Silent Passage

Breakdown – June 10, 2020

Cid Turner felt like he might vomit. Both his brain and body felt like they were in the process of overloading. It had been seven years since he stepped outside of his house. Seven years since fresh air and seven years since sunlight touched his skin. He’d interacted with three other people during that time, one of which wasn’t even part of his life anymore.

The plane ride to Indianapolis was a nightmare for someone in such a fragile state of being. Flying coach, he didn’t even feel any sense of comfort from getting the window seat. He spent the entire flight crunching against the window as hard as he could, not wanting to interact with the two people seated next to him for any reason whatsoever. He wondered if he pushed his head against the glass hard enough if it would break and he’d be sucked through the small fresh opening somehow, like getting sucked up by God’s vacuum. It might have been a blessing in disguise. He wasn’t prepared for any of this.

He couldn’t even afford a ticket to get into the arena. The flight was paid for by his only remaining friend, but because of his drained life savings, the plan was always to contact a higher up and let them know Cid Turner wants to attend the show for free. He put off the phone call one day, but with his current lifestyle, every day just blended together. Before he knew it, he was set to fly to Breakdown with no ticket, uninvited. Realistically, what would he even say? He could barely hold a conversation with the two remaining people in his life, how would he explain to someone that he hasn’t spoken to in nearly a decade that he’d like to attend their show.

Hey, I know I haven’t spoken to you in awhile. I was busy. Look, sorry that I threw a tantrum and verbally and physically assaulted someone backstage the last time I was here. Sorry that I was a nuisance not only to everyone around me, but to myself. Sorry that after being given chance after chance despite my behavior because you saw something in me, I looked like an empty shell of Cid Turner and completely blew it once again. Shit happens, right? How about it? Can I come back?

No, of course not. He had been given enough chances and squandered them all. He knew nobody liked him, and why would they?

“Ticket, please,” said the ticket collector. Cid kind of just stared at her blankly. He was extremely grateful to be led through the airport like an oversized toddler on the way here, but because of that, this was the first conversation he’d had with an outsider in seven years.

“I… I don’t have tick—… no, sorry. Sorry. I don’t have a ticket.”

“Sorry, honey, I can’t let you in without a ticket. NEXT!”

“Wait,” he muttered. “Wait. I’m Cid.”

“Huh?”

“I’m Cid Turner.”

“Uh huh. That’s good,” she said, both unsure of what that was supposed to mean to her and unimpressed at what looked like a homeless man trying to enter the arena without a ticket. “Could you please step aside now, sir?”

“Oh,” he replied meekly. “Okay. Yes.”

He thought he might cry. This had to be a sign. He wasted all of this time and energy leaving his domain. He thought maybe getting out of the house might make him feel better about himself at least, but instead he was sitting here feeling like shit on the verge of tears in front of a random employee of the Bankers Life Fieldhouse arena.

There was a sudden skirmish in the next aisle. There was the classic wrestling fan causing a commotion. Overweight. Hairy. Possibly a redneck racist. He probably smelled as well, but Cid couldn’t judge him for that, or really any of it due to the way he was now presenting himself in 2020.

“Excuse me? I have a legal right to carry this firearm. I can take it wherever I want, including into a stadium full of people! Hold on, I’ve actually got the bill of rights laminated in my backpack,” said the unruly fan.

The fan went to reach into his pack to properly educate the employees but was immediately swarmed by both security and the ticket takers.

“HE’S GOT A GUN! EVERYONE GET DOWN!” shouted a nearby member of security.

The crowd scattered. Anyone who didn’t scatter just hunkered down on the ground, covering themselves with their hands as if that would shield them from raining bullets. Cid, seemingly unfazed by the threat of a mass shooting, used this opportunity to walk through the gate unnoticed.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. We’re okay,” Cid told himself as he started to walk the loop of the stadium. He still didn’t know what he was actually doing here. Was he going to rush the ring? Was he going to hide in the locker room? The deeper he got into it, the more he realized this was a terrible ‘plan’, if you could even call this random set of ideas a plan.

It didn’t matter in the end. CHBK was instantly recognizable standing between a merchandise booth and a concession stand. Not only was he a legend in the business, but Cid had shared a locker room with him for several years. It was definitely him standing in this public area for some reason.

