Post by Amber Mansley on Apr 18, 2024 22:09:20 GMT -5
Amber! Please pick up the phone! I'm sorry, but I have to tell you something! You never deny my calls! Please! For the love of God, Amber, pick up the phone! God knows what you could be doing right now! You need to stay calm and answer the phone before you do something you regret! Amber!!!
GONE.
Her foot was pressed on the gas pedal down to full pressure, forcing the engine to rumble at full strength. Her father's old charger was back to life, surpassing speeds over 100 miles per hour northbound of i95. Amber's bloody hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and the mascara running down her face from the tears she had back at home wasn't helping with her looks either. She was swerving through traffic, having other drivers honk or move their cars out of the way to avoid traffic. Her phone kept ringing inside the cupholder, but she ignored it. It wasn't only Stephen but also acquaintances and friends calling her after she had received the news.
Vrooooooom!
The engine roared with cruel intent to dominate the roads. The black vehicle of speed and ferocity in the hands of a heartbroken woman meant danger to those who would share the road with her. Amber's eyes were empty inside. What were once greenish emerald eyes had fallen into the grey of pure empty despair, but her reality had come crashing down at her father's death being announced. The memories of her childhood spending time together are all to be flushed down the toilet thanks to her selfish actions. Amber couldn't live with herself; it would be easy to swerve off the road and topple over into a crushed pile of metal, but she didn't have the balls to do it.
Instead, she exited off the highway to the main street leading to West Palm Beach as the night approached with the moon coming out. She parked on the side next to the beach, and the strip was busy hosting the tourist attractions of bars and beach clubs, but later down the road, she found herself walking the cold sands of the shores to a specific spot she knew all too well. Amber sat down on the beach, getting her jeans dirty, staring at the water, and brushing against the crystal sand, but all she could see was her father and her playing in the sand when they were little.
It hurt.
The pain hurt.
The numbing of her knuckles couldn't compare, and she stared at her open palm covered in dried blood. They were taped due to finding medical supplies in the kitchen, but the dried stains were there. She rubbed her hands into the sand, trying to rid herself of the evidence, but it was no luck. She rubbed them deeper until that need became a crutch to where she was punching holes in the sand. She broke out into another cry, tears flowing, burying her face into her dirty hands and curling up in a ball while sitting down, rocking back and forth.
What made it worse was she was alone. No one was there for her. Despite being with The Fortunate Ones, she has to walk this road lonelier than ever by her own choices. It hurt her to know she was too late. If she could rewind time, she would change everything, but here she sat, the daughter of a fallen father who is in a better place. Although she was sobbing loudly, the loud music from a rundown bar populated mainly by freaks creeps, and streetwalkers looking for a quick bang for their buck. The more raucous they were, the more the anger boiled in her.
Amber slammed her fists on the sand and then rose to her feet, wiping herself down. She marched off the beach and jaywalked across the street without looking both ways. The reckless walk forced a vehicle to come to a screeching halt, but she ignored the insults harassed at her by the driver. He took off but not in a worse mood than she was in.
One of the bouncers stopped Amber, giving him a look that made him back off. She was let inside and immediately passed everyone to sit at the bar. Fluffing her leather jacket, she pulled from the car. Amber leaned on the bar with her hands locked together and taped with blood stains. She stared ahead, and the bartender approached her, noticing the hand wraps.
"Miss?" The bartender tapped a shot glass of Vodka on the bar. He couldn't stop looking at her bandages while scrubbing the inside of a glass. However, Amber took the shot and poured it down her throat while slamming it on the counter top, not even eyeing the bartender in return.
"Give me a double." She said calmly. Amber let her head down and heard a commotion of men playing billiards. She looked over her shoulder to the group of men, and one of them sought her out in the return gaze. She looked forward, knowing how the men were wearing previous experience and gaining another shot of Vodka.
"Ma'am. I don't think you should be here." The bartender motioned to the group of men conversing while keeping an eye on Amber. However, she didn't listen to a word he said.
"I'll be wherever the fuck I want to be." Her tone was seriously intertwined with the anger she was brewing inside. Unfortunately, what the bartender said came to pass. A middle-aged man with a terrible odor combined with the smell of alcohol made it even worse to be around. Amber didn't pay him any attention, but the old bastard leaned his right arm across the counter to look closer at the beautiful woman next to him.
