Chapter One

In the late mourning, he awoke to an empty bed.  His head felt light and dreary.  The medication coursing through his veins made him see not so clearly.  The thought of making it through today on this day of St. Valentine made him feel weary.  It reminded him of just how much he had lost.  Whether or not he wanted admit it, there was a part of him that missed her dearly.

As much he was forced to part with, he had also gained the same in the course of the last year.  Taking another wife, one in which he was sure would remain true.  Where Riley had failed him, Melissa would no doubt succeed.  The prospect of find her a disappointment was an impossibility.  Their courtship could be said to have begun eighteen years ago.  Looking at the mewling infant cradled in their father's arms, her deep brown eyes meeting with his.  The connection had been made, only within the last year had they both fully acknowledged it.  Their love not withstanding, she was also his younger sister.

The marriage to Riley along with its inevitable implosion nearly cleaved his heart in two.  In time, however, the wound healed.  The recognition of his and Melissa's marriage by the French courts had sealed his fate to one of recovery.  Yet, the scar from the previous failure still remained, inflaming him with pain at the time when he least expected it.  It was on that day of commercial love when the searing heat had become unavoidable.

For the first time in almost a year, his will had caved and he allowed himself to swallow the capsule.  It had once been a daily reminder of how pathetic he felt himself to be.  With Melissa's help, however, he broke from its numbing claws.  Now tumbling down the rabbit hole of angst and self-hatred, when he would finally hit the bottom, not even he knew.  How had it come to this?

Attempting but failing to rebuild his tattered career from the ruins in which it lay, divorced from the woman he had sacrificed so much for only to remarry his own little sister of all people.  If there was a God and he had a sense of humor, the fuck sure was having a good laugh at his expense.

He had begun to hope, to believe.  She filled him with a life he had forgotten he could posses.  Maybe it was not going to be as hopeless as he thought.  Even for the likes of him, there would be a rhetorical light at the end of the tunnel.  After braving the gauntlet form the trials of his life, it would eventually envelope him in its loving embraced and reimburse him with the life that he so longed for.

Unfortunately, it was not be.  His so-called comeback into wrestling had fallen flat on its ass.  Mired in defeat, he felt a failure once again.  He was a failure, both in work as in life.  The only that that kept him going, refilling him with the energy he needed to go on was her love.  Through it all, she never ceased to show him the love and affection he felt void of for so long.  She told him that it would get better.  He was just rusty.  He would find that passion he had to succeed he once had.  The flame within him would be rekindled.

Defeated by someone he knew all too well from a cheap shot to the groin was only the beginning of his problems.  A week later, he was within a hair of winning his first title in a year in a half.  It would have given his resurgence a much-needed boost.  Yet again, he failed in that also.  What was he going to have to do to get back on track?  Who was he going to have to face?  Maim?  Cripple?  Was that what Soren wanted from him?  To see the Xavier Michaels of old that would tear through opponent after opponent in a string of victories?

As successful as those days were for his career, he was driven by something else.  Instead of swallowing and direction inwards all the hate and rage he felt, it was turned loose upon anyone put in front of him.  That was the problem.  He did not want to hate anymore.  His lone goal was only to be truly and honestly happy for once in his life, and to have it last.  Throwing love at an opponent would not get him very far, and if being a man, would be tantamount to homosexuality.  Much could be said of Xavier's sexual taste, marrying his sister only being the latest on a long list, but a preference for men was not one of them.

His "renowned viciousness" was supposed to have reared its ugly head in his match against Carla, or so the hype promoting his next match against Falcon in Salt Lake City.  Yes, he was very protective of her, and seeing her coughing and gagging after Carla hit her in the throat ignited a burst of anger inside him.  It was not enough, however, to come out on top yet again.  But he was damn close.  Yes, she only edged him out with all that kung fu shit.  Still though, he was not about to put Melissa at risk in order to get him angry enough to unleash everything in the spurt on Falcon.  No, if that was going to be the key to his success, he was going to have to find another source.

