Post by Ana Somnia on Feb 1, 2024 23:05:14 GMT -5
XIII.
“NOT SO UNDISPUTED ANYMORE”
BALL ARENA; ANASTASIA WESTEN’S CAR; ANASTASIA WESTEN’S CONDO.
DENVER, COLORADO.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd.
11:53 p.m.
“NOT SO UNDISPUTED ANYMORE”
BALL ARENA; ANASTASIA WESTEN’S CAR; ANASTASIA WESTEN’S CONDO.
DENVER, COLORADO.
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23rd.
11:53 p.m.
——There’s a tension permeating the air in Ball Arena, where the main event for tonight’s COMBAT Fight Night 166 has drawn to a close and the crowd awaits an announcement of the result from inside the cage. Our two main event competitors wear the fruits of one another’s labor, with each woman bloodied, swollen, and wincing with nearly every move they make. One dons a fairly solemn grimace while the other smirks proudly, perhaps an indication of how their fight went.
——Each fighter’s corner crew waits impatiently on opposite ends of the cage just inside its walls, hoping to hear their fighter’s name called in triumph. Following a brief discussion at cageside, a man hands the ring announcer a large scorecard with the official verdict adorning its face. The announcer scans the card for a moment before centering himself behind the referee, who holds one wrist of each woman in his hands in preparation to raise one of them in victory. The fans in attendance shower the cage with anticipatory cheers, though there seems to be a slight unease matriculating through the throngs of fans regarding the impending announcement of the result.
——“Ladies and gentlemen,” begins the ring announcer. “After five rounds we go to the judges’ scorecards for a decision… All three judges score this contest 49-46 for the winner… by UNANIMOUS DECISION... the RUTHLESS... AAALLLLLLIIISSSOOONNN... PRRRIIIIIICCCEEE!”
——When the referee lifts the victor’s hand, Anastasia Westen blood runs cold—colder than it already was. Though she competed under her ring name tonight, Westen’s defeat slices deep into her core, well beyond the persona she wears during competition. Wanting no further part in tonight’s festivities, Westen vacates the cage with haste. Her coaches lead her past the swarms of cheering fans and into the backstage area. Here, she shrugs off their consoling efforts and tears her gloves off in frustration.
——She tosses the gloves at the nearest coach she sees and slams the door behind her to enter the locker room alone. While the platinum blonde is no stranger to solitude, tonight’s stands out. Pulling out an alcohol pad and looking into a mirror, she wipes away the blood that had dried on her face. Each time the pad presses against her skin, she cannot keep her upper lip from twitching in pain. The longer she does this, the longer her reflection seems to contort. Is it laughing at her? She feels like that’s what it’s doing, though that could just be a possible concussion.
——Taking a seat on the first chair she can find, Westen leans forward and stares silently at the ground, her elbows resting on her knees so that her hands may hang down lifelessly between her legs. Her breathing, albeit not as ragged as it had been during the announcement of her loss, is heavy and only grows heavier. She shakes her head in bewilderment—where had she gone wrong that the judges only gave her one of the five rounds? Where had she gone wrong that she even lost the fight in the first place?
——These disquieting thoughts rattle around her skull for another moment longer before she roars to her feet and takes the chair in her hands, launching it through the admittedly expensive monitor on the near wall. It might cost her a pretty penny but money is no object to an athlete of Westen’s stature. Startled by the loud crashing noise from the other side of the door, Artem Ivanov, Westen’s head coach, bursts through the aforementioned door in panic. Of course, when he lays eyes upon the scene before him he is somewhat unsurprised, though dejected nonetheless.
——Westen glares at him, prompting him to nod quietly and vacate the room, closing the door softly behind him. Once alone again, Ana surveys the sea of shattered glass spread across the locker room floor. As if shattered herself, Ana drops to a deep squat and chokes back a sob. Tears well up in her eyes but she growls and wipes them away with agitated urgency. She runs her hands—which shake slightly—back through her bloodstained braids and rises back to her feet.
——Stomping over to her belongings, she stuffs everything messily into her bag and slings it over her shoulder. Opting to shower when she gets home, Ana takes one final look at the carnage she leaves in her wake before sighing and departing the room.