"Sir. I think she doesn't want to be bothered." The bartender stepped in, but the older man gave him a fierce look, which made him step back.
"So what's a pretty little tha-" Without hesitation, she grabbed the shot glass and shattered the material over his right eye, causing the glass to strike into the organ. The man fell off the stool, rolling around in agony as he was covering the blood pouring from that wound. The rest of the customers, including the bartender, were shocked by the predicament. Amber didn't move, and the rest of the men from his crew decided to intervene by dragging him away from her.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" She slowly stood in her seat and turned around to stare at the man who questioned her. He marched to her, attempting to throw a punch, but she kicked him in the groin, causing him to hunch over. She took his head by her hands and smashed it over the counter as many times as she could. The rest of the men watched in pure fear as she was busy smashing his head, causing blood to pour from his mouth in her ferocious rage amplified by the screaming.
Once he was unresponsive, she let him collapse to the floor. The patrons ran out of the establishment, and the other men were unable to even get close to her. They decided to be wise; they scurried out of the bar, hoping to live another day. The one person left besides Amber was the bartender. He approached her from the other side, and Amber sat down on the stool, tapping her fingers for another shot.
He politely placed on her, and she grabbed his hand gently. "Thank you." She pulled him in close and kissed him on the lips before shoving him away. "Now leave." Confused momentarily, he realized what she had not done too long before. The bartender ran out through the back, leaving Amber alone with two men currently unconscious. She looked at the shot glass before her and swirled the alcohol around before hopping over the bar counter to grab the half-full bottle of Vodka.
Amber slowly turned around and sat on her stool, taking the shot without issues. She threw the shot glass over her shoulder and stood up, waving the bottle of Vodka. She leaned back on the pool table and took a big gulp from the bottle, feeling the alcohol surge down her throat. She closed her eyes, listening to an old country song's rhythm, nodding to the beat and tapping her heel. It was peaceful, quiet but chaotic in a chilling sense, the thriller of a woman scorned, and on the verge of giving into a side, she never wanted to release.
Amber took another sip from the bottle, staring around at the unconscious bodies, broken furniture, and damaged goods in the bar. She chuckled and shook her head but put the bottle down to take it all in. Oh yes, she loved this—the feeling of being bloodthirsty.
ARRIVED.
I made that mistake. I turned my back on the one man who loved me more than any of you have.
I lost my father. He's gone, and I can't get him back, so where does that leave me? I don't know! I'm so confused that I can't tell right from wrong. I don't know who to talk to or trust, but then I realized that the only person I can genuinely trust now is myself. J Mont was right, this business will show you who you truly are.
I revel in being part of the Bloodbath Championship match. The rules no longer apply. I'm not one to follow the rules; I make the rules.
It's simple math for all you pathetic men. Every one of you doesn't have a clue what it means to see blood on your hands, especially from the ones you love. I've had to endure that, and it's killing me inside. I've been itching for blood on my hands but not his, so I'll settle for every one of you instead. Since that championship was made, I've had this raw feeling inside me from beginning to start.
I couldn't understand it at first. I thought it was an illness, a disease, or maybe just jitters. No, it was something much worse.
I've ignored, shunned, and dismissed that side of professional wrestling that bad things happen when I've been at my most sinister. The truth is, I enjoy being in those environments where everything has to be sacrificed. For example, what I did to Corey Bull was just a start, or let's remember how I broke Cyrus Riddle and many others in this match as well.
But then again, they don't matter.
You all don't matter. This is my story. I created history in WGWF by becoming the inaugural Bloodbath Champion and then making history again by becoming a double champion in holding the WGWF X-Division Championship.
And that's in dedication to a man who was ten times the man you all could ever be. I'm The Fortunate One in this match, but, unfortunately, I have to suffer you all for what I've gone through. I refuse to lose any more than I already have.
So, with that said, the sacrifice of your blood will be payment. I'm done being the princess; I want to be the witch. I want to bury your heads so deep into the ground that the last screams you give aren't heard. I want to rip your flesh, tear your skin, watch your bleed so you all can feel what I feel!
