A/N: Anyone who knows me, knows that The Undertaker has always been one of my favorite WWE characters. So how is it that I've never written a story about him? I forgot, just for a little while, that I don't just respect his in-ring accomplishments. I would also like to knock him down on the floor and ride him like my own personal pony. TMI? Maybe.
Anyway, I have to say a super-special thanks to bkerbunny for her support with this story, and for the hundreds of inspiring pictures that have helped me immensely. Thanks for looking this over and encouraging me to move forward with it, Chickie! You're the best!
And as always: Enjoy!
The ceramic floor was cool against her bare thighs, and the wood laminate of the kitchen cupboards was smooth against her tank-top covered back. The Jack Daniels bottle in her hand was solid, but growing less heavy by the minute. Her thick, black curls had been pulled back from her face, but somewhere over the last two days, it had begun to fall, releasing a mane of unmanageable frizz like a frame around her face. Her make-up long since washed away by an endless stream of tears, red splotches took their place around her ice blue eyes and round cheeks.
Winter Kipley was well-aware of the pitiful picture that she made, splayed across her kitchen floor, head lolling from side-to-side with each whiskey gulp that coursed down her throat. She was well-aware that there were responsibilities that she was neglecting, things she was supposed to be doing, but she just didn't care. She couldn't.
Taking another drink of the amber fire, she drained the bottle and dropped it to the cold, hard floor. It clanked and cracked, but didn't crumble. "Fuckin' fucker," she mumbled, sliding further down the cabinet to rest her head against the tiles beneath her. Reaching out, she wrapped her long fingers around the neck of the bottle and raised it into her eyeline.
"Eighteen fuckin' months," she mumbled, turning it upside down until the last drops fell against her white tank top. "Gone." She raised it to her mouth and licked the lip of the bottle, savoring the last of the biting sweetness. "Fuckin' over," she repeated incoherently to herself as she bit down on the neck of the bottle, an unexpected anger bubbling up in her chest.
She thought about her friends, the ones she had neglected for the last eight months. She thought about her parents, who had been supportive, but cautious, about their only daughter's somewhat unconventional relationship. She had laughed and shrugged all of them off, telling them that they didn't understand. Mark Calaway was different. Their relationship was unshakeable.
"They're all the same," she chuckled, as though remembering an inside joke. Hoisting herself into a wobbling seated position, she heaved the bottle at the nearby wall, laughing as the shards rained to the floor with the remnants of the others. "It's a motherfucking joke!" she called out before falling back onto her side and letting another round of sobs take over.
What had gone wrong? When had her perfect relationship been blown all to hell? And why hadn't she seen it coming? How could he just walk away like that? Without so much as a look back? What had she done to drive him away? Or had he just been playing her all along? What was all that bull shit about respect and honor? Where was his honor when he told her they were over, without so much as asking how she felt about it?
Maybe she should have seen it coming. In the beginning, he had been apprehensive to share anything more than friendship with the quirky, semi-goth chick nearly fifteen years his junior. Winter had done her best to let him know she was feeling more than platonic, but he wasn't a man easily swayed. If anything was going to happen between them, he was going to make the first move.
Once he finally decided to take her out, they were off and running, without so much as a glance in the rear view mirror. Though he carried a rigorous travel schedule as a professional wrestler, there had never been a question of exclusivity. Mark wasn't interested in the ring rats that fought for his attention on the road, and as far as Winter was concerned, there was no other man on the planet worth casting a second glance.
They had been fully in love and fully committed. And when he told her that it was over, her heart had been fully broken. Winter couldn't remember every hurting as badly as she did in that moment, and she was fairly certain she would never recover. Maybe if I could just cut the motherfucking thing out, she thought about the literal ache in her chest. Maybe it would hurt less. Or I would just die. Would it stop hurting then?
For a brief moment, she thought that a suicide attempt might bring Mark back to her. But she couldn't be sure he cared enough to notice if she tried to take her own life. Rolling to her side, she tried to make her way to her feet, but unsteady legs gave way to another bruising fall to the floor. With a grunt, she managed to crawl toward the living room, noticing the shards of glass in her palm only after she had collapsed on the couch.
Exhaustion settled in as Winter gave way to the sleep that was dragging her eyelids shut like an anvil. She just needed a little nap. When she woke up, she would be encased in his massive arms, his heavy thigh draped over hers, pinning her to the sofa cushions. Her nose would be filled with his intoxicating scent, the one that forced her to bury her face further into his solid chest and inhale deeply, as though desparate to be just an inch closer. She would open her eyes to find his sparkling green orbs fully focused on her, a smile twitching on his lips as he told her that she was the most beautiful sleeper he'd ever seen.
When she woke up, it would all be better. It had to be.