can at least...accept losses now. I can use them to better myself. And learning to do that made me better too.
She smiles.
Jolyne Dysart: So that’s why even now, going into this match, I’m 100% certain me and Wulf will win. Not a sliver of doubt. Even though there probably should be, to other people. I mean, look at what’s in front of us.
Jolyne Dysart: Sophie El. Part of the legendary Kaiser dynasty. Incredibly physically strong. Amazing mind for wrestling. Unhinged weirdo. We were both called dark horses of the SSWA Young Guns Cup and, well, I guess she was better at being a dark horse than me, since she made it to the semis and I got stopped at the quarters. Which makes this a funny match. If she wins on Saturday then she’ll go to the semis, again, and I’ll be stopped at the quarters, again.
A wider smile comes to her face.
Jolyne Dysart: But that’s not what will happen. Because despite all she has going for her, I am completely certain that I’m better, and that my team will be the one winning. Because I have to be.
Jolyne Dysart: And next to her is Magdalena. A fucking Lasiewicz, and I don’t really have to explain what that name means. It goes hand in hand with the highest tier of success. And Mags isn’t a slouch. She’s a world champion. She’s beaten people like Chris Strike. She’s kind of really crazy and unpredictable, I’d never be able to guess what she’s gonna do before she does it. Sophie is dangerous but she’s a mouse next to Magdalena. All it would take is one good hit from her and I’d be out. But.
The wide smile again.
Jolyne Dysart: Despite that, I don’t fear her. The crazy things she’s done, they don’t put fear into my heart and mind, they don’t shake me. I’m really familiar with crazy, and if there is one thing I’ve learned over the past year is that no matter what a crazy person does to me I’ll always prove myself to be better, and that she won’t be the winner on Saturday. Because I have to be.
A look of determination now comes onto her face.
Jolyne Dysart: So, tune in Saturday. Watch as Le Pacte de Immortels gets hit with a Justice Riot. Teacher and student vs. teacher and student, underdogs vs. a far stronger team, however you wanna write this one up in your heads. It won’t change the outcome. Justice Riot is going to win this match. Then we’ll win our semi match, then we’ll win this whole tournament, then we’re going to win the FGA tag belts. Of that, I am 100% certain. Not a doubt in my mind.
The determined look gains a smile to it.
Jolyne Dysart: Because I’m better. I have to be.
She reached over and clicked on her mouse, ending the recording. She pauses as she begins to upload it, just a slight hesitation, slight worry. Then she shakes her head, ignoring all of that, as she starts the upload of the video.
She leaned back, putting her back against the wall, a smile creeping onto her face. She could hear the usual chaos of the RV around her, distinctly hearing a man trying to sound like a pirate, yelling some nonsense about his rum being stolen. But it didn’t bother her, she barely noticed it. She just sat there, content.
She felt better.