He wakes up screaming; or maybe he had not been asleep at all. He cannot tell. These days, nobody comes into the room when he is awake lying in his bed, wrists and ankles restrained to the railings on the sides of his bed, while he screams. His cries are earsplitting, and ignored. He is frightened and dying. His bones are aching and the chorea thrashing his arms and legs cuts slices into his wrists with the restraints, he is jerking his body upwards to no avail, desperate for an escape. He gasps heavily through his screams, once or twice in between the steady high pitch of his piercing cries. He has seized twice during the night, something that no longer frightens him. He continues screaming while everyone wishes that he would just be quiet.
His pretend family and over-night nurses have stopped coming to his aid during his violent outbursts, his nurses only come to clean up the aftermath, the vomit that soaks his clothes and sheets, the blood on his restraints and dripping down his lips.
He drops back to the sheets, panting heavily but unable to take in any air that is not given to him artificially through his nostrils. He can feel the sweat running down his forehead and mixing with the tears and blood dripping down his jaw line. His heartbeat pounds as loud as he had been in the now silent room: infused with the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore on the beach outside. Tremors shake his previously frozen body and he forgets what it is like to remain perfectly still.
He comes to terms with his idea that he has been more than deserving of his disease; he does not remember anyone saying that he deserved to have it, and has come up with it on his own. The nights that he hallucinates that his husband is there... He can picture him saying it as he holds his massive grip around his throat; squeezing tighter but never gaining any sort of protest from Orton. Batista never makes him say the reasons for why he deserves it, it is just common fact in the mind of The Viper; it was an idea that was obvious to everyone as it was clear that his arms had been covered in tattoos - so obvious that no one had bothered to state it aloud.
He's failed to care for the reasons why he deserved this fate, maybe he had been a horrible wife to Batista, as he always told him, and comes back to tell him. He makes an attempt to reach out, no matter how tight his wrists are clamped down to the railings, and beg for his illusion of Dave to return - he fails to realize that Dave is not real, and had never been there with him in the first place, and his short term memory erases it each time.
The nurses have managed to get Orton out of the bed and into a wheel chair; he has given up his drive to fight, and has lost every reason he had left in the world to continue. He gives in and lets them do as they wish with him and his body. He becomes their plaything as they position him in different rooms of the house, or take him down the small walk to see the outside world for the first time in months, or years; Randy is not sure which, but he doesn't have the ability to think or care about it as it is today or tomorrow… On one day, he realizes he has never cared for the beach. It was nice for tanning, but it was a good time to put his sunglasses on, lay around in his underwear and watch Cody irrigating DiBiase, who never liked water all that much unless he was in a boat on top of it. His face does not allow him to smile at the memories, and those too quickly fade away with the waves…
Another night and it is silent. He lays awake, staring up at the ceiling and appreciating his own silence like his nurses must have. These nights that came where just too rare, he could be silent for days, weeks, and has been for months, or years… whichever one it was. He has not heard those voices that used to consume him, but instead hears the very distant conversation that took place just a few feet from his closed bedroom door.
Cody and Ted had come back! He remembered being ecstatic at the sound of their voices - their real voices, psychical and present, and the only thing in his way had been the door. That damn door! His arms are shaking, and the fact that he cannot hide this, or sit himself up makes him want to give up everything. How could he possibly let them see him like this? Still sick? Still just - not dying- but …waiting for death.
He tries to smile when he hears them, when he realizes that they are telling their fathers that they no longer want them here caring for him. They are going to stay; they are not going to leave again. His heart drops when he realizes that the reason they might be staying to care for him rather than having their fathers look over him is that they had been fired. Maybe they protested against wrestling on the show too much, they wanted to come home so bad and gave McMahon, and his pet Drew - who ached for DiBiase's Million Dollar Championship title belt, an ultimatum about their employment… and gotten fired for their defiance..
Randy chooses to be patient, something that he has never in his life had the skill to be. He waits quietly, and does not try to call out to them with his damaged and raspy voice. He tries to control his facial expressions and maintain the smile that he has in his heart. He remembers the feeling of love, the smell of Cody and Ted's cologne fusing together to make up one primal scent that makes his sex drive go crazy. It is all he wants, they are all he wants.
He imagines their scent, and can almost smell it… He closes his eyes and takes it all in as he waits for the sound of the door opening to reveal his lovers.
They do not come… but he waits. Days later, he is still waiting… a week and he has almost forgotten. His memories are taken away so often, so many important and unimportant things are gone. He would not remember his own move-set in the ring, but he did have some vague notion that he used to be a world famous wrestler… the details are fuzzy, but they do not quite matter anymore.
These days, he lays in his bed, or goes where ever his nurses please; moving him like a Ken doll around their dream house. They used the mansion more than he ever could have, anyway. Sometimes he watches them, observing them like the television they did not let him watch anymore.