“Holy shit, it’s him. Ohh, shit. It’s him,” he whispered to himself. He eventually recognized Syren and Ravyn next to him. They looked slightly different than he remembered from their extremely brief encounters during his last run, but he’d seen them on TV recently. It was definitely Dark Fantasy. “Oh God and that’s them. Okay. Wow. They’re here. Why are you here? Did someone tell you I was coming? No, nobody could have known that… wait, could I have a double agent amongst my circle?” Cid continued to mutter and question himself. He eventually snapped out of it and went up to CHBK from behind. He was close enough to hear him, but not close enough to spew all over his neck after his nerves finally reached their limit. This was a good distance.

“He’s right over there. We got him. Crowe will get the drop on him and we’ll all jump in,” CHBK explained.

“Excuse me. CHBK…” Cid mumbled as he took a step closer to him. With everything going on, nobody could hear him. At this point, people were starting to notice there were SCW stars walking around where the mere mortals walk, leading to a bit of a gathering around Infamous. “Um… CHBK,” he tried again. No response. “Alex,” he said with the confidence of a cowering child. He balled up his fist, ready to just skip the talking and get straight to the point, but suddenly they were all on the move.

Cid followed the group until they stopped just short of another group of fans gathering around someone he didn’t recognize.

“Asher! Could you?” asked one of the fans.

Some of the fans offered up pieces of memorabilia and merchandise for Asher Hayes to sign. “Yeah, yeah, I can give you a autograph. Here…” Asher replied as he grabbed a pen off of one of them and started signing away. Cid didn’t know who this guy was, but he already lost respect for him due to his grammar, so he wasn’t sure why anyone would want his autograph. He also wasn’t sure why Infamous were suddenly keeping a low profile in his presence. Maybe they weren’t as intimidating as they once were?

Suddenly, a beer was thrown in Asher’s face and all hell broke loose. Syren, Ravyn, and CHBK all ran in and started attacking Asher. Cid also recognized Alexander Crowe, although only from TV. Security rushed the scene, holding all of the fans back and trying to restore some order amongst the brawl. Asher Hayes was being assaulted by four people, all at once. It was an absolute mugging.

“Use that twenty to get him another beer,” Ravyn snapped towards the concession worker. Cid was intimidated by her fire, but the smugness radiating off of her also made him furious. “He may still need something strong. Just for a different reason now.”

CHBK laughed as he moved in to lay in a few more stomps to the fallen Asher. His evil laughter was enough to give Cid the motivation to finally make a move. With security having their hands full, Cid walked through the gathering of fans and grabbed CHBK by the shirt, ripping him back and putting everything he had into a right hand to the jaw of the SCW legend.

Instant euphoria.

It was short lived, however, as Cid was quickly pulled back by security. As he was being yanked back, Dean Black and a handful of SCW officials finally arrived on the scene.

“Hold on,” Cid said to the security pulling him back. “Dean Black. Dean! It’s me! You stole my tag titles! Xotic! I was part of Xotic!”

Cid seemed to finally find his voice, but it was lost in the chaos surrounding him. His back leg was unexpectedly kicked and he soon found himself kissing dirty, sticky pavement with his hands getting cuffed behind him. He turned his head and looked up at the chaotic scene as the fight continued to rage on. Cid felt a sense of relief for the first time in years. With one punch to the jaw of the Canadian Heartbreak Kid, the weight that Cid had been carrying on his back ever since leaving SCW in early 2012 was at least a little bit less heavy.

---

 

Cid looked at his reflection faintly etched out before him in the window. It was hard to make out as the reflection of the city also went by him, but it was there. He looked terrible. Dirty, dishevelled, and he hadn’t aged particularly well. Beneath the grime and overgrown beard though was a smile, which was a rarity in the life of Cid Turner over the last several years.

The officer in the passenger’s seat pounded on the screen separating them, snapping Cid out of his happy stupor. “Hey! I see you, asshole. With your creepy, smug smile. Knock it off! You think it’s funny that you punched a living legend? Huh? DO YA?!”

“Damn, you’re really into this stuff, huh?” the officer behind the wheel asked.

“Man, even if I wasn’t. Fans shouldn’t be putting themselves in the show. This guy’s no better than a streaker. A streaker runs out on the field, I mean, you wanna tackle the son of a bitch, do you not?”

The officer took a second to ponder and sighed. “I guess you’re right, yeah.”

