A/N: I'm going through some shit, and this is my therapy. I am not claiming any of this to be real, this is just a work of fiction. I don't know a damn thing about CM Punk's personal life, nor do I particularly want to. So go ahead and flame me if you want (because you obviously know everything), but at least leave a name.

And a flame is a step up from not leaving a review at all. God, this site is so dead.

Flashbacks in italics.

"Phil, honey, we've been trying to get a hold of you for two days," CM Punk's mother barked on the other end of the telephone. "We need to sit down and talk to you."

"Can't you just tell me over the phone? You know I don't get much time off and I have a lot of shit to do," Phil replied. In reality, he was sitting in his Chicago apartment, playing Left 4 Dead in his underwear.

"Don't use that language with your mother. And, no, it's important that your father adn I speak with you face to face."

"Alright, I suppose I can put off what I need to do for a few minutes. Come on over," Phil sighed, ending the call with his mom. He quickly picked up all the empty Diet Pepsi cans surrounding his video gaming area and put them in the recycling bag. He hastily pulled on the first white beater and pair of sweatpants he could find. His parents only lived a few blocks away, so he knew he had to work quick.

The doorbell rang and Phil buzzed his parents into the building. He opened the door of his apartment and waited in the doorway for his mother and father.

"Where on earth are you going dressed like that?" his mother gently said, not as roughly as she usually would have. Phil also noted that she looked tired and worn down.

"Alright, who died?" Phil joked, using his crude humor in attempt to lighten the situation.

His parents exchanged quick glances before his father whispered, "Sit down, son."

"Oh, no. Who really died?" Phil asked as he sat down on his couch. His mother sat down next to him and his father remained standing, leaning against the wall next to the couch.

Mrs. Brooks gently placed a hand on her son's knee.

"Granny Marie."

Instantly, all color drained from Phil's face, and the memories flooded his mind.

"Phillip, don't go into the ocean without me!" Granny Marie called to her two year old grandson on the beach in Florida. She had taken him on a special vacation, just the two of them.

Phil, who had only ran a few feet ahead of his grandmother, instantly turned around. He laughed as he tripped in the sand.

"I love you, gramma," Phil giggled as she picked him up.

"Granny loves you, too," she smiled, placing a gentle kiss on the child's cheek. "Come on. Let's find some nice seashells to bring home for mommy and daddy."

Phillip Brooks never cried over anything. Tears change nothing and don't do anyone any good. However, as the saying goes, there is a first time for everything.

"Phil, honey, are you alright?" his mother gasped. She had already cried her tears over her mother's death, but seeing her tough son so obviously broken made her start all over again.

"You...take that back...and tell me the truth," Phil muttered, his body shaking more and more violently with each word he spoke.

"It's true, son. Your mother found her at her house," Mr. Brooks said.

Phil looked up at his father, and his father clearly looked ashamed that his adult, professional wrestler son was crying.

"When? When did she die?" Phil asked, attempting to wipe some of the tears from his eyes, but they kept coming.

"I...I found her Thursday," his mother whispered. "She wasn't answering my calls for a few days, and you know that she and I never had the greatest relationship, so I went to confront her face to face."

Phil's eyes darted up to lock with his mother's, but she was looking away from him. Through the tears, he glared at her with more fire than hell could ever produce.

"Today is Friday."

"What are you watching, Phil?" Granny Marie asked, scuttling into the living room from her bedroom, on her way to the kitchen to make dinner for herself and her grandson.

"Wrestling. Mom doesn't let me watch it. She's a butthead," Phil complained. "She's not cool like you, Granny."

"Don't say that too loud. Your parents live down the block. I don't want them to hear and come whisk you away from me and take you home a day early," Granny laughed. She stood next to the chair that Phil was sitting on as she observed the forbidden television program. "Did that guy just pull out a snake?"


"And who's that guy with the pretty broad?"

"That's Macho Man Randy Savage."

"I like him. He wears cool glasses."

"Granny, did I ever tell you that you're the best?"

"Many, many times." She patted her grandson on the head. "So, how about baked potatoes and broccoli?"


While Granny Marie cooked, Phil continuted to watch wrestling.


"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I'm going to be a professional wrestler someday. I'm going to be on tv."

Granny Marie brought Phil's dinner into the living room and set it on the tray table next to the chair. She kissed the top of his head and said, "I'll be there front row for your first match, and any match you want me to go to."

The young teenager looked up at his grandmother with wide eyes.


"Anything for you."

"We tried to reach you, Phillip," Mr. Brooks stated sternly. "We didn't hold this information from you on purpose. You are the one who makes yourself completely unavailable."

Phil's fists balled up, his short nails digging into his palm.

"Not now, dear," Mrs. Brooks warned her husband.

"If not now, then when? When will he learn that blood between family is more important than what he spills in the damn ring?"

"Go," Punk whispered through the tears that fell from his eyes, the pain that filled his heart, and the rage that filled his body. "Just get out. Please."

"Come on, honey, let's give him some space," Mrs. Brooks gently said to her husband, who looked as if he would rather be judging a cow pie contest at the state fair. "Phillip, if you don't want to be alone, you can come stay with us. And make sure to let Vince know about...yeah."

His parents left without another word.

What was worse: the fact that his favorite person in the entire universe was dead or the fact that his parents didn't seem to give two shits between them about it?

"Phil, it's prom night. What are you doing here?" Granny Marie smiled as she answered the door.

She let Phil in, who stepped over the threshold wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt, and carrying a duffel bag.

"Everyone wants to drink and party, and I'm not into that. I'm straightedge, Granny. For life, too. I won't ever do dumb things like everyone at my school. I can't be a wrestler if I'm messed up all the time."