——“Are you ready to leave?” asks Ivanov, though he knows the answer as Ana’s body language makes it obvious. “We can ge—”
——“We can nothing,” grunts Ana. “I will go home and I will go home alone, понимать?”
——“You’re in no condition to drive,” observes Abram Oliveira, her top Brazilian Jiu Jitsu coach. “Let us dri—”
——“Do you wish to test this assumption?” interjects Westen. “Do you wish to test me?”
——Oliveira—and all of her other coaches—offers nothing in response.
——“I did not think so.”
——Westen storms past her coaching crew and ventures off in the general direction of the exit. Her coaches watch her walk away, her gait suggesting she is furious with the floor, and they exchange restless glances. They’re not unfamiliar with Westen’s temper, but no matter how many times they witness it or experience it, it still manages to strike a chord with them. After another moment of unease, they make plans to check in on her in the morning and disperse to head home, themselves.
——Managing to arrive at her blood-red Aurus Senat fairly quickly, Westen makes good use of the departure path reserved solely for the competitors so they can avoid the inevitable stranglehold of traffic resulting from tonight’s event. She dumps her bag into the trunk, making sure to remove her cell phone and keys, and climbs into the driver’s seat. After slamming the door shut, she lets out a deep, heavy sigh. A grimace battles its way across her visage, the dried rubbing alcohol on her skin feeling not unlike the dried blood had, though the consistency of the two liquids aren’t all that alike.
——Her keys find the ignition and the engine soon purrs. Rather than waiting for the engine to warm up or for her tachometer to dwindle down to one, Westen shifts the gears into ‘drive’ and haphazardly pulls away from her parking space. Before she can reach real speed, her phone rings. Her eyes flick to the screen, where she spots the caller identification: Lydia Poole.
——Westen debates ignoring her girlfriend’s call. After all, Lydia hadn’t shown up for her tonight, had she? She hadn’t been standing with Ana’s coaches watching her opponent be announced as the winner, had she?
——Ever since their bloody battle at VICTORY Pro’s Valhalla pay-per-view over a year prior, their relationship had been peculiar in nature, though this has always proven true for any and all of Ana’s relationship. The internal debate over whether or not to answer the phone rages within her mind for probably too long before she sighs and clicks the ‘accept’ option on the screen of her dashboard, where her hands-free feature sends Lydia’s voice to the speakers of the car.
——“Wasn’t sure you would pick up, love,” concedes the London native. “Mad that. Alright? How are you feeling?”
——Silence.
——Ana waits a slightly awkward amount of time before offering a response.
——“You would know answer to this question if you were here,” she hisses. “Perhaps you should still know answer.”
——Her thick Russian accent provides a potentially unintended gravity to her tone, but considering how frustrated and perturbed Westen finds herself, it just might be intentional.
——“I’m sorry, pet,” apologizes Lydia. “I would’ve been there if I could’ve been, yeah? I’ll be home soon, though. Maybe if you’re still awake when I get there I can help put you in higher spirits?”
——“Home,” scoffs Anastasia. “Do not waste your time. I do not know if this ‘home’ you speak of will be home much longer.”
——“What?” asks Poole, a hitch appearing in her voice. “What are you on about?”
——Silence yet again.
——“I know you’re fumin’ I couldn’t be there tonight,” begins Lydia once more. “But you’re not that upset, right? We’re not br—”
——“I do not know,” Ana admits, her voice trailing off. “I… do not know.”
——“Ana,” Poole pleads. “Please... I’ll be home soon and we can talk then, yeah? We don’t need to be makin’ any hasty decisions, right? Particularly after what happened toni—”
——Click.
——It isn’t even ten seconds after Ana hangs up the phone that Lydia calls right back. Westen, though, makes the choice she wishes she had earlier and ignores the call. She removes her gaze from the road to pull up her music on the dashboard screen, playing a Louna playlist at top volume. The doors to her Senat vibrate with the bass and heavily distorted guitars, causing her head to throb. Or maybe it’s her heart—if she even has one?
——Much as she had the phone call, she ignores the headache and sinks into her seat. When she reunites her gaze with the road ahead, however, she finds that she is rapidly approaching a curve in tonight’s pouring rain. She abruptly reacts to the sudden change in the path ahead but remains on the road. Ana can’t even hear the shriek of her tires rounding on the wet asphalt over her music but she nonetheless knows it’s there.
