The Monkey
The Monkey:Â Your muse has the ability to predict the death of others.
It had started out innocuously at first, little blemishes and streaks on photographs he had thought were the product of exposure. Glaring sunlight. Perhaps a speck of dust. Even when mentioned offhandedly to close friends who stared back at him like he had grown a second head and reiterated that they saw nothing there, Roman thought nothing about it.Perhaps it was his eyesight. Floaters.
And when the optometrist gave him a clean bill of health and the white blemishes became more and more evident in some of the pictures, the idea that it was all in his head somehow made more sense than the supernatural.
That they didnât at all somehow resemble wounds, the way they would jag across bodies in violent streaks. It was only when they started adopting a red tint did he suspect something was amiss and he watched day by day in morbid fascination as one of them spiderwebbed from his fatherâs chest, right above where the manâs heart would have been.
When the call had come in on a rainy Friday night, he had thought it was a joke. A terrible prank given it was Jimmy or Jey who was barking down the other lineâ-he couldnât remember whichâ-but as the seconds passed, the smarmy grin had disappeared instantly from his face as he shakily held a picture of his old man, completely ignoring the receiver on the floor from which he could barely hear his name being called out with mounting concern. A heart attack. Sika AnoaâI had died from a heart attack. And Romanâs steely gaze as he tried to remember how to breathe continued to map out each and every one of the bloody tendrils which spiderwebbed out of his fatherâs chest until Nikki had come in to check on him.
It was a coincidence. It had to be. It didnât make any sense.
Dean had suspected something amiss, brothers often did and when Roman had finally mustered enough courage to tell him the truth, the scruffy street fighter had initially laughed, and laughed hard. The casual acceptance that came next as though this made complete sense however made the massive Samoan almost cry from relief as he continued to chaperone Dean from bar to bar during their travels, confident that no harm would come to his friend while he was around.
Yet the scars on Deanâs pictures grew and grew daily, starting from a red splotch from the manâs stomach which crept upwards to mark two more blots on the manâs head, both right between his eyes and Roman could feel himself slowly go mad from the combination of animalistic fear and frustration if Nikki walking in on him trying so hard to scratch out the marks that the picture he held was torn was any indication.
Why were they still there? What was he doing wrong?
He could stop it. He had to.
The last call Dean had made to him that moonless Friday night at 10:30pm, the brawler had assured him sleepily that he was safe for the night. Heâd eschew a visit to the pub to catch up on some rest given how heâd promised to take Joelle out the next day and Roman had sat nodding to each word, a humorless smile on his face as he stared at a picture of Dean and himself taken during their Shield days held in a hand. Deanâs side had been tainted completely red. Blood red.
Yet the man was indoors two rooms away. Asleep for the night. Safe. Dean was safe. The shouting and gunshots that rang out through the hotel corridor at exactly three-thirty in the morning however rammed an ice pick of dread right into his gut, his worst fears confirmed when the stampeding of feet could be heard running down the hall from the direction of Deanâs room.
The din had awoken some of the others who had been asleep on the same floor, doors flung open as Wade, Cesaro and Sheamus were at DEFCON 1 and made to charge down the two shadows attempting to flee down the stairs while Roman had made a mad dash for the room two doors down, heart pounding away in his throat.
911 was dialed on his phone but he didnât need a medic to see that the man haphazardly sprawled over the couch like a broken marionette was lifeless however, the two point-blank entry wounds between Deanâs eyes masking the former Shield memberâs features with gore and he didnât know how long he cradled his brother in all but blood until the paramedics finally arrived.
The two whom had fled the scene, his friends had caught; the brawlerâs own mother and a drug-peddling boyfriend who had apparently gotten into argument over money, though none of it mattered anymore.
Dean was dead. And no amount of anything he did helped stop it.
The gradual descent into madness became a wild spiral at the loss of his best friend as despair hung an ominous cloud over the AnoaâI household and Roman had all the pictures in his home taken down, frames planted face-down on desks and shelves as the heated row between husband and wife drove Joelle to spend most of her days in her room.
The same room which was now empty, forebodingly so and Roman could feel the familiar cold dread dripping steadily from the icicles which grew from the roof of his stomach and as the seconds ticked away on the little Pikachu clock on his daughterâs bedside table, the massive Samoan found his gaze unable to avert itself from the beautiful sun and moon motifed locket just a few inches away from where his hand rested.
