Chapter 18 November - Charlotte, North Carolina / Orlando, Florida #2
I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I fell. Every time I drifted off, I saw Julian Martinez’s face contorted in pain. I saw Cal’s face, cold and shut down, turning away from me.
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the little dots. One, two, three…
Is this it? I wondered. Is this how it ends?
My shoulder throbbed with a persistent, gnawing ache that the pain meds barely touched. But the physical pain was a distraction I welcomed. It was the other pain, the hollow, gaping chest wound where my heart used to be, that was unbearable.
I saw a recap on the TV by a nurse’s station when a nurse made me get up and walk for a few. ESPN. They showed the clip. Not the botch, they cut away from that, but the end.
Cal. Standing on the turnbuckle. Arm raised. Confetti falling around him. He didn’t look happy. He looked possessed. He looked like a king standing on a pile of corpses.
He did it, I thought, leaning against the doorframe, feeling dizzy. He made it. And I’m not there.
I got released from the UWF a few days later. I didn’t even remember what day it was. All I knew was the world felt hollow.
I had a week before my shoulder surgery in Raleigh.
My apartment complex in Orlando let me out of my lease without a fight, probably saw the headlines, or maybe Maverick paid them off to avoid a hassle.
Without much of a say in the matter, Scott and Maverick booked us flights to Florida to pack my life up and move me back to North Carolina.
The flight was humiliation in its purest form.
I was in a sling, my arm immobilized against my chest. I had dark sunglasses on to hide my eyes from the lights and the people, but it didn’t stop the stares.
People whispered. I saw them nudging each other in the terminal.
“That’s him. That’s the guy who broke his neck.”
“Is that Silas Reed?”
“I heard he paralyzed the other guy.”
I kept my head down, letting Scott guide me like a child. Being with them, with my family, felt like going to a haunted house. Every conversation was a minefield. Every silence was an accusation.
But the thought of being here, alone in Orlando? That felt like prison.
We arrived at my apartment in the late afternoon. The air in Florida was thick and humid, a stark contrast to the biting cold of Charlotte. It felt wrong. The sun shouldn’t be shining.
Boxes were filled. I tried my best to help, but of course, Scott wouldn’t let me lift a damn thing.
“Sit down, Si,” Scott said gently, taking a stack of books from my hand. “Please. Just sit.”
I sat on the couch, watching them dismantle my life. Maverick went and got a U Haul. We packed my place up in a day’s time. It was pathetic, really, how little I had to show for my time here. A few pieces of furniture. Some clothes. A career that had exploded in the worst way imaginable.
My bedroom was the last thing left.
“Let me do it,” I told Scott when he came in with tape. “I need to do this myself.”
He hesitated, looking at my sling. “Silas…”
“Please, Uncle Scott.”
He nodded, closing the door softly behind him.
I needed the isolation. Just for a few minutes. Before I went home. Before I was trapped in my childhood bedroom again, surrounded by the ghosts of the boy who thought he could change the world.
I packed things slowly, relying entirely on my right arm. It was frustrating, clumsy work. I pulled clothes off hangers, folding them messy and one handed into a duffel bag. I packed up books I hadn’t read in months.
I took down photos I had hung on the wall. Pictures of me growing up. My time on the road with guys who knew me better than my own family. A picture of me and Evan in Japan.
Then, I came face to face with it.
The Polaroid camera.
It was sitting on my shelf, gathering a thin layer of dust, taunting me like a fucking ghost.
My mind flashed, the memories hitting me like a physical blow. The day I bought it in that thrift store in Kentucky on our off day. Cal laughing at me for buying “hipster junk.” The way he posed for the first picture, eyes bright and alive.
That camera had taken a front row seat to Cal’s and my love story. It had seen us naked. It had seen us sleeping. It had seen the moments the world never would.
And now, here it sat. Alone. With nothing else to photograph.
I looked away, the pain shooting through me sharper than the tear in my shoulder. Tears built again, blurring my vision. I went to my dresser and pulled out the manila envelope I had tucked in the back of the drawer, under my socks.
I dumped it out. The Polaroids spilled onto the wood floor.
My brain collapsed.
There it was. The photo from Scotland. Cal, laying in bed, that smile. He looked so happy. He looked so… mine.
I picked it up with shaking fingers. I traced the curve of his smile.
I killed that boy, I thought, a sob ripping through my chest. I killed the boy who smiled like that.
I wiped my eyes furiously and sat on the floor, pulling out a shoebox.
I couldn’t look at them anymore. It hurt too much.
I put the photos in the box, face down. I put the camera in.
I put in a few ticket stubs, they key card from Miami.
Small items that meant nothing to anyone else, but to me, they were the artifacts of a dead civilization.
I taped the box shut. One handed. Crooked. Ugly.
I stood up, swaying slightly, and turned to the TV stand.
The tears hit harder, a fresh wave of grief that buckled my knees.
There was a hoodie draped across the stand.
Cal’s hoodie. The “Deadlock” one. The branding he was so proud of.
I reached out and grabbed it. I brought it to my face, inhaling deeply.
It still smelled like him. That specific, clean scent of his skin.
I sank onto my bare mattress, stripped of its linens, clutching the hoodie to my chest like a lifeline. I curled around it, trying to make myself small, trying to disappear into the fabric.
My phone buzzed on the floor where I’d tossed it.
I pulled it out. The screen was a barrage of notifications.
Texts from Evan.
Just checking in. You okay?
Let me know when you land.
Texts from my dad.
U Haul is loaded. Let’s move.
And the news alerts. The endless stream of wrestling news that I couldn’t escape.
ESPN: THE BOTCH OF THE CENTURY: INSIDE THE FALL OF TIMELESS SILAS REED.
TWITTER: MEET THE NEW FACE OF PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING: DEADLOCK REIGNS SUPREME.
SPORTS ILLUSTRATED: CORANTO AND MARTINEZ UPDATE: CAREERS IN JEOPARDY.
I knew what they were. Even now, it was still Cal and I, existing in the same universe. Linked forever. Except this time, I was the cautionary tale. He was the legend.
Through tears, I reluctantly opened my messages. I scrolled past the condolences. Past the questions.
I clicked on Cal’s name.
There were still texts from that night in Charlotte I hadn’t bothered to read. The timestamp mocked me.
Can you please come back here?
Can we talk about this? Please?
I don’t care about wrestling, Si. Come back.
He had begged. The man who bowed to no one had begged me to come back. And I had ignored him. I had gone out and destroyed everything instead.
My tears turned into near sobs, the gut punch of it all slamming into me again. I wiped my face with my good hand, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
I typed a message. I knew I wouldn’t send it. But fuck, I wanted to. I needed to say it, even if only to the void.
I love you. I’m so fucking sorry. I wish you were here. I miss you, so fucking much.
I stared at the words. They looked pathetic. They looked too little, too late. Sending this now would just be cruel. It would be dragging him back into the wreckage when he had just managed to survive it.
He was the King now. He didn’t need a broken jester dragging him down.
I took a sharp breath, my fingers shaking as I backspaced. Letter by letter. Erasing the love. Erasing the apology.
I went to the contact settings.
Delete Contact.
The prompt asked me if I was sure.
Am I sure? No. I’m dying.
I clicked Yes.
The name was gone. The messages were gone. The thread that connected us was severed.
So was he. For good.