He cursed under his breath, finding the light coming through the windows too bright for his eyes as he opened the bedroom door.  As shitty as he was feeling, it was too early for this.  He scratched absent-mindedly at his bare chest.  It was going to be a long day.  He was going to have to awake enough, putting on a brave and cheerful face when she got home from class in preparation for the night they were planning in celebration.

The emerald studded necklace had been moved last week, immediately after she had left the day he stashed hastily in the closet moments before she emerged from their bedroom.  He knew she was going to be ready and perfect for the night.  He, on the other hand, had a lot of work ahead of him to pull himself together.  No alcohol, not yet anyway, and the only thing he would be drinking that night was wine.  His shitty state of mind was not going to be enough to get drunk and fuck up her night.  Coffee was going to be the first of many steps to get him ready.

Dumping a set of spoonfuls of brown granules in the filter, the machine gargled with life.  While the steaming, liquid caffeine brewed, he would have to get things cleaned up and ready.  When she got home, he did not want her to lift a finger for anything he had missed.  He swung open one of the bottom cabinet doors and pull the small, plastic trash can.  Ah!  That shit smelled worse then Armani Stylez (Styles) breath after making out with that Loblaw guy.  He held his head back, taking hold of the black wrapping and pulling it up and out only to have the bottom of the bag tear, the garbage falling out onto the floor.

He mumbled a string of curses under his breath again.  Yes, this day was going to be oh so fun.  Happy, happy, joy, joy and all that shit.  Digging through the crap on the floor and putting it in a new bag and one that was not a piece of shit that would fall apart, he started to clean up the mess.  The smell of the coffee, breathing the strong scent through his nose started to wake him up and bring his senses back to life already.  That was merely a thought in the back of his mind as something caught his eye.  "Oh shit," he said stunned.  Held in between his fingers was a small, empty rectangular box, the picture of a home pregnancy test was clear as day.

Chapter Two

The wheels rumbled along the track upwards.  The roar of the wheels echoed through the small, crowded chamber, Xavier hearing it more and more clearly as he pulled the door upwards.  In front of him was more of a hallway then a room, flanked on both sides by the steel walls separating this rented space from the other compartments leased to who knew who else.  On his left, a row of cardboard boxes and pieces of furniture he did not want to throw out with the move last year lined the wall all the way to the back.  If dust had a smell, this was it.  Hand over his nose and mouth to gradually get used to the staleness of the air, Xavier walked, powering the halogen rod bulb over head wit a flick of the switch on his right before closing the door down behind him.

His foot footfalls sounded against the concrete floor with soft thuds, his eyes never leaving the column of his discarded past.  How does someone go about restarting his or her life, or at least cutting out a painful portion of it?  Stashing away any reminders of the time was like throwing a band-aid on a knife wound, but that was all he was willing to do at the time.  As much as he hated to think of his former life, he could not bring himself to get rid of the smallest scrap.

He lain a palm on top of the cardboard frame of one of the stacked cubes, gliding over the surface.  Bitter memories, ones he did not want to repeat.  The emotional heartache, why did it all have to happen.  Towards the rear, he searched through the boxes.  He knew where it was and would have to find it only for it to be destroyed.  The most painful object in the whole room, a single tear coming to his eye as he looked down at it.

His hands clenched it tightly, shaking uncontrollably but it was not something he could control.  The leather of the photo album stuck to his skin, a sucking sound followed him tearing his palm from it to open it to look at the inside.  The small square photo, a portal to another time, when they were happy.  Even now, it felt as if she were smiling at him still, even after all this time.  Riley, the first Mrs. Michaels and the first woman he could honestly say he loved.  "I miss you so much," he said in barely even a whisper.

For a brief period of time, they appeared to be happy.  The perfect couple they were always perceived to be, but it was only a mask on his part.  No matter how much he tried, he could not find it in his heat to forgive her for the miscarriage that sidelined her wrestling career.  Her and her stupid fucking pride would not step off the road to glory and watch while someone else stood in the spotlight for once.  She knew she was pregnant, yet she still insisted on competing to hold that title.  Stupid fucking cunt.  Her pride had not only cost them dearly, but come at the expense of another.