Amber stood up from the pool table and held the bottle of Vodka as she teetered over, nearly losing balance. She held onto the poolsticks and then took a moment to look down at the unconscious bodies pouring alcohol over one's face. It woke him up until she kicked him in the head, putting him back to sleep. Amber rolled her eyes, took another swig from the bottle, and leaned onto the bar, putting the bottle down again.
But what do I feel? The need to hurt.
I understand that's what the rest of you are going to do to each other but I don't mean physical pain, I mean tearing you from the inside out. Something Peter Vaughn can't fathom. He said it himself: he saw the Television Championship as a bottom-tier belt, which means he doesn't want the Bloodbath Championship. Why? This man presents himself as someone who can be a God, but the funny thing about men like him is that when you pull their trousers down, they have nothing to show for it. It's like these men here.
But I pity Peter; he must be in a match with a woman who will show him that arrogance only looks cute on those who can back it up. He couldn't do that when Jenny Myst betrayed him and made him an afterthought. It's alright, you don't have to blame anyone.
Xavier Luk made you his pawn, but Xavier has nothing to offer. I'm simply glad he's here because after getting an easy pass into this match, he'll be getting an easy ride in an ambulance once I am done busting his brains out of his bald head. I don't think Xavier and I met, and that's for his safety. He knows better than to challenge a Fortunate One, so if he has any sense, he'll stay out of my way.
Amber slowly stood up and leaned back on the edge of the bar, resting her elbows. She looked ahead and almost finished the bottle before throwing it over her shoulder, causing it to crash against other bottles. She shrugged her shoulders, not caring about the world.
Honestly, I don't give a shit anymore.
I don't care what happens to you, men, because you never cared what happened to me. I remember the number of insults and the number of times you would make fun of me by saying the most outrageous stuff without thinking that maybe Amber Mansley would one day have to visit you. You all ran your mouths thinking you were safe because Amber Mansley isn't the type of woman to even think about ultraviolence, but little did you know how much of a psychotic maniac I can be when you push me to the limit.
Cyrus Riddle did that, and you got a glimpse. Now, you're getting the whole show.
Mr. Stylez. I've beaten you before, and here you are, talking out of your ass. The shit you spew could fertilize an entire farm, but I commend you on being true to yourself. You're honest. I respect that, which is why I will be sad having to rip you apart, but when thinking about what you said about me, it won't be too harsh. Quite frankly, no one wants you around. You're an undesirable, much worse than Ragnarok.
God, what the hell kind of name is that? What? Did you pick that name from a video game and thought it was cool? It isn't. You're a failure. You've had more world championship opportunities, and you've been your own Ragnarok, watching your ass get put down time and time again. Seriously, it's like you can't catch a break. Now you're using the Bloodbath Championship as a last resort in some desperation attempt to stay in the championship picture, but news flash, Ragnarok, no one gives a fuck. Do you want to ruin a title picture? Find Jenny Myst, this i. I'm willing to draw all types of blood in this championship run.
Tristan Slater and Rocco Montouri are unfortunate souls caught in the crossfire. It's only collateral damage—the sad happenings of war. No one is safe, no man is safe from me, and that championship brings the truth about who Amber Mansley is. This championship before me will show how serious I am: The evolution of a hungrier Amber Mansley and a Fortunate One who has supposedly become unfortunate. Tristan, Rocco, be careful who you step into the ring with because this woman has been scorned beyond repair.
Amber walked towards the bar's exit after hearing sirens approaching from afar. She got into her father's car and turned on the e, engine roaring several times. She looked across at the bar she nearly helped ruin before turning off into the street to escape the scene. Amber's hands were locked on the steering wheel, embracing the drive at night on the beachside.
The windows were down, letting her hair flow, and she leaned back in the seat. It was refreshing, but she smirked callously. She was enjoying her handiwork and looked behind her to see that now was following her before staring ahead.
Bloodbath. What a perfect name because we embrace that for women. I embrace the violence, the chaos, and the pain. That's my true nature, nd what separates me from the rest of you. You don't know how to cross a boundary, you don't know when to keep going when the world tells you, and you don't know how to pull the trigger.
I hold the gun now, and I'll empty the damn chamber.
This is my beginning of creating the end, and you should beware of a woman with a broken heart.
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