Tears of happiness welled in the corner of Granny Marie's eyes. "Phil," she sighed, kissing the top of his head, "it makes me so glad to hear that."

After his parents left, Phil sat for a few more moments on his couch.

He thought about breaking his Xbox. He thought about smashing his phone against the wall. But what good would either of those things do? But, still, he had to do something.

He stood up, his knees cracking once his legs were fully straight. Phil turned around and looked at the couch upon which he had just received the worst news of his life.

The grey couch was a hand-me-down of sorts from his aunt and uncle. They bought new furniture, and Phil was just moving, so they gave it to him. It was a rather nice couch. It took Phil's father, grandfather, and uncle to move into the apartment.

Phil bent down, but his hands under the bottom of the couch, and flipped it over by himself.

He couldn't scream. He lived in an apartment complex and didn't want to cause any problems or fusses with his neighbors. He couldn't be alone in this apartment, either. It's not like he could turn to drugs or alcohol to help cope, although the prospect was alluring. He just wanted to be numb.

He hastily packed a few things and drove over to his parents' house.

"When can I move in?" Phil hurriedly asked as he opened the door and saw his parents sitting at the kitchen table.

"Boy, you sure as hell ain't moving in here," his father replied, looking at Phil as if his son grew arms out of his head.

"No, Granny's house. She told me she was giving it to me."

Mr. and Mrs. Brooks both looked down at the table. Mrs. Brooks spoke up first. "Honey, you can't move in there."

"Yes, I can. You think I can't afford it? Mom, I work for WWE. It's not going to be a problem."

"No, Phil. There wasn't a will. We already searched the house and contacted her lawyer. She never made one. We're selling it."

"Like hell you are," Phil seethed.

"Phil, you don't ever speak to your mother like that ever again. Do you hear me?" Mr. Brooks bellowed. "You are way too upset to be thinking rationally. We are selling the house. You can go through her things when you are good and ready, but that's it."

"I know today is big for you, Phil, but she's sick. I don't think she's going to be able to make it," Mrs. Brooks told her son over the phone.

"Mom, this is Wrestlemania. I'm in the Money in the Bank match. You guys have to come," Phil pleaded to his mother.

"Phil, Granny is sick. She just had her surgery and she's not eating. We all have to make sure she's taking care of herself. There is just no way she can be there."

"Fine. I understand, I guess..."

Granny Marie was indeed there in the front row for Phil's first match. She went to every match he could manage to get free tickets for. Tonight, he had 3 seats in the front row reserved for his father, mother, and Granny Marie.

Later that night, CM Punk became the first back to back winner of Money in the Bank.

"That's my grandson!"

Phil didn't even notice anything before or during the match, but he definitely heard those words through the crowd's noises after he won. He turned around and looked to see Granny Marie sitting there in the front row. Each seat next to her, for Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, was empty.

Phil's elation grew as he saw that Granny Marie had kept her promise to him, even though she had just had surgery and needed to recover. She came through when his own parents did not.

"So you guys are just going to forget about her? You're going to sell the house that she lived in and pretend like she never existed? You're going to let some stranger live in the house that I grew up in?"

His father let out an annoyed grunt. He walked to the fridge and took out a Pepsi, handing it to his son. "Drink this, and calm the fuck down. You need to worry about yourself and how you're going to get past this, not about the house."

Phil glared at his father, but took the Pepsi anyways. He stomped to the living room. He stood in front of the window. He could see Granny Marie's yellow house down the block.

How could she be gone? Less than two months ago, she was front row at Wrestlemania, cheering him on.

2 years later

"Oh, Phil, I'm glad you're here. I have some more of Granny's things to look through. It's mostly jewerly, and I don't know why you'd want any of it, but I thought I'd offer," his mother smiled.

The years made things easier. It still hurt to think about, and Phil still had random breakdowns once in a while. Every night he wrestled, he could swear he heard Granny Marie cheering him on.

"Is it weird that I still cry?" Phil asked his mother as they sat on her bed, sorting through boxes and bags of old jewelry.

Mrs. Brooks placed a hand on her son's knee. "I miss her, too."

"I just...I blame myself. I just think if I wasn't gone all the time for work, I could have taken care of her," Phil admitted. It was possibly his darkest secret. He kept the blame of Granny Marie's death to himself. He knew it wasn't really his fault, but he couldn't help but to think he somehow could have changed things.

"But she was a drug addict, Phil," his mother revealed.

Phil dropped the necklace he was looking at. "Excuse me?"

"All those perscriptions she was taking? And a lot of them were expired. I really don't think there was anything you could do. I think her heart just stopped. After all, I found her laying half in the kitchen and half in the living room. Her bathroom light was still on and there was a glass of milk on the counter. I mean, we didn't get an autopsy because it was too expensive, but what else can we assume?"

Phil's face turned red. "I was under the impression that she died peacefully in her sleep, mother."

Mrs. Brooks saw the damage that she had done. "Phil, I...I thought you knew. You spent the most time with her."

"Is this because you guys didn't get along? Is this why you're trying to change my opinion of my favorite person in the world?"

"Honey, calm down. I am just telling you the truth. You deserve to know at least that."

Phil picked up the box of stuff he was sorting through and carried it with him out the door. He stopped, turned to his mother and said, "Not letting me have her house is one thing. So is giving her animals to the Humane Society when I could have taken them in. But this? This? I am taking this box with me because it's all I have left of her besides an obituary and a few pictures."

"Phil, come back with that! Some of that is real gold!" his mother cried.

"I knew it. I knew you didn't give a damn about her, and you don't care about how I feel."

"That's not true."

"You want to forget about her? You can forget about me, too."

A/N: So...review, please?