A/N: I got sick of bitches hating Edge with Matt Hardy as their defense. Just to prove the point that, if the tables had been turned, Edge still would've been ostracized.

"Cry baby!"

I tried really hard to ignore the comments being shouted at me as I made my way to my rental car. It was close to midnight, but there were still fans milling around, hoping to catch a Superstar for an autograph. I would've signed some things, but I was tired, hungry and not really in the mood.

And besides, it wasn't like I had any fans anyway.

It was almost impossible to brush off the empty cup someone chucked right at my head. Thankfully it was dry, because if it wasn't, I would've laid that kid out right there in the parking lot. I wouldn't have cared. Going to jail would be far better than listening to people give you shit for something you didn't even do.

I cracked my knuckles and kept walking, listening to the boos, to the jeers coming from the twenty or so jerks on the other side of the security gate. But when those boos turned claps, those jeers to cheers, I knew they'd come outside.

I knew they were there, twenty feet behind me, waving to the crowd, blowing kisses.

It wasn't fair. Really. She cheated on me. She cheated on me with him, and they got together after I found out and broke it off. I tried to keep it under the table—it was our personal lives, after all—but when Vince found out, all hell broke loose.

He turned it into a storyline. Into a storyline. He kept it pretty simple, the typical wedding sabotage, a few stolen kisses. Nothing major.

Nothing major. Those were his exact words.

Oh, no. It's nothing major. She just took my heart and ripped it into a million pieces. And I had to broadcast that on national television. I had to watch them kiss and hug and rub it in my face that she wasn't mine anymore. That he had won.

I will admit fault. I will say I took it too far. It was a storyline, but I made it worse. I brought my feelings to work, and those two don't mix well. I started saying things I wasn't supposed to, hitting him when it didn't say to. I did what I felt, and what I felt was beating the shit out of him every chance I got.

And what did you all do? What did you do?

You jerks called me a cry baby.

They were the ones that screwed me. I was the victim. I didn't defame those bastards. I was the one who was being played for months. I was the one who had to watch the love of my life kiss my best friend. I was the one with the broken heart.

But you assholes made me the bad guy. You all made me into some pathetic person that couldn't let go of something that meant so much to me. I wasn't the victim—I was the fucking criminal.

I could hear them talking. They were thanking the fans. Signing autographs. Taking pictures. Her voice still made my heart hurt.

I finally made it to my car, and I kept my back to the crowd as I piled my stuff into the trunk. But I made the stupid mistake of turning to get in behind the wheel, and when I did, they saw me. He saw me first, and he smiled slightly, and raised his hand.

A pathetic wave from a pathetic man.

She looked like she was pitying me, her mouth turned down. She kept looking up at him, then back at me, and then they watched me together, their eyes apologizing for the past.

"Fight, fight!" someone yelled.

I just narrowed my eyes and got into the car.

If I had done that, I would've been an asshole for stealing Amy Dumas from Matt Hardy. If I had done that, I would've been a scumbag from taking her right from under his nose.

If I had done that, I would've been a bastard.

But him?

He was a fucking hero.

A/N: You know it's true. Review.