Okay, so a lot of people have been asking how Punk and John don't realize that they are both those little kids in 1986. Since it happened when they were kids, they associate that memory with their child selves, therefore, not associating their adult selves with that memory. John Cena is just Punk's co-worker, while Jonathan was the kid from 1986 and vice versa. They look nothing like they did then, so it's like a completely different person. Also, I would like to thank everyone who has left me reviews so far. They really keep motivated, and wanting to continue this story.

NatsukileeRKOlover, BadgerLynne, The Angelic Enigma, PaigeNicoleBarbie, MiniBatman, Vindictive John Dark Fantasy, CenaRKO1986, Goddess of Night Eternal Faith, JersmenKay, gamesgrl5887, Xenarocks99, Louise

On to the story. – Lexღ

December 18th, 2012

"You can't make me go in there." John argued for the millionth time. "This is America. I have rights, you know."

"Yeah, and one of those rights is the pursuit of happiness. You're not going to pursue anything if you avoid this thing forever. And besides, it's too late to turn back now." John parted his lips and aimed to retaliate, but he couldn't find any words. Punk was right.

Therapy waiting rooms are full of rather interesting people. Punk, being a people watcher, analyzed them all. Plus, he'd been sitting there for about an hour and his phone was dead, what else was he going to do? Pretty much every stereotype imaginable was there: the widowed old lady, the young woman with trust issues due to her father's absence in her life, the little boy who experienced something traumatic, and the troubled teenager whose parents forced him there. Of course, he didn't really know if those people were there for those problems. But it was a pretty accurate assumption.

A middle aged woman with a clipboard in her hand emerged from a room, her high heels clacking against the tile floor. She looked down at the clipboard.

"John Cena?" Momentarily, John froze. Saying he wasn't ready to talk about it was an understatement. But he took a deep breath, and stood up regardless. He had to at least try. He looked at Punk with eyes that resembled a frightened puppy's.

"Don't worry, dude. It's alright. All you have to do is talk. I'll be right out here when you're done." Punk patted his back, reassuringly. John calmed down a bit, nodded, and proceeded to walk towards the woman.

Punk watched him as he followed the high-heel-wearing lady, soon to disappear into the room where dark pasts reemerge.

There's nothing worse than being trapped in a tiny room with a complete stranger and having to tell said stranger about things you don't even tell your mom. If John Cena had any fears, this was one of them. Surprisingly, though, the woman wasn't evil-looking. She had pleasant features and a pleasant way about her, younger looking than the one with the clipboard. Still, he's held all of this in for 27 years; not even Mother Mary could get it out of him. John sat there silently while the woman wrote who knows what on a form, looking around the room and digesting his surroundings. Have you ever felt suffocated, but technically you were more than capable of breathing? That was how John was feeling, like the walls were closing in on him. As walls caved in, truth was bound to slither its way out. The woman stopped writing, and sat the form down on the desk adjacent to her. She looked at John, with a smile, and his heart sped up. Not because of the overwhelming emotion named love, but because he knew where this was going.

"Hello, John Cena, is it? What brings you here today?" He inhaled, then exhaled, calming himself.

"A ruined childhood." He mumbled.

"How was it ruined?" He fiddled with his thumbs.

"A lot of things ruined it actually. All in one night too. Chicago, naïveté, woods, that boy, and that— man."

"Can you… explain that night? And how all of those things you listed are connected?" His eyes closed, he squeezed them tightly. He recollected that murky October 31st, and his heart was torn between beating like a bat out of hell and becoming as sedentary as a corpse.

"Well, it was Halloween in 1986. I was 8. My dad suggested to my mother that we'd all go visit his parents in Chicago for a few days." He paused, trying to gain composure. "There was a boy next door to my grandparents. Phillip was his name, and I'm like one hundred percent sure he's the man waiting for me out there. God, how could I have not seen it before? Those green eyes are pretty distinct. Anyway, he was a 'bad kid.' Or so he told me. And we talked for hours the first time we met: about comics, wrestling, music, and ghosts. I was naïve, then. And he knew it. He made me believe there was some sort of ghost in the woods by his house. He suggested that we go look for'em on Halloween night. He was like a messiah to me," he chuckled, "so naturally I agreed. So on October 31st, me in my Superman costume, he in his Batman costume, after we gathered up as much candy as we possibly could, we ventured into the infamous woods." He stopped, breathing a bit heavily. And this wasn't even the worst part.

"Are the woods the main reason your childhood was ruined?" He nodded, not making eye contact.

"And the man in the woods. He fucked me up. My head isn't right because of that prick!" He was practically yelling now, and the woman tried to look as calm as she could.

"How did the man in the woods find you?" John clenched the cushions of the couch beneath him, he was shaking now. Convulsing. Wrath bubbling up inside of him.

"Phillip said we should break up, go look for the ghost on our own! Maybe we'd find them faster! I went left, he went right! And the man found me, God knows how!" His hands were uncontrollable and they vibrated, his fingertips numbing. Touchtastesmellsightsound rupturing in his veins and shooting up to his brain.

"What did the man do to you?" And there it was: the final straw, the breaking point, the end of the road, the bridge too far. His mind didn't want to relive it therefore he refused to speak it. He stood up, panting, shaking his head rapidly.

"I, uh, I can't do this anymore. I can't say it. Sorry." He ran out of the room that made him feel claustrophobic, passed the man who brought him there, and out of the building that was supposedly there to help him.

"John, God damn it what happened?" Punk yelled, following John.

Eerie silence possessed Punk's house, as John sat watching TV and Punk cooked dinner for the two of them.

Punk exhaled sharply. He didn't know what to do about John. He sort of regretted letting John stay for the break, but he sort of felt guilty for regretting it too.

The dinner was done and so was him thinking, he was going to act. He put the food on two plates and sat them at a table.

"The food is ready, John." John came and sat across him. John didn't eat, he picked at it. Punk noticed, and his jaw tightened.

"Why aren't you eating?" Good God, he sounded like his mother. John shrugged.

"Are we seriously going to have this whole silence ordeal again? I don't know what happened in that therapy session that lasted a mere ten minutes, but it can't be so bad that you can't talk to me! Just talk, John. Silence doesn't fix anything." John glared at Punk, his hand clasping the fork in his hand tightly.

"What the fuck is going on John? You are killing me!" He was screaming, his neck veins practically breaking through the skin. John flinched. Punk waited for an answer, an answer that wouldn't come. The silence prolonged, and Punk honestly couldn't take it anymore.

"If it weren't for you, I would actually be enjoying my Christmas break, not running around like a fucking maniac trying to somehow fix you!" Wrath no longer had John in a choke hold; it was a mixture of depression and affliction. And Punk wasn't angry anymore either. He realized what he had done, how stupid he was for doing it. John had serious inner turmoil, and Punk added fuel to the fire. Before he could apologize, John was up and out of his seat, running into his guest room and locking the door.

He pressed his back against the door, and slid down it quickly. And he wasn't crying, oh no. The bones resting beneath his flesh refused to allow John to move, to do anything. He stared blankly ahead at the nothingness of the wall, internally chuckling at how much the wall reflected him. He, John Cena, was beyond help. It was a chore to help him, and he was a burden. He just wanted to go home. Where he felt somewhat accepted. As for now, he would stay tucked away in the travel sized leisure of isolation, where he couldn't hurt anyone and no one could hurt him. A sanctuary of Nirvana, where no one named Phillip was allowed.

A/N: Finally, one of them puts the pieces together! #johnknows