“Exactly. Hear that loser?!” He once again gave the screen a slam. “You’re no better than a streaker! Those guys end up on the sexual offender registry. Think about that, bud.”

Cid leaned his head back and sighed. The positive feelings he experienced earlier had now faded. At this point, he wondered if all of this was even worth the fifteen minutes of happiness he got. Now he had someone comparing him to a kiddy fiddler. “I’m not a streaker,” he chirped back. “I’m Cid Turner.”

“Wow, okay,” the officer replied with a scoff. “So you’re just a total psycho. Let me guess, you have a shrine of Asher Hayes in your closet?”

“Who the hell is Asher Hayes?” Cid asked. Now that the man had mentioned it, Cid was wondering exactly who it was that he had saved.

“You’re Cid Turner but you don’t know who Asher Hayes is? Sure thing, bud.”

Asher Hayes. Had they met before? Cid had forgotten way more people than he ever remembered in SCW. Whether it was from concussions he’d suffered over the course of his career or from just not giving a damn about anyone but himself, he wasn’t sure. Chad Evans had always taught him to just look after himself. It’s the attitude that probably finally got him over that hurdle to become a real player in SCW. Now, though, he was trying his hardest to remember an Asher Hayes.

Upon thinking, he suddenly felt flush after a brief tingle went through his entire body.

“Whoa,” he said as he shook his head a bit. “Hey, can you turn on the AC? It’s hot back here.”

He was ignored but immediately had bigger problems. He put his hand against his chest and could feel the relentless pounding of his heart. Not long after, he was having some trouble catching his breath. He took his hand off his chest and put it up against the screen in front of him.

“What the—… hey, you took the cuffs off him?” one officer asked the other.

“Meh,” the driver replied with a shrug. “He seemed harmless.”

“Officers, I think I’m having a heart attack,” Cid said rushedly. The one in the passenger’s side looked back at him. “Oh, God. Please, help.”

“You look fine, man. Just relax, we’re almost at the station.”

“Oh, shit. Please, not like this,” Cid begged to whoever was listening, whether it be the cops or God Himself. He slumped to the side, laying uncomfortably in the back seat. “Please, not now. I can’t die in the back of a police car. I’ll never hear the end of it. Please… please… please…”

Cid’s voice trailed off and after realizing help wasn’t coming, he accepted death. He was torn. He didn’t want to die at age 40 while in custody of the police, but punching CHBK in the face wouldn’t be the worst final act of his life. Someone had to do it. It was realistically one of the most noble ways one could go out.

They eventually reached the station with a living Cid Turner in the back. By the time they booked him in and tossed him in the cell, his self-diagnosed heart attack seemed to have subsided. They locked the cell behind him and the arresting officer made his way out. The guard on duty was sat comfortably in front of his TV. He made a remark towards the other officer as he hit the exit.

“What a night, huh? First that jackass with the gun, now a crazy fan!”

The officer just scoffed in response. Cid looked around the cell he was sharing with a handful of other inmates. There he was, the fan who apparently had a gun. He seemed to be passed out. On the other end was what Cid assumed was a priest, no older than 50. He wasn’t sure what to call him, but he had the same outfit as the holy men in the movies.

Cid turned around and looked through the bars at the guard on duty. Coincidentally, he was watching SCW. On the screen, Xander Valentine was battling Ravyn. Cid was surprised to see that not only was Xander still alive, but they were still allowing the psycho on television for some reason.

“Hey, have they mentioned the guy who punched CHBK?” Cid asked with his face pressed up against the bars of the cell.

The guard laughed. “Yeah, buddy, you got a little air time. You happy now?”

Cid sighed. “I guess. I dunno. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“Yeah, sounds about right.”

Just then, Asher Hayes rushed the ring and laid out Ravyn, ending the match prematurely.

“Oh, come on,” the guard said with frustration in his voice. “At least let ’em finish the damn match.”

Cid started to wonder what the deal was with Asher. He still couldn’t remember him, but based off his actions tonight, he came off as a total idiot going after Infamous by himself. Cid didn’t see the hypocrisy in his thoughts. He instead saw Asher Hayes get tackled by some SCW officials to close the show. Oh well, he thought. It was a valiant effort.

He started to feel terrible again. No symptoms this time, just the overall terrible feeling that had abruptly consumed him. He turned around and walked to the wall to take a seat on the bench and collect his thoughts.

