Post by Deleted on Sept 19, 2020 18:00:04 GMT -5
Bloodied Hands
The battle was over and the dull sensations she felt upon her body told her the tale that she had suffered greatly in her bid to destroy her bitter rival. She sat upon a stool in the bathroom of her locker room, staring at her blood soaked reflection in the mirror. Ursula Von Rossbach looked as if she had walked straight out of a horror movie. Another brutal gash had joined the collection along her hair line, adding another layer of what would become scar tissue. She noticed her nose was crooked, likely broken. With a firm grip, she popped the cartilage back into place with a soft crunch. Satisfied that it looked straight, she looked down at her scratched and bruised form and noticed a slight shake in her hands.
Contrary to popular belief, Ursula was never invincible and knew this all too well. Hardened muscle, thick bone density, and deaden nerves helped facilitate this facade that she had spent most of her life cultivating. She paid for this night and had another coming very soon against an opponent she felt was far closer to her equal than Molly ever had been. Right now, her mind wasn't even on the match she just had, but on the blood that coated those hands. It brought back memories of war and strife, fighting in far away lands for a country that never appreciated it's soldiers enough.
She didn't move or shift when the EMT entered the room, nor did his greeting ever register as that far away look in her eyes took over. It was only when she noticed out of the corner of her eye that a needle was in his hand that she spoke up.
"No anesthesia, Doctor," She said softly.
The EMT was clearly an older gentleman with graying hair and a portly physique. From just casual side-eye observation, she ascertained that he was little more than a glorified veterinarian judging by his casual dress and unprofessional demeanor.
"The stitches will hurt, Ms. Von Rossbach."
Even his voice, a scratchy pitiful thing with a grating high pitch, got on her nerves.
"Just be quick about it, do not speak in my presence, and pray your stitch work is better than your bedside manner."
He merely nodded and reached into his backpack to remove his medical kit. For most, it would be a searing sting as the needle dug into the wounded flesh, pulling suture through in it's wake. For Ursula? It was more akin to a mosquito bite, irritating at most. Her mind drifted and soon she felt nothing as she became absorbed in her thoughts.
"Is this all that there is for me?" She thought in silence as stitch after stitch is ran through the wound on her temple.
"No one ever looks at me as the valiant knight on her mighty steed, only a monster emerging from the depths to threaten the land and taste the hero's steel. Forever and always am I the beast while the 'hero' is cheered on, even though they often are more dishonest than I ever have been."
It was no secret that the majority of her career had been spent inflicting pain and misery on others. She had been the enforcer for hire and a petty tyrant. Villainy came easily enough to one as powerful as she and many times, the temptation to brutally and irrevocably destroy those who dared irritate her had often proven too strong for her to ignore. Ursula did not even notice when the doctor had moved from her temple to a nasty wound on her shoulder blade, so absorbed she was in wallowing in her own psychological mud. She merely continued to stare into the dark crimson depths of the half dried blood upon her hands. It was a sight she was all too familiar with. So much DNA had soaked into her skin over the years from her victims and allies alike. She remembered holding fellow soldiers in her arms as they die from mortal wounds while gun reports let loose with deafening staccato around her. The times when she was called a hero, but felt she was anything but, and how often she would later prove her self-image to be correct as she would casually destroy her fellow wrestlers without much pity or remorse.
Yet here she sat, being stitched up by a stranger she barely knew, feeling at odds with herself. Where Ursula once reveled in being the nightmare that others feared, it was at this moment that she felt a crisis of identity for the first time in her life.
"Perhaps Molly is right," She mused silently, "maybe the predator has lost her taste for the blood that once fueled her."
It had been slow and gradual, this change. It hadn't gone unnoticed by Ursula this entire time, but she had fought against it. Others fed into it, helping her maintain the necessary mentality but here she was, wistfully wishing that just once, someone saw her as their savior, rather than their destruction. Yet she knew the perception others had of her. No one could ever possibly accept her as anything but the villain. It was a role she fit well into. She curls her hand in an upturned fashion, much like a classic villain would, then relaxed the hand with a very small chuckle and a sigh.
"This is what I am," She said simply, then rose right as the doctor cut the last line of stitch work. She ignored him as she headed into the shower, paying his words no heed as her top would fly out of the stall, followed by the rest of her gear. By the time her shower was done, the thought will have perished and all shall be as the universe demanded. She shall never be the hero of anyone's story but her own and the Lady Terminator was perfectly fine with this.