He cannot see their bright, mischievous faces on his large television screen, watching them win matches, or loose them. Sometimes he would stare, not knowing what he was watching, or even recognize their faces or anyone else's. Occasionally, he would feel overwhelmed with pride as they held those shinning belts over their heads, standing on the ropes and getting cheered or heckled at by the crowd; he doesn't know why he feels this way for them… maybe he was a fan of Rhodes and DiBiase the way everyone else was? But then, why wouldn't he know what was happening? Why was this so unfamiliar?… He feels disappointment when they loose, or are pitted against one another. He knows he hates that, but he does not know why. He lays awake at night and misses them for reasons he does not understand. He hears their voices outside of his bedroom door, but knows that they are not there… it is the same conversation, over and over. It is so real, but painfully fake.
He sits restrained, wrists, ankles and stomach, all restrained to the wheelchair that only they had the power to move. He sits there, imprisoned on the chair, on the patio, overlooking a beautiful scene while the sun is starting to go down over the waves. He remembers that life is like the airplanes he used to go on every day, floating through the sky so fast, everything around such a beautiful scene, and in an instance, it is all gone and he is back in a terminal, helping Rhodes search for that twentieth bag that he just had to bring… He smiles at that now, but remembers how annoying it used to be, how much he hated it…. How much he hated the scenes around him, as they flew in their first class seats… he never cared. He does not find a reason why he should care now… he is silent in his mind for a few moments, and then he forgets his own thoughts… He sits there, silent, staring… alone and vacant. His mind processes none of his surroundings, and does not attempt to hold conversation with its self.
Once they are done with their playhouse, and no longer his home, he is wheeled back and put into the bed… he assumes. He opens his slate eyes and looks at the ceiling. He does not change his gaze while he feels himself being poked and prodded, moved about on the bed as the nurses go about administering medications and various types of fluid and nutrition to his shaking body. They show him no emotion, he is more of a chore they have to do to enjoy the luxurious home… and for the first time, as the warm fluids course through his veins, he realizes that he is truly and utterly alone. They are there being paid to enjoy the gorgeous mansion, and occasionally pay him some mind. They do not neglect him, but they are not there to care… Maybe one does, but she is more afraid of him in his vile condition than she is acting out of compassion. She will try to talk to him, maybe attempt to engage his silence in conversation - she knows he can still speak; he is non-verbal, though the ability is there. She can hear him talking at night, his raspy, torn apart and shredded voice, hard and gasping out breaths of air from his lungs as he struggles to speak in silence. There is someone he is speaking to, someone that is not there… A faux being that has made him forced into taking even more medications to help stop his plight with insanity. From his history, they know he has a proclivity to hear voices… and so they load him up with even more medications.
When he is woken up for the morning, or shaken into consciousness that does not come from his ever present staring into vacuity. He is lost in his thoughts that have come back to him, while his staff messes with tubes in his stomach and twitching arms.
He can remember now, Cody and Ted… his lovers. They had left him behind to, not die, but wait for his death. Alone. He is aware that there are only nurses in this house, no family and no friends. He does not blame them for not being here, he loves them… he remembers that clearly. He loves Cody, and he loves Ted.
He remembers that he loves waking up in the morning, rolling over and seeing Cody's bright blue eyes flicker open beside him, that pretty crooked smile of his silky soft pink lips that looked like they had been so gently dusted with shimmer gloss. His perfectly manicured eyebrows raised in confusion to why he was being stared at, unsuspecting about being admired for his pure beauty. Randy is not sure why he has on an acrylic mask covering that beauty… not that it covered very much. See-through, as it very well should be. He would smirk when Cody would yawn; his wide mouth becoming his inside joke with DiBiase… Cody really did resemble a Bass fish. To that thought, he remembers his rich lover with his boy scout, charming and innocent kid next-door good looks. Those similar cerulean eyes that blink awake at him, eyebrows arched slightly as he pines for the Viper's attention, crawling around his arm and grinning his not-so-innocent thoughts for the morning's activities that twinkle in his eyes. His cheeks puffed up as he suppresses a chuckle from whatever it was Cody was doing behind Randy's back… He loved to run his fingers through that mouse brown hair of DiBiase's lit up with golden highlights from the sunlight through the fabric hotel window blinds. The way he smiled did more than the window could have ever done to light the room. It was the perfect accessory to any day…
The Viper hopes that before death finally comes that they realize he has been guilty for his selfish actions; getting sick this way, being a burden on them and ruining their lives… He is consumed in guilt… and still…
He loves them.
He will always love them.
He cannot stop, and his fleeting-arriving-gone memories will never fully take that away.
He hopes that some day they will forgive him.