Trent King; When Shit Hits The Fan, Hide Under Your Vices

"Shit...Meet Fan"

As night fell into day and the sun took the moon’s place, Trent found himself encompassed by the walls of a holding cell. A silent fuck swept across his mind.

He sat up from the thin mattress he’d fallen asleep on. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes and rubbing his fingers against his temples. He ached tremendously; his head pounded, his back, hand and body was sore. He clenched his teeth, grinding them with squinted eyes, as to push the pain out of his mind. It didn’t work.

He looked down to his right hand, somewhat swollen and a deep cut across his knuckle. He’d knocked the fucker’s tooth out. He extended his fingers and then clenched them a few times, before letting his head fall in exhaustion, confusion, and depression.

What the fuck had happened to him? One week, life was on the up-and-up, he felt good and was anxious for the next day. Now, life was shit, he felt awful, and he dreaded each moment that passed. He was a fucking wreck.

A million and two things ran rampant through his mind, but he could grab just one to focus on. They all slipped through his fingers effortlessly and he brought his hands up to his head, frustrated and tired. He heard a tap.

He looked up to see Natasha, her face split by the bars. He didn’t know what to say. In a way, he felt he disappointed her, he felt she’d look down upon him the way a teacher would stand over a student. Spewing bullshit advice on life, telling him that she expected more, sighing and acting as if she’s so distressed, dangling and shaking her head, that crap. But, she didn’t. She only smiled, in that this-is-so-not-the-time-for-a-smile kind of way. And he really wished she would’ve been upset. That’s what he expected and he didn’t know how to deal with a smile.

In the car, she didn’t say a word and neither did he. She didn’t look at him, not even from the corner of her eye and neither did he. He kept his eyes closed for most of the ride, listening to the lightly-playing radio, his head against the window.

He felt the car suddenly stop and Natasha coughed, letting him know he was home–whatever that was at this point. He got out.

“Thanks.” He whispered and closed the door.

Her car drove away, circling around the cul-de-sac and fading away behind some houses as she turned. He went inside, stepping over a bunch of mail and he walked around aimlessly. He didn’t know what to do.

After he’d got tired of the senseless pacing and punching holes in the wall, he got something to put him into a drunken stupor. The first bottle went down easily enough. By the sixth, he was out of his fucking mind.

He stumbled around his house, trying to avoid the broken glass on the floor from the fourth and fifth bottles he’d dropped. He laughed painfully and collapsed to the floor.

He lied on his back, still, letting the empty bottle roll out of his hand and stop at a wall.

“Why me, God? WHY THE FUCK DID YOU CHOOSE ME?” Well, something like that. It was all slurred together.

Why did Trent King have to be plagued with the shit in his life? Why did his mother give him up after birth? Why did he have to be an orphan, a fucking child of state till he was fifteen and a family decided to give this kid who was only curious about life a chance? Why did he have to get close to them, only to have the only father he knew die years later? When he wasn’t even there. Why did he have to be fuck-up at relationships, questioning everything good and dwelling on everything bad? Why did he have to love the taste of that intoxicating poison? The way it made him feel, why did it have to be good enough for him to face the way he’d feel the next day? Why did his life have to be a constant roller coaster: be happy and then fuck up, be happy and then fuck up more? Why did he have to be Trent King? And when would he not have to anymore?

The ceiling fan above him twirled, his eyes watching it without much thought. It soon made him dizzy and the puke shot up viciously, before his head rolled slightly and his vision dimmed.

—

A year ago, life was good. He had a nice apartment, a friend he thought of as the brother he never had. He had enough money for nice things, he had enough women to keep him satisfied, he had a normal job, bartending. Life was simple.

Then came that day, when he stepped into the ring at his first SSW event. The new guy, and he beat the shit out of some Ian Walker guy. And in his mind, his life seemed to elevate from there. He had more money, more women, and a job that kept him traveling. Soon he gained some celebrity, he became the Supreme Champion–the longest running Supreme Champion and there was nothing that was out of his reach.

But, around him, his world was crumbling. While he slapped up motherfuckers like Stu-E Price, his friendship with Spencer dwindled to hatred. While he won the Supreme Championship for the second time, his relationship with his mother and girlfriend was deteriorating. While he moved into a new house, the roller coaster reached its peak. And he’d been falling ever since.

He was back to what he was before SSW came into his life: a sex-crazed, suicidal alcoholic hellbent on feeling good to combat those fifteen shitty years of his life.

Every ass that graced his bed began to mean nothing, every pill and powder he took began to mean nothing, every friend he had began to mean nothing, every drop of alcohol meant nothing. They no longer made him feel good. They no longer validated him. What he was all about, no longer meant a damn to him. What he was, was dead. Trent King was dead.

—

He awoke hours later, covered in vomit, smelling of alcohol. He stood slowly, his vision blurry. Using the wall as his guide, he made his way to the bathroom. Before he had time to notice anything else, a bath was drawn and he sat inside, staring as droplets of water leaped from the faucet.

All was calm.

There comes a critical point one’s life, where you realize something you’re doing is wrong. Whether you see it in the face that is your own, or on the faces of the ones you love, you see it. It stares back at you, cold and damning. It curses you, pushes you against a wall, and lingers over you until you face it.

Some face it with acceptance, some with suicide. But one can’t rid themselves of this lingering monster with denial. Denial only empowers that which keeps you entrapped.

Trent decided to face his monster, staring it in the face, with that seriousness one could expect. He accepted it. And he’d get help.

As for suicide, Trent coiled his mind around the idea. And decided it also appropriate.

And so, that day, Trent King, the sex maniac, the alcoholic, the terrible person he’d become died. To the tune of dripping water. And he muttered his last, “Fuck” as day fell into night and the moon took the sun’s place.


