Post by Rachel Redding on Apr 21, 2017 21:20:04 GMT -5
The shot opens on a (admittedly staged) car wreck. A white sedan, wrapped sideways (passenger side first) around a large tree, it looking none the worse for wear. Airbags deployed, shattered glass on the ground. Sitting on the ground about thirty feet away is Rachel Redding. She's looking at the scene, dressed in jeans and a plain black top. After a moment, she begins speaking.
“A lot of people, they don't get it. They see me out, maybe at a club, maybe at a restaurant, surrounded by people with drinks of their own, and me with a water. Maybe, if I'm feeling extra fancy, a Sprite. They assume I'm some kind of tightwad, a teetotaler, what...what's the word-’straight edge.’”
She rises up onto her feet, though doesn't make a move toward the wreckage.
“They say things like, ‘You need to loosen up,’ ‘You don't have enough fun,’ and it's like they know me. So that's why I'm here today; that's why I had this little display set up. Get your pens ready, because you're getting one little peek into my life, one little glimpse into my past.”
Rachel slowly begins walking toward the car.
“My father was an alcoholic; some people say it's genetic, you know. His father died young, my grandfather; never knew him. I couldn't tell you if he was a drunk like dad or not. Now...don't get me wrong. He wasn't an abusive drunk; never beat my mom, never abused her verbally. But his normal operating life was one where he needed it to survive.”
She shakes her head, “Maybe he was more abusive when sober. Maybe it was coping with his own dad’s death. I honestly couldn't tell you, and while I could find out now? I'll tell you upfront I don't consider it a big deal in my life. The only role his...disease played in my life is making sure I ended up with the right family members to raise me.”
Rachel reached the wreck scene, taking a few moments to look it over before continuing.
“This...is a recreation of the other way I ended up with those family members. My parents had separated; why, I suppose, I'll never know. My mother, she was on a date. He'd had more than a few drinks…”
She hesitated, before virtually spitting out, “Guess she had a type.” Rachel shook her head, clearing her mind before continuing.
“He lost control, wet road, slow reaction...whatever the investigators determined. Hit the tree.”
Rachel pointed at the passenger side, the one where the tree was essentially in place of a person who should be there.
“That was where my mother, Molly, was sitting. At least, that's where she was when he lost control. Instant, they said; she knew what was happening, and had no time to control it, much less think about it. I...guess it's better that way?”
Rachel reaches up, absentmindedly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye but refusing to acknowledge it, even with a sniff. She turns to the camera, having fixed her face back to its normal, slightly annoyed look.
“So when someone like Brandy Cognac, someone who grew up around alcohol, and treats it like it's a way of life, has the nerve to try and tell me that I need to ‘loosen up’ and ‘have fun?’ She's done nothing but put herself on notice. She's merely put herself further in my crosshairs than she truly has any right to be.”
Rachel takes a step away from the car.
“Brandy Cognac is a joke. A talented wrestler? Maybe slightly; enough that luck ends up on her side occasionally. But as a true competitor? As someone who stands across the ring from me? She's a play on words, the product of a drunken union, a drunken fling, and a drunken upbringing. She repeats her own cycle, by linking up with the only one who can exceed her vices.”
Rachel Redding’s face contorts into a sneer.
“I assure you, Ms. Cognac, there is no amount of alcohol in the world that you can gorge yourself on that will dull the pain I intend on inflicting on you. There is no number of shots that will equal the times I will consider just putting you and the rest of WCG out of your collective miseries by ending your sad excuse of a career.”
She pauses, before her face relaxes, and she even lets a small smile escape her lips.
“But I won't. Because the world needs people like you, Brandy. You... far more than my father, wherever his booze fueled escapades have taken him, far more than the man who couldn't control himself and led to the death of my mother, sitting in a jail cell for another decade. You are the biggest example of what this disease does to a person.”
After checking the trunk lid for any shards of glass, Rachel leans back on it, tilting her head at the camera.
“It makes you a sad excuse for a human being. Someone who feels content in their life decision, and never tries to truly better themselves. And I'm sure, you'll watch this, and you'll try to take some moral high ground, or you'll claim tomorrow will be different, that you'll be a better person!”
Her face grimaces, an attempt to stifle a chuckle, one that she resists then lets out, almost awkwardly. Then she lets out a full giggle, shaking her head.
“But we both know the truth. Because I grew up around someone like you, and you know you. You'll wake up, cradling that mess named Keg, smelling of whiskey and vomit. You'll roll over to shut off the alarm, and grab that fifth on the bedside table. Open it up, take a big long swig, and start this day the way you've started every single one for the past decade-plus,” Rachel cocks an eyebrow, “a slave to your vices.”
