Post by danteessick on Aug 16, 2011 23:08:45 GMT -5
Portraits
Chapter 1
"Wake Up"
I’m not sober all the time
You bring me down, at least, you try
Until we see this eye to eye
I don’t want you
You bring me down, at least, you try
Until we see this eye to eye
I don’t want you
A certain cough and a hack escaped from the parted lips of a certain man, waiting there, at the other end of the intercom system that had been installed in every apartment in the building. The way he figured it, he had been drinking and smoking more than enough as of late - since his twenty-first birthday, really - to more than account for the hacking that esecaped from his sore throat. It might well have been the cold speaking, in addition - it certainly didn't help - though he was at much too young a stage in life to truly tell which the tendencies emerged from. In any case, soon, his shoulders would roll up and down in a silent shrug in the general direction of the speaker. After a quiet moment, he suddenly realized that he in fact had to speak towards it - distracted previously by his fingertips quietly rapping upon the wooden table that sat before him, creating a quiet rhythm to the entire area - one that haunted throughout the presently empty halls of the loft - empty, of course, except for the man that practically writhed in anticipation, tension, and nervousness in front of that receiever that sent whatever he spoke, whatever noises or rhythms he decided to produce through the circuits and down towards the primary floor of the sprawling complex of lofts, apartments, and penthouses. His lips pursed before they parted once more to let out some air, followed by words.
"...yeah, send him up," his voice spoke in an unsure tone. Any confidence the man usually had - even cockiness - was stained by a certain air of nervousness, tension, worry. For himself or for another, one could not immediately tell, his chin awkwardly shifting to and fro, causing lines to appear and disappear within his cheek as his flesh stretched over the bones and musculature existent within his face. His lips were still drawn and pursed finely, creating the fine demeanor of a rat strapped to an electric chair - his body giving a spin of the hips to rotate the office chair he presently sat in, his rear end giving a swift wriggle about so he could press his ass back more firmly against the end of the chair, his head leaning back onto the fine cushion that cradled his head just so, being perhaps the only thing that comforted him at this time of day. He let it soothe him, in any case, as time went on, his grass-green eyes taking one long moment to linger and stray over every last details of his temporary residence. It was a very fine place - every last detail catered to, every whim covered by wait staff that seemed to be on the intercom whenever they were needed - much like they were psychics. Everything unnaturally clean, like it had just been ran over by a vacuum cleaner that just so happened to suck everything around it into a vortex of clean. Fine chandeleirs and ceiling-height windows - walls of windows, even. A kitchen that seemed to sprawl out into eternity. Truly the definition of a New York penthouse - the furniture adding touches. As well as, of course, the details such as the roof pool, the chaffeurs, et cetera, et al, et nauseum.
Slowly, the male flicked a hand into his shirt pocket - slowly drawing out a box of cigs as well as a (typically rich) gold lighter - one that he had owned for a long time. His father had given it to him, matter of fact - and he could see the name of his grandfather, Maxwell, engraved into the bottom should he actually bother to look. But it didn't interest him in the slightest, the various courses of wealth - what truly mattered to him at this moment was plopping one of the cigarettes into his mouth and giving it a good light - the tips of his index and thumb curling up to hold it and plop it out of his mouth after a moment - after, of course, a swift drag, the faint smell of nicotine soon permeating the air around him. It calmed his nerves, if only temporarily - his body arching backwards slightly as he thought about ideas that flowed through his brain at a constant pace. But right now, he was unable to focus on most anything that he usually thought about - his career, the life that could be starting any miminute now. Rather than that, all he could think about were two things - the hatred he had for the situations he was in, and the man who was approaching through the door any second now. The man who he knew he owed so much to and yet could never pay back or satisfy - the man that he felt hated him for being the black sheep. The man who soon hit the door with his fist, creating a rather crude 'knocking' noise.
"Let me in," The voice rang out in a slightly frustrated tone. And with a slight sigh, the male's hand lowered to a button to press it rather listlessly - the door soon moving open as it was unlocked with the ringing of a small buzzer, a lanky, clean-cut and well-shaven man in a fancy suit - one that looked to be an Armani suit, at that - stepping in through the doorway with an impatient look on his face and eyes upon the wristwatch of gold that sat upon, where else, his left wrist. Slowly, his head upturned, a deep frown making his face - one that someone might describe as 'handsome' if they were into both men and into men of a more advanced age - into one that showed it's true age, one that showed wrinkles and lines and general dislike if not outright hatred of the world around him. His own voice soon spoke again as he sighed, his own green eyes giving a brief glance upwards and downwards before restoring a gaze towards his wristwatch, apparently a nervous habit or tic of some variety - one that he didn't bother to rid himself of.