	"Shit...Meet Fan" As night fell into day and the sun took the moon’s place, Trent found himself encompassed by the walls of a holding cell. A silent fuck swept across his mind. He sat up from the thin mattress he’d fallen asleep on. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes and rubbing his fingers against his temples. He ached tremendously; his head pounded, his back, hand and body was sore. He clenched his teeth, grinding them with squinted eyes, as to push the pain out of his mind. It didn’t work. He looked down to his right hand, somewhat swollen and a deep cut across his knuckle. He’d knocked the fucker’s tooth out. He extended his fingers and then clenched them a few times, before letting his head fall in exhaustion, confusion, and depression. What the fuck had happened to him? One week, life was on the up-and-up, he felt good and was anxious for the next day. Now, life was shit, he felt awful, and he dreaded each moment that passed. He was a fucking wreck. A million and two things ran rampant through his mind, but he could grab just one to focus on. They all slipped through his fingers effortlessly and he brought his hands up to his head, frustrated and tired. He heard a tap. He looked up to see Natasha, her face split by the bars. He didn’t know what to say. In a way, he felt he disappointed her, he felt she’d look down upon him the way a teacher would stand over a student. Spewing bullshit advice on life, telling him that she expected more, sighing and acting as if she’s so distressed, dangling and shaking her head, that crap. But, she didn’t. She only smiled, in that this-is-so-not-the-time-for-a-smile kind of way. And he really wished she would’ve been upset. That’s what he expected and he didn’t know how to deal with a smile. In the car, she didn’t say a word and neither did he. She didn’t look at him, not even from the corner of her eye and neither did he. He kept his eyes closed for most of the ride, listening to the lightly-playing radio, his head against the window. He felt the car suddenly stop and Natasha coughed, letting him know he was home–whatever that was at this point. He got out. “Thanks.” He whispered and closed the door. Her car drove away, circling around the cul-de-sac and fading away behind some houses as she turned. He went inside, stepping over a bunch of mail and he walked around aimlessly. He didn’t know what to do. After he’d got tired of the senseless pacing and punching holes in the wall, he got something to put him into a drunken stupor. The first bottle went down easily enough. By the sixth, he was out of his fucking mind. He stumbled around his house, trying to avoid the broken glass on the floor from the fourth and fifth bottles he’d dropped. He laughed painfully and collapsed to the floor. He lied on his back, still, letting the empty bottle roll out of his hand and stop at a wall. “Why me, God? WHY THE FUCK DID YOU CHOOSE ME?” Well, something like that. It was all slurred together. Why did Trent King have to be plagued with the shit in his life? Why did his mother give him up after birth? Why did he have to be an orphan, a fucking child of state till he was fifteen and a family decided to give this kid who was only curious about life a chance? Why did he have to get close to them, only to have the only father he knew die years later? When he wasn’t even there. Why did he have to be fuck-up at relationships, questioning everything good and dwelling on everything bad? Why did he have to love the taste of that intoxicating poison? The way it made him feel, why did it have to be good enough for him to face the way he’d feel the next day? Why did his life have to be a constant roller coaster: be happy and then fuck up, be happy and then fuck up more? Why did he have to be Trent King? And when would he not have to anymore? The ceiling fan above him twirled, his eyes watching it without much thought. It soon made him dizzy and the puke shot up viciously, before his head rolled slightly and his vision dimmed. — A year ago, life was good. He had a nice apartment, a friend he thought of as the brother he never had. He had enough money for nice things, he had enough women to keep him satisfied, he had a normal job, bartending. Life was simple. Then came that day, when he stepped into the ring at his first SSW event. The new guy, and he beat the shit out of some Ian Walker guy. And in his mind, his life seemed to elevate from there. He had more money, more women, and a job that kept him traveling. Soon he gained some celebrity, he became the Supreme Champion–the longest running Supreme Champion and there was nothing that was out of his reach. But, around him, his world was crumbling. While he slapped up motherfuckers like Stu-E Price, his friendship with Spencer dwindled to hatred. While he won the Supreme Championship for the second time, his relationship with his mother and girlfriend was deteriorating. While he moved into a new house, the roller coaster reached its peak. And he’d been falling ever since. He was back to what he was before SSW came into his life: a sex-crazed, suicidal alcoholic hellbent on feeling good to combat those fifteen shitty years of his life. Every ass that graced his bed began to mean nothing, every pill and powder he took began to mean nothing, every friend he had began to mean nothing, every drop of alcohol meant nothing. They no longer made him feel good. They no longer validated him. What he was all about, no longer meant a damn to him. What he was, was dead. Trent King was dead. — He awoke hours later, covered in vomit, smelling of alcohol. He stood slowly, his vision blurry. Using the wall as his guide, he made his way to the bathroom. Before he had time to notice anything else, a bath was drawn and he sat inside, staring as droplets of water leaped from the faucet. All was calm. There comes a critical point one’s life, where you realize something you’re doing is wrong. Whether you see it in the face that is your own, or on the faces of the ones you love, you see it. It stares back at you, cold and damning. It curses you, pushes you against a wall, and lingers over you until you face it. Some face it with acceptance, some with suicide. But one can’t rid themselves of this lingering monster with denial. Denial only empowers that which keeps you entrapped. Trent decided to face his monster, staring it in the face, with that seriousness one could expect. He accepted it. And he’d get help. As for suicide, Trent coiled his mind around the idea. And decided it also appropriate. And so, that day, Trent King, the sex maniac, the alcoholic, the terrible person he’d become died. To the tune of dripping water. And he muttered his last, “Fuck” as day fell into night and the moon took the sun’s place.