——The drive isn’t obnoxiously long, but the thoughts running rampant in her mind make it feel like it drags on and on and on. What was it Bad News Brooks had said a couple of years ago? She was haunted by ghosts? They don’t feel like ghosts to Ana, though. Not really.
——Does she still think of Sara Daniels, the woman she once loved and envisioned spending her life with? Of course she does. Who wouldn’t? Her time with Lydia has slowly but surely pushed the thoughts of her former muse from her mind but Ana always doubted she would ever be rid of those thoughts for good. Right now, though, the tension between Ana and her girlfriend harkens her mind back to the final year of her time with Sara. The surprise birthday trip to Lake Blue Ridge, the dinner with her mentor and his wife cut short, the ruined Valentine’s Day...
——By the time she pulls up to her place, her mind is racing. She had put in so much work to be the woman outside of the ring that Sara wanted and it wasn’t enough. Sara never came back to her, no matter how desperately she wanted her to, although she never let Sara know the degree to which this desperation reached. With Lydia, things were different. Not worse but definitely not better, either. For a long time, Ana has wondered if the reason she’s felt so stuck in place has something to do with her choice to reunite with Lydia after their tumultuous end over a year ago.
——The rain refuses to relent, but Ana doesn’t mind. She turns the music off and listens instead to the rather soothing din of raindrops pelting the roof of her car. Before long, though, the same haunting thoughts creep back in. Lydia never cared if Ana put her career first, one of the main points of contention between her and Sara. In this moment, perhaps for the first time, Ana wonders if this contributes to her indecision regarding her future with Lydia. Does Lydia not caring whether Ana prioritizes her over her career mean she doesn’t love her like Sara did?
——Ana’s brow now furrows in bewilderment. She cannot believe she is thinking this way! This is completely out of character for her. She shakes it all off as best as she can before drawing breath sharply through her nose and turning the car off. Climbing out of the Senat, Ana leaves her bag in the trunk (or, more accurately, forgets it’s even there) and heads straight inside.
——Once inside, she longs to collapse back against the closed door and crumple to the floor, her knees hugged to her chest. She had done this long ago when Sara had left their condo in Miami for the last time. Instead, she forces herself past the desire to do so and ventures toward the master bathroom to shower, leaving articles of her clothing strewn about the floor on her way.
——Mere moments after she gets out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel, she can hear a car door closing outside. A few months ago, she might’ve met Lydia at the door without the towel, but tonight? Tonight she doesn’t even know if she wants Lydia to sleep in the same bed, let alone the same condo. She steps into her walk-in closet and puts on comfortable clothes: a loose-fitting top and a pair of shorts.
——When Lydia finally comes inside, Ana is standing in front of her vanity mirror untying her braids. Lydia observes Ana’s body language but approaches anyway. She is clad in black boots, a pair of faded jeans, a matching faded denim jacket, and a black tube top beneath it. The rain has soaked her hair, suggesting to Ana that she, perhaps, stood outside in the rain debating whether or not to come inside. Ana would roll her eyes at the thought if she weren’t so focused on her task.
——“I don’t understand,” Lydia says. “How is it you always look this brilliant even after a fight?”
——It’s like the Universe wants Ana to roll her eyes.
——“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lydia,” rejects the Russian. “And perhaps fight is ahead, not behind us.”
——The London native hates when Ana calls her by her name. For so long it has only been pet names. Lydia removes her jacket and tosses it onto the foot of the bed a few feet away. Ana’s eyes drift to the jacket for a moment before returning to the mirror. Slowly, maybe even cautiously, Lydia advances toward her lover, kicking her boots off at the same time.
——“I don’t want to fight with you, pet,” Lydia says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight. It’s proper fucked I couldn’t be there.”
——“Da,” says Ana quite simply.
——As Lydia gets closer, she can see more clearly the welts and bruises on Ana’s body. She wonders if Ana is more upset with the fact she couldn’t attend her fight or the whole elephant in the room of Ana’s defeat.