The face smiling up at him from the photo, it was enough to make him feel sick right then.  A month or so after his departure from the wrestling world, she had done her best to make up for her tragic mistake.  She knew he was still pissed at her and why.  Deeper and deeper, he started to sink into himself, and that was when she started bitching to him.  Some bullshit about it was hers too, but it was her fucking fault to begin with.

The time he struck her was an eruption of everything he had grown to hate in her.  The look in her eyes as she wiped the crimson trickle from her nose said it all.  She was terrified, not that he had hit her, but that he was finally fed up with her shit.  The part was over.  She left the next day, a lawyer served him with divorce papers a week later.  He wanted her out of life life and she was gone forever.  Good riddance.  Yet, there was a part of him that mourned her departure.  It was not that he still loved her, but the isolation of loneliness ate at him.

He tried to think about the future, about the life him and Melissa talked about sometimes, but the fear that history would repeat itself was always ever present.  The possibility of another wife pregnant, another chance for his dream of a normal life coming true.  While Melissa was no Riley, wrestling was not her life nor was she obsessed with the competition, the clear complications of carrying their inbred child looked insurmountable.  God help him.  If she was and it failed, it would not be her fault but he was afraid he would not see it that way in time.

He ripped the plastic sheet from over the photo, tearing it from its place on the sticky page.  His fist clenched tightly, the photo crumpled into a ball in his closed palm.  His hand shaking, "She's not you," he whispered hoarsely, "She never will be.  I hate you, as I've hate few ever in my life."  Hitting your wife even under the most extreme duress is still seen as spousal abuse, but he felt no guilt at all whatsoever.  Fuck society's morality.  It was a flawed system forced square pegs into round holes.

"She's fifteen you fuck!," he heard his own voice bellow inside his own head.  "Wait!  Please, God, No!," cried another strange yet familiar voice in answer.  Banging echoed, smoke and the abrasive scent of burning gunpowder in his nostrils.  They were the same, and he felt fully justified in both actions.  His eyes closed shut, attempting to keep his eyes from tearing from the intensity of his emotions.  "Except for Melissa," he said in a growling whisper, "None of you deserve pity."

Chapter Three

"Oh my God, Xavier," said Melissa exasperated at the green gem hanging from her neck, suspended by the golden string between her fingers, "I love it, but you sure we could afford this?  I know things haven't been the greatest for you, and my deal isn't that much."  Xavier smiled, glancing at her from the corner of his eye while he finished pouring the crystal liquid into her wine glass.  Always the cautious one, she tended to think with mostly just the facts in front of her.  Prudent as she was, Xavier liked to go on instinct sometimes, guided by the spur of the moment.

He titled the bottle up, stopping the floor into the glass.  Holding both their glasses in his hands, he took the couple steps to round the circular table.  "I have a good feeling starting this week," he told her as she took the glass from his extended right hand, "This match against Falcon is going to be a new start for me, a better start."  She held the glass to her lips, sending a small amount of the wine into her mouth.  She laughed slightly, realizing a thought as it occurred to her and said, "Looks like you're getting payback for last week.  Not even old enough to drink and you're trying to get me drunk this time."

Taking a drink of the wine himself, he reached his hand out to slip down her chest to rest on her waist and caressing his open palm against it lightly.  She leaned back in the chair, smiling up at him and figuring she knew what he wanted from her tonight.  "My change in outlook about my wrestling career isn't the only reason for us to celebrate.  If I'm right, that wine there is going to be the last bit of alcohol you're going to be having for awhile."

Confusion on her face, her hair waved slightly with the shaking of her head.  "Xavier, what the hell are you talking about?," she asked.  "The box from the pregnancy test in the garbage.  Don't worry about things if you are, Mel.  It'll work out for the best, trust me."  Realization, it finally dawned on her.  "The box?," she said in more of a question, "I got it just in case because I felt a little sick last week, but Xavier, I'm not pregnant.  God no.  Not that it'd be a bad thing, but with school and wrestling now, I'm not sure I could handle it."

It felt like his heart had dropped down to the pit of his stomach.  She was not pregnant, forestalling his hopes of achieving the life he wanted.  She apparently saw the clear disappointment on his face, setting the glass down and putting her hands on his to hold it there on her waist.  "Some day, honey," she told him soothingly, "Some day."