We ease into a dim-lit room, bland and uninspiring, the decorating almost conspicuous by the nature of it's inconspicuousness. In on corner, a chair, wooden, with leather padded seating. In the other corner, a typical therapist's couch, sloped, almost as though cushioning the user from the room itself. A cocoon. In the chair, sits an older man, mid-50's or so. He sits, leaning forward, listening intently. In the couch, rests the former "Rob Franklin," now wishing to referred to as "Sunshine."
Sunshine: "Do you think, that when we do this, that when we...talk here in this room...do you think it's real?"
Therapist: "What do you mean?"
Sunshine perks up ever so slightly and lifts his head, turning to look at the man.
Sunshine: "I mean, do you think this is an accurate depiction of me? Do you think, that by sitting me in this room, getting me to talk about...anything, really...that you can see deep inside my mind? I mean, you obviously think you're pretty good at your job, but this...isn't natural, you know?"
Therapist: "I do agree, however, I feel we've gotten to know each-"
Sunshine: "Have we, though? What if I'm just...convincing you? Could you tell?
Therapist: "Probably not."
Sunshine: "So, you really think I'm ready to get back into the ring?"
Therapist: "Unless you're just, you know, lying to me...are you?"
Sunshine: "Am I lying to you?"
Therapist: "Yes."
Sunshine: "I...I don't know."
The room slowly fades away. We fade back in, this time to a loft apartment, Sunshine, having apparently put a camera on top of his kitchen table, is seating looking directly into the audience. The apartment behind him, cold, sleek, and sterile, much like the stainless steel table on which the camera sits.
Sunshine: "Put whatever title you want upon this match at Aggression 63. Call it a debut, call it a return, call it a preliminary. Call it whatever you want. Bottom line is this, I don't know what I'm going to do. You see for those not in the know... I was put into mental health facilities, and treated for various illnesses, including chronic depression, anger management, hell...I was even diagnosed as a Sociopath. I've been put into a prison, a prison inside of my own mind.
I've felt nothing. No humor, no joy, only pain, only anger, only suffering. I'm the best...the best in the world. The best wrestler...in the world. Here I am, sitting in this cage, this cage inside my own mind.
I want out. I want freedom. I can only gain this freedom by beating it out of Jermaine Dawson...
And, make no mistake about it, Jermaine Dawson means nothing to me. Just as the fans that will surround the ring mean nothing to me, just as the referee, the trainers...no one registers.
And that's the problem. Not so much a problem for me...I'll be quite honest with you, I'm quite alright with being a sociopath. What I'm not okay with, is this loss of desire, loss of jest, if you will.
I don't care if I care about you, Jermaine Dawson. I don't care if we develop a rivalry, a friendship, or if we never see each other again. I can say, with the utmost certainty, that there isn't even a small part of me that would care if you lived or died.
And I'm fine with that. I don't actually WANT to care. Not about you, anyway.
I kinda wish....I just wish I cared about myself, though."
Sunshine leans over the table, now clutching his head in his hands as the screen fades to black.