——“49-46 is some shit, innit?” asks Lydia. “I don’t ‘ave to ‘ave seen the fight to know those judges were some right cunts.”
——Finally, Ana turns around and meets Lydia’s gaze. A small smile starts to spread across Lydia’s lips as a result of this development, but she manages to read the room well enough to suppress it.
——“Do you wish to poke bear?” Westen asks demandingly. “If you do not wish to fight, why do you speak of this? Why have you even come here? What is it you are after?”
——A frown commandeers Lydia’s expression before she inches even closer.
——“What am I after?” she repeats back almost incredulously. “I live ‘ere, love. We live ‘ere. I might not ‘ave been able to make it to your fight tonight but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to make up for it, yeah?”
——“Разве?” offers Ana before turning back to the mirror. “How is it you expect to do this? Hmm?”
——Lydia reaches out and places her hands on Ana’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort her. Ana, however, recoils from Lydia’s touch. The younger woman cannot remember the last time Ana had done this, if she even ever had. She pulls her hands back and sheepishly shoves them into her pockets, unsure how to proceed.
——“By any means necessary,” she states rather straightforwardly, her British accent nearly as thick as Ana’s Russian. “You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy.”
——The Londoner ventures over to the bed upon which she had just thrown her jacket, taking a seat atop its comforter. She keeps her eyes situated on the platinum blonde before her.
——“You don’t even ‘ave to talk if you don’t want to, pet,” she says. “I can think of more than a few things we could do that don’t involve much in the way of talkin’.”
——When they were first starting out, Ana found Lydia’s crudeness almost endearing. It was always at the very least amusing to her. Tonight, though, she finds it grating.
——“I am in no mood,” she declines. “I would just like to sleep.”
——“Well then why don’t we get into be—”
——“I would just like to sleep alone.”
——Ana’s interjection cuts to the bone. Lydia’s stature shifts and she sits up far taller now, her ears perked up at the tone with which Ana speaks. She rises back to her feet and walks over to Ana, where she crouches down into a deep squat and takes Ana’s hand into hers, turning her toward her in the process.
——“Please, Ana,” she says. “It doesn’t ‘ave to be like this. You can let me in! You can talk to me, you can scream at me, I don’t care. You can beat the shit out of me if that’s what it’ll take to make you feel better. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time—and maybe I’d like that, meself.”
——“You know,” she says. “I once felt I did not have luxury of exhaustion. I once felt…”
——Her voice trails off, her eyes drifting away from Lydia at the same time. She rises to her feet, prying her hand away from Lydia’s grip; from here, she ventures over to the bed and sits upon it much like Lydia had moments prior. Unsurprisingly, Lydia soon joins her there, her eyes imploring Ana to continue, though she makes no verbal request for her to do so.
——“I once felt I was best fighter on planet,” she says. “I once knew I was best fighter on planet. But in last twelve months, I no longer know this. I do not know if I even feel this. Tonight made me wonder… Perhaps I am not so undisputed anymore.
——“This Allison Price, she is no Ana Somnia. She is no elite martial artist. She is nothing, nobody! And yet I sit here and she has defeated me. She has defeated me in front of world. After loss to Alyssa Grace, even after loss to MYŌJIN I did not feel this way. I do not feel like Ana Somnia. I do not even feel like Anastasia Westen.
——“If I do not know who I am, how should I know who we are? How should I know what we are? I look into mirror tonight and I feel disgust for what I see, for who I see. This is unfamiliar. This is… wrong. If papa could see me now he would feel same disgust I feel. I cannot allow this. I need to make this right, Lydia. You want me to let you in, tell you truth? This is truth. I need to become Ana Somnia again and I do not know if I can do this with you at my side.”
——The silence hangs in the air as if it has kicked a chair out from beneath its feet and now dangles from a rope. Lydia’s eyes slowly drift to the floor, crestfallen. She can hardly believe what she is hearing. Moments ago it had only been Ana who did not recognize what she saw in the mirror, but now Lydia doesn’t recognize her either. She swallows—loudly, mind you—and takes a deep breath before reuniting her attention with the weathered façade of Westen’s visage.