Rachel turns, looking one more time at the car, a small frown forming on her face. After a few moments, she simply shakes her head, walking away from the scene, which lingers on the wreck for a few more seconds before fading out to black.
“A lot of people, they don't get it. They see me out, maybe at a club, maybe at a restaurant, surrounded by people with drinks of their own, and me with a water. Maybe, if I'm feeling extra fancy, a Sprite. They assume I'm some kind of tightwad, a teetotaler, what...what's the word-’straight edge.’”
She rises up onto her feet, though doesn't make a move toward the wreckage.
“They say things like, ‘You need to loosen up,’ ‘You don't have enough fun,’ and it's like they know me. So that's why I'm here today; that's why I had this little display set up. Get your pens ready, because you're getting one little peek into my life, one little glimpse into my past.”
Rachel slowly begins walking toward the car.
“My father was an alcoholic; some people say it's genetic, you know. His father died young, my grandfather; never knew him. I couldn't tell you if he was a drunk like dad or not. Now...don't get me wrong. He wasn't an abusive drunk; never beat my mom, never abused her verbally. But his normal operating life was one where he needed it to survive.”
She shakes her head, “Maybe he was more abusive when sober. Maybe it was coping with his own dad’s death. I honestly couldn't tell you, and while I could find out now? I'll tell you upfront I don't consider it a big deal in my life. The only role his...disease played in my life is making sure I ended up with the right family members to raise me.”
Rachel reached the wreck scene, taking a few moments to look it over before continuing.
“This...is a recreation of the other way I ended up with those family members. My parents had separated; why, I suppose, I'll never know. My mother, she was on a date. He'd had more than a few drinks…”
She hesitated, before virtually spitting out, “Guess she had a type.” Rachel shook her head, clearing her mind before continuing.
“He lost control, wet road, slow reaction...whatever the investigators determined. Hit the tree.”
Rachel pointed at the passenger side, the one where the tree was essentially in place of a person who should be there.
“That was where my mother, Molly, was sitting. At least, that's where she was when he lost control. Instant, they said; she knew what was happening, and had no time to control it, much less think about it. I...guess it's better that way?”
Rachel reaches up, absentmindedly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye but refusing to acknowledge it, even with a sniff. She turns to the camera, having fixed her face back to its normal, slightly annoyed look.
“So when someone like Brandy Cognac, someone who grew up around alcohol, and treats it like it's a way of life, has the nerve to try and tell me that I need to ‘loosen up’ and ‘have fun?’ She's done nothing but put herself on notice. She's merely put herself further in my crosshairs than she truly has any right to be.”
Rachel takes a step away from the car.
“Brandy Cognac is a joke. A talented wrestler? Maybe slightly; enough that luck ends up on her side occasionally. But as a true competitor? As someone who stands across the ring from me? She's a play on words, the product of a drunken union, a drunken fling, and a drunken upbringing. She repeats her own cycle, by linking up with the only one who can exceed her vices.”
Rachel Redding’s face contorts into a sneer.
“I assure you, Ms. Cognac, there is no amount of alcohol in the world that you can gorge yourself on that will dull the pain I intend on inflicting on you. There is no number of shots that will equal the times I will consider just putting you and the rest of WCG out of your collective miseries by ending your sad excuse of a career.”
She pauses, before her face relaxes, and she even lets a small smile escape her lips.
“But I won't. Because the world needs people like you, Brandy. You... far more than my father, wherever his booze fueled escapades have taken him, far more than the man who couldn't control himself and led to the death of my mother, sitting in a jail cell for another decade. You are the biggest example of what this disease does to a person.”
After checking the trunk lid for any shards of glass, Rachel leans back on it, tilting her head at the camera.
“It makes you a sad excuse for a human being. Someone who feels content in their life decision, and never tries to truly better themselves. And I'm sure, you'll watch this, and you'll try to take some moral high ground, or you'll claim tomorrow will be different, that you'll be a better person!”
Her face grimaces, an attempt to stifle a chuckle, one that she resists then lets out, almost awkwardly. Then she lets out a full giggle, shaking her head.
“But we both know the truth. Because I grew up around someone like you, and you know you. You'll wake up, cradling that mess named Keg, smelling of whiskey and vomit. You'll roll over to shut off the alarm, and grab that fifth on the bedside table. Open it up, take a big long swig, and start this day the way you've started every single one for the past decade-plus,” Rachel cocks an eyebrow, “a slave to your vices.”
Rachel turns, looking one more time at the car, a small frown forming on her face. After a few moments, she simply shakes her head, walking away from the scene, which lingers on the wreck for a few more seconds before fading out to black.