It had been a gift from both Nikki and himself to the sprightly child from their honeymoon in Naples. He hadnât paid it much attention, save the fact that many months ago when they had given it to the child, she had requested a picture of al three of them together to place within it.
Nikki and Joelle hadnât returned from their shopping trip since ten in the morning, It was now half-past eight.No calls, and all of his went straight to voicemail. No indication to where they might have gone and that familiar feeling of panicky suffocation was building up in his chest once more.Missing personâs reports could only be filed within two days of a disappearanceâŚ..the harrowing question he knew how to seek an answer to but didnât know if he could stomach having answeredâŚ.was is he was looking at a joyful reunion, or bodies.
He had to know. He had to know.
The photo held within the small locket which he almost tore open made his blood run cold, red lines messily streaked and blotched over most of Nikkiâs face and most hauntingly, a jagged slashmark right across Joelleâs throat. The red tint had begun to creep in though it hadnât fully set in to the blood red he had learned to fear.
When the phone rang, he had been expecting, praying for Nikkiâs tone in apology and assurance that they were alright, or cops. The drawling baritone that drifted through the earpiece though, made the fear twist and churn into blinding, white-hot hatred as it taunted him with his incompetence as a husband and a father, how he had let his family wander into its clutches like a lost ewe and her lamb.
Dave Batista.
He could hear Joelleâs plaintive crying faint in the background as Dave yelled for her to shut up and the minor altercation that occurred when Nikki had told him to leave the child alone. The sharp yelp of pain at the sharp slap and the panicky, muffled cries as several dull thuds made him close his eyes and curse under his breath before Daveâs voice echoed through the piece again.
An address was given, alongside the assurance that Joelle would be the first to go if the cops were roped into their little game and as the line went dead, Roman hadnât even to debate his choices, refusing to compromise his daughter for anything and the smile that dawned upon his features was bordering on maniacal when he saw the locketâs picture once more.
He could stop it this time. He would.
It was the same mantra that played in Romanâs head as they approached the warehouse, Seth and he. The two-toned aerialist he had called to curtly request a favor, and his trust that Seth wouldnât say no was reciprocated with an almost immediate agreement. Good or evil, brothers would remain brothers when push came to shove and a knot was slowly twisting up in his chest when Seth inquired as to the smile on his face, as though he had this entire thing thought out.
Seth couldnât know.
Even as they ran through the darkened corners and both parted ways so Seth could create a diversion, the young AnoaâI would take a peek at the locket around his neck, watching as the lines and scars slowly began to disappear from Nikki and Joelleâs images. It was working.
There had been no hesitation to charge in when he saw the two ladies in his life bound up in the back room, a hunting knife cutting the bonds free as strong arms wrapped them in a tight embrace like he hadnât in a long time. Bruises covered most of Nikkiâs features, while Joelleâs arm was twisted at an odd angle and several cigarette burn marks dotted the little girlâs legs but they would stand and they could walk, and they were alive and as he stopped kissing both out of sheer relief, it was all he could ask for.
Even the appearance of Dave at the doorway failed to subdue Romanâs spirits as he took off the locket and placed it around Joelleâs neck, reminding the scared little waif that Papa loved her as he did the same with Nikki; she had been a good wife and a friend and deserved more than the grief and anger in the wake of Deanâs death where heâd forgotten for a moment what he still had.
Daveâs time away from the ring had shown in the manâs clumsiness at making the first move as the Samoan landed the first blow and the two tussled like a pair of pit bulls for dominance and fists and makeshift weapons flew.
The hunting knife dug into the former Evolution memberâs arm and thigh, nicking an artery there as red sprayed across the walls in a violent burst and Roman grit his teeth at the blinding pain and the sensation of all wind being knocked out of him when a pipe struck his ribs and a side of his head with a sick CRACK! and out of the corner of his eye he could see Seth once more, herding the injured to safety before promising to return for him. The momentary lapse was all that was needed however as a hard kick to the midsection floored him.
The scream that threatened to tear out from his throat when the two of them were struggling on the ground and Daveâs weight made to break cracked ribs to pierce his lungs before the rusty pipe struck the old scars on his stomach wide open was forcefully swallowed as a solid two-punch dislocated the manâs jaw, giving Roman enough time to scrabble for the knife again which he plunged deep into the former world championâs exposed neck, exerting every bit of force he had left in a half-broken body to viciously drag it aside so the gaping wound almost decapitated the man who wildly grasped at his throat, shuddered for a bit before keeling over dead.