What’s happening to me?

“You all right?” asked the priest next to him. Cid had no interest in talking to anymore people today. Enough was enough. He ignored the man, hoping he’d take the hint. “Hey, you all right?” he continued to pry. “You’re a bit shaky.”

“Hm?” Cid hummed quizzically. He stuck his right hand out and saw it shivering in front of him. He let out another disappointed sigh. He’d lost count of how many of those he had unleashed over the course of the day. “God damn it, man. What the hell?” he questioned aloud. He looked towards the priest. “Oh. Sorry. What the heck, I mean.”

The priest laughed in response. “You’re all good. Don’t worry about it. So, what’s up?”

“I feel like shit and I’m stuck in a cell. That’s what’s up. Look, no offense, but I don’t really have time for this.”

“Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of business to take care of,” he replied sarcastically.

Cid groaned and leaned back, resting his head against the wall. “What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?”

“What ARE you doing?”

Cid leaned forward and buried his face into his shaky hands. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I thought doing this would make me feel better, but I just feel even worse. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m such an idiot.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It sounds like your head was in the right place. Just from what you’ve told me, it sounds like you’re trying to make yourself feel better. You’re actively trying to live a more positive life. You can’t fault yourself for that.”

“I don’t know,” Cid muttered into his hands. He again felt like he might cry. These social interactions were so much harder than they used to be. He brought himself back up and shook himself off, trying to rid himself of these feelings. He slumped back up against the wall and slightly turned his head to face the priest. “What do I do? I’m lost. I’m so damn lost.”

The priest turned and leaned forward, getting closer to Cid. “You keep at it. You’re putting in the effort and that’s all anyone can ask for. Just keep working on it and eventually you’ll get to where you want to be.”

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to go on, feeling like this?” he asked, still defeated.

“Take it one day at a time. Just try your best and take it one day at a time. You’ll get there.”

He stared at the priest, not really sure what else to say. There was an unfortunate balancing act going on within him. He found himself in between feeling like giving up on everything and feeling like trucking on. Any time he felt more strongly towards one side, the other side would pull him back. He decided that the best thing to do would be at least try to keep on keeping on.

“John Doe!” the guard shouted as he opened the cell door. “You made bail.”

Cid looked up and realized that was him. He got up and made his way to the door, but stopped halfway to look back at the helpful priest. “Hey,” he began. “I just wanted to say… thanks, I guess. It was a good talk. Thank you, Father.”

“Father? Oh, shit!” the priest exclaimed as he gave his collar a tug. “Forgot I was wearing this thing. Nah, I’m not a priest. I was just wearing this to seem inconspicuous when I hit up that gas station.”

“Oh, what the—… what was all that?! We just did all that, just then!”

“Hey, you seemed like you needed some help! Why does it matter where it came from?”

“You can’t just… I—,” Cid stammered, not really sure what to say. “You know what? Whatever. I’m leaving.”

Cid made his way out of the cell. After the guard closed the door behind him, one of the officers from earlier came and led him towards the way out. “Asher Hayes paid your bail. So, you guys in cahoots, or what?”

“No. I mean, I dunno. Not really.”

The officer chuckled. Cid had been all over the place all night. It was an interesting sight and amusing for the officer. “Well, guess you’ll be more sure sooner rather than later. He’s on his way to come have a chat. Requested that we try and hold onto you.”

“Yeah, no, sorry. I’m getting the hell out of here, assuming everything is all cleared.”

“Good to go.”

After a few more minutes, Cid was officially released. He made his way out of the building and started walking to what he hoped was the direction of the airport. He had a return flight home to catch in a couple of hours. After a few steps though, he stopped. He took a look back at the station, wondering if Asher was going to show up soon. It couldn’t hurt to introduce himself. He took a deep breath and released.

“Hmm. Nah.”

He continued on with his walk but stopped when a car went by him. They quickly found their spot, parked, and got out of the car. It was Asher Hayes making his way towards the station’s front door. Cid took a few steps back towards the station and contemplated calling out to him. He once again stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t sure how to start. Did he call out his name? Did he just yell, ‘hey’? He wasn’t sure if he even had the strength anymore to muster up a yell from across the street.

Before Cid could decide the best approach, Asher disappeared through the swinging doors of the station. Following that, Cid turned back around and started the long trip back home.