——“If you want me to fuck off I will,” she concedes. “But I don’t think this is about us, Ana. I don’t think this is about us at all. If you don’t love me anymore, that’s one thing, but this feels like somethin’ else. You and I are bloody fuckin’ brilliant together and we both know it. That’s the truth. You’re still the same crazy cunt I fell in love with and we both know I’m still the same crazy cunt you fell in love with. A couple of losses ain’t gonna change that, love.”
——Lydia tucks some of Ana’s loose hair behind her ear and cups her hand around the base of her skull and the outer corner of her chiseled jaw. Ana turns to meet Lydia’s eyes and they both can see the emotion welling up in one another’s demeanors. The Russian presses her lips together tightly, as if suppressing words that endeavor to claw their way out of her throat. With a sharp breath inward, Lydia pulls Ana closer and kisses her softly on the lips. When she pulls her lips away, Lydia watches a single tear cascade down Ana’s cheek. She wipes it away before lowering her hand to the bedspread.
——“If you need to be alone to figure this out,” she begins. “Then I can go sleep on the couch or find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I’m willin’ to do that for you, Ana—for us. But I’d much rather sleep right ‘ere in this ‘ere bed, with you. We can sleep all this off and talk about it more in the mornin’, yeah?”
——Ana stares silently at Lydia for a moment or two before lowering her gaze to the floor. Her mind now races at a hundred times the speed it had on her journey home from Ball Arena. Lydia breathes in deep and exhales long and loud before turning to vacate the bedroom they’ve shared for quite some time.
——“Ждать,” Ana says, causing Lydia to stop in her tracks and turn over her shoulder to look back at the platinum blonde. “Stay.”
——The smile Lydia has been holding back for a few minutes finally breaks free. She saunters back over to the bed and circumnavigates it to stand on the far side. She removes her jeans and her top and climbs into the bed, reaching out to pull Ana into a comfortable embrace against the pillows. Softly caressing Ana’s hair, Lydia whispers to her.
——“That’s my girl.”
——Ana fights back tears and closes her eyes. Within a couple of minutes, she’s asleep, leaving the still-awake Lydia to grapple with ghosts of her own.
——Each fighter’s corner crew waits impatiently on opposite ends of the cage just inside its walls, hoping to hear their fighter’s name called in triumph. Following a brief discussion at cageside, a man hands the ring announcer a large scorecard with the official verdict adorning its face. The announcer scans the card for a moment before centering himself behind the referee, who holds one wrist of each woman in his hands in preparation to raise one of them in victory. The fans in attendance shower the cage with anticipatory cheers, though there seems to be a slight unease matriculating through the throngs of fans regarding the impending announcement of the result.
——“Ladies and gentlemen,” begins the ring announcer. “After five rounds we go to the judges’ scorecards for a decision… All three judges score this contest 49-46 for the winner… by UNANIMOUS DECISION... the RUTHLESS... AAALLLLLLIIISSSOOONNN... PRRRIIIIIICCCEEE!”
——When the referee lifts the victor’s hand, Anastasia Westen blood runs cold—colder than it already was. Though she competed under her ring name tonight, Westen’s defeat slices deep into her core, well beyond the persona she wears during competition. Wanting no further part in tonight’s festivities, Westen vacates the cage with haste. Her coaches lead her past the swarms of cheering fans and into the backstage area. Here, she shrugs off their consoling efforts and tears her gloves off in frustration.
——She tosses the gloves at the nearest coach she sees and slams the door behind her to enter the locker room alone. While the platinum blonde is no stranger to solitude, tonight’s stands out. Pulling out an alcohol pad and looking into a mirror, she wipes away the blood that had dried on her face. Each time the pad presses against her skin, she cannot keep her upper lip from twitching in pain. The longer she does this, the longer her reflection seems to contort. Is it laughing at her? She feels like that’s what it’s doing, though that could just be a possible concussion.
——Taking a seat on the first chair she can find, Westen leans forward and stares silently at the ground, her elbows resting on her knees so that her hands may hang down lifelessly between her legs. Her breathing, albeit not as ragged as it had been during the announcement of her loss, is heavy and only grows heavier. She shakes her head in bewilderment—where had she gone wrong that the judges only gave her one of the five rounds? Where had she gone wrong that she even lost the fight in the first place?