The stillness that permeated the dark as the fury of battle died down save Romanâs own raking, wheezing breaths as bloody froth began to bubble at the corner of his mouth was suddenly so amusing to the gridiron captain who let out a crackling laugh as he dragged himself best as he could to lean against a wall, awaiting for Sethâs return though he had an inkling that try as the aerialist might, there was no escaping the inevitable.
After all, when the bloody blots and scars had left Nikki and Joelleâs pictures and made to spiderweb along his instead the further he got into this building, it didnât take much to make the connection or the choice he had to make, as though there ever was a choice to make in the first place. His life for theirs.
The fear remained however as he felt his pulse race one last time, the primeval instinct to try and survive all odds pushing him to try and crawl towards the entryway one last time before collapsing in a heap halfway and it was here that Cesaroâs manner of describing courage as not the absence of fear, but the acknowledgement that it existed and that it wouldnât hinder one from doing what needed to be done suddenly made complete sense to him as he let out another small, tittering giggleâ-a mixture of amusement at the situation as well as relief and despair of having both wife and daughter safe yet at the expense of never seeing them again passed his lips.
God, what had he done?
âYou look a fuckinâ mess.â Romanâs eyes shot open as the voice drifted through his ears, only to look up into a face he hadnât seen in three years. It was like nothing had changedâ-said man was wearing the same old ratty leather jacket he always did, a pair of faded jeans to go with the street brawler image. The two round scars in the middle of a forehead barely hidden by a receding hairline were faint, those drooping blue eyes lively as theyâd always been as a small smirk dug a dimple into jowly cheeks.
âClean up good for a dead man, Dean.â Roman managed to croak out, the corner of his eyes crinkled in the warmest smile heâd worn in forever and the wet trails painting his cheeks went completely unheeded.
âHowâve you been?â
âFucking ridiculous. Ainât got none of the good shit here to while away the wait, Joe.â The Cincinnati brawler scratched behind an ear casually before reaching out a hand to him, the light emanating almost too bright for mortal eyes and he knew what accepting it would mean.
âAnd that stuff they say about virgins or something-something? Lying sons of bitches. Swear Iâma haunt the next goddamn padre who preaches that to the mass.â
Sensing Romanâs reluctance though in the way the manâs dull, steel-blue eyes darted towards where Nikki and Joelle had left, the spectreâs voice took on a brotherly concern as Dean kneeled down and the smile the young man wore this time was sincere.
âLook, theyâre gonna be taken care of for a long time. What you did tonight for âem? Reckless as hell yeah, but ainât gonna be for nothing. Theyâll be safe. I promise.â The tone used was with a gentleness Roman had never heard from Dean before as the feel of those brightly-lit fingers lightly brushing upon his chest and forehead dulled the pain that had assailed them before this.
âBut the Big Guy sent me to help you over the other side, brother.You canât stay. Not this time.â
The hand was held out again in offer as Roman struggled to draw in another breath.
âTrust me, it ainât that bad. âSpecially when youâve got someone to bitch about it with into eternity.â
A small laugh was offered as the dying man steeled himself and reached out to clasp the offered hand, feeling it pull him to his feet with a light, almost otherworldly ease. There was warmth here rather than the cold which was slowly crawling up from his fingertips earlier and no words were traded between both men as they clung to one another in a fierce embrace.
âFuckinâ missed you, dumbass.â Roman murmured, pressing his forehead to Deanâs for a moment before sparing one final, wistful look at what remained of his body and the wedding ring gleaming away in the darkness.
âYâthink I can still keep an eye on âem or something?â
âBeen watching Shawn and the girls since I got sent here man. Ainât no big thing.â There was sadness in Deanâs tone even as the smile remained.
ââŚ.Who was sent to help you over?â the Samoan found himself blurting out curiously as Dean snorted at the question.
âAhahaha. Aha yeah. That. See that kinda surprised me for a bit.â came the reply amidst a toothy grin though Roman could see the way the brawlerâs eyes lit up in some unbridled joy.
âYour old man.â
âYou kidding me?â
âNah man, totally serious. Guess you werenât shitting with me when you said your folks thought I was an adopted son. We drew straws to see who got to see you tonight. AnoaâI senior lost.â Deanâs tone was that of amusement, the most beautiful sound heâd heard in three years as an arm was slung around his shoulders.
âNow câmon! Old bastardâs dying to see you, you wont believe the stories he got to tellâŚ..â