"Dante," the man said in a low tone, his eyes deigning to flick up and down the other male's frame a repeated time, pulling away from whatever was so interesting upon his watch - the frame of the seated male that was presently occupied by a long-sleeve button-down shirt - black, and apparently of some fancy cloth. The man - Dante - giving a little hum as he slowly tucked the lighter into his shirt pocket. Attempting to mask any nervousness, his legs soon kicked up onto the desk in front of him as he took another few calming drags of his cigarette - determining his voice wasn't clear enough to maintain the masquerade of apathy and cool-headedness until a couple of moments had past - at which point, he did finally deign to respond in a still slightly shaky, uneven voice.
"Dad."
I’m not angry all the time
You push me down at least you try
Until we see this eye to eye
I don’t want you
You push me down at least you try
Until we see this eye to eye
I don’t want you
An awkward silence was all that existed in that room, for a brief moment. Dante glancing quietly to the side and out one of the windows - glancing at the complexes, the streets, the never-ending lines of cars that occupied the spaces so many feet - yards - feet and yards that felt like miles even if they weren't. They simply stared for a long moment. He didn't want to face what he saw as an obstacle, as an embarassment or mistake on his part - the mistake that his father had come to confront and pester him about. Conflict wracked his body, at present - it was what he wanted to do, but not what he was wanted to do, creating a bit of a pull. One side towards his loves, what he truly wanted for himself, and his upbringing - one might even consider it a war between his genteel exterior and his boorish, rough, rugged interior. That's what he had continued to think of it, over all these years - even with any explanations towards himself or towards his father that what he wanted to do was not roguish or stupid in any manner, it had been drilled into him sinec the day he expressed his interest towards his dad that it was a Very Bad Thing that he should Most Definitely Not Do. And so that war was fought not only between him and his father but him and himself - the deadliest battlefield of all, perhaps.
After a moment, the silence was broken with a long sigh from his father's lips followed by a rather rapid series of words that moved from it in low, calm tone - yet one that perhaps hid a bit of resentment behind it. The male - who, upon closer examination, appeared to have many of the same features, though further aged, than Dante himself - giving a little shake of his head.
"You really want to go through with this, huh?" His voice was remorseful, as if mourning a lost friend - and yet he seemed to be ready, to be braced for something or another. His fingertips curled and uncurled briefly, his head cocking to one side as he watched Dante lean back into the chair so far he was practically prone. And he gave a small clear of his throat and a nod, a quick addition of, "And there's nothing I can do to stop you?", which, in turn, was quickly met with a shake of Dante's head - his fingertips running up to quaff and part his hair slightly so it formed and fell as it usually did. And after a small moment, his father gave a long shrug and took a step back, his foot hitting the floor before he turned on a heel and moved to walk out. Dante wanted to stop him, to talk to him about it - but for the time being, he couldn't.
"Well. When you get tired of *this* impulse, Dante, you'll be welcome back into a normal life." At that comment, Dante no longer wished to stop him - his teeth gritting slightly before he simply released a sigh, spinning about in his chair and planting his feet into the wall just as the door fel closed. A small stream of curses erupted from his mouth - and he was a bit annoyed at the refusal of his family to truly accept his interest. His interest in professional wrestling, if not outright love of the occupation - a grunt escaping from his lips as he proceeded to turn again, his eyes flicking angrily towards the now closed door. And, after a small amount of time, he sunk back into self-contemplation - quietly allowing his rage to store elsewhere within his body. His eyes flicking across every last inch of the loft he occupied - and perhaps, at that exact moment, the truest thought he had had in awhile occured to him and ran across his brain what seemed like a thousand times. He honestly, truly, and simply, hated all of this.
He hated the fact that he couldn't do what he wanted without being judged and mocked by the people he considered peers. He hated living in fancy lofts and apartments as he had for all too long. He hated living under the watchful eye of people who were concerned about profit, about the margins, about living within a certain box. And he hated the fact that he was considered a black sheep simply because he broke that mold - he hated the fact that he was judged for wanting to have this career. A career that, in truth, did show the exact opposite of his upbringing - a career that involved drawing blood, smashing people down to mats in quick motions. No matter who it was, unless they were the heir to just such a company, no-one seemed to have quite a love for professional wrestling. And he hated that simple fact.
And as such, he was going to change it all. In one simple step. He was going to walk out and make the most of what he could gather. Say goodbye to this chapter of his life and instead step into a new chapter. He did not need nor want the family he had now - he instead, could replace it quite simply with the next one. And it would not be one that hated him for what he liked and enjoyed - rather, it would be one that shared his interest, his love. His want and all but need.
And he was going to find this family quite simply, for he was going to find this family within a twenty-by-twenty square. He aws going to find this family in the pursuit of his dream. He was going to find this family in a whole goddamn new world compared to the one he presently occupied.
He was going to find his family, his love, his knowledge, in the ring.
What could possibly go wrong?[/i]
CHAPTER ONE - FIN