——These disquieting thoughts rattle around her skull for another moment longer before she roars to her feet and takes the chair in her hands, launching it through the admittedly expensive monitor on the near wall. It might cost her a pretty penny but money is no object to an athlete of Westen’s stature. Startled by the loud crashing noise from the other side of the door, Artem Ivanov, Westen’s head coach, bursts through the aforementioned door in panic. Of course, when he lays eyes upon the scene before him he is somewhat unsurprised, though dejected nonetheless.
——Westen glares at him, prompting him to nod quietly and vacate the room, closing the door softly behind him. Once alone again, Ana surveys the sea of shattered glass spread across the locker room floor. As if shattered herself, Ana drops to a deep squat and chokes back a sob. Tears well up in her eyes but she growls and wipes them away with agitated urgency. She runs her hands—which shake slightly—back through her bloodstained braids and rises back to her feet.
——Stomping over to her belongings, she stuffs everything messily into her bag and slings it over her shoulder. Opting to shower when she gets home, Ana takes one final look at the carnage she leaves in her wake before sighing and departing the room.
——“Are you ready to leave?” asks Ivanov, though he knows the answer as Ana’s body language makes it obvious. “We can ge—”
——“We can nothing,” grunts Ana. “I will go home and I will go home alone, понимать?”
——“You’re in no condition to drive,” observes Abram Oliveira, her top Brazilian Jiu Jitsu coach. “Let us dri—”
——“Do you wish to test this assumption?” interjects Westen. “Do you wish to test me?”
——Oliveira—and all of her other coaches—offers nothing in response.
——“I did not think so.”
——Westen storms past her coaching crew and ventures off in the general direction of the exit. Her coaches watch her walk away, her gait suggesting she is furious with the floor, and they exchange restless glances. They’re not unfamiliar with Westen’s temper, but no matter how many times they witness it or experience it, it still manages to strike a chord with them. After another moment of unease, they make plans to check in on her in the morning and disperse to head home, themselves.
——Managing to arrive at her blood-red Aurus Senat fairly quickly, Westen makes good use of the departure path reserved solely for the competitors so they can avoid the inevitable stranglehold of traffic resulting from tonight’s event. She dumps her bag into the trunk, making sure to remove her cell phone and keys, and climbs into the driver’s seat. After slamming the door shut, she lets out a deep, heavy sigh. A grimace battles its way across her visage, the dried rubbing alcohol on her skin feeling not unlike the dried blood had, though the consistency of the two liquids aren’t all that alike.
——Her keys find the ignition and the engine soon purrs. Rather than waiting for the engine to warm up or for her tachometer to dwindle down to one, Westen shifts the gears into ‘drive’ and haphazardly pulls away from her parking space. Before she can reach real speed, her phone rings. Her eyes flick to the screen, where she spots the caller identification: Lydia Poole.
——Westen debates ignoring her girlfriend’s call. After all, Lydia hadn’t shown up for her tonight, had she? She hadn’t been standing with Ana’s coaches watching her opponent be announced as the winner, had she?
——Ever since their bloody battle at VICTORY Pro’s Valhalla pay-per-view over a year prior, their relationship had been peculiar in nature, though this has always proven true for any and all of Ana’s relationship. The internal debate over whether or not to answer the phone rages within her mind for probably too long before she sighs and clicks the ‘accept’ option on the screen of her dashboard, where her hands-free feature sends Lydia’s voice to the speakers of the car.
——“Wasn’t sure you would pick up, love,” concedes the London native. “Mad that. Alright? How are you feeling?”
——Silence.
——Ana waits a slightly awkward amount of time before offering a response.
——“You would know answer to this question if you were here,” she hisses. “Perhaps you should still know answer.”
——Her thick Russian accent provides a potentially unintended gravity to her tone, but considering how frustrated and perturbed Westen finds herself, it just might be intentional.
——“I’m sorry, pet,” apologizes Lydia. “I would’ve been there if I could’ve been, yeah? I’ll be home soon, though. Maybe if you’re still awake when I get there I can help put you in higher spirits?”
——“Home,” scoffs Anastasia. “Do not waste your time. I do not know if this ‘home’ you speak of will be home much longer.”
——“What?” asks Poole, a hitch appearing in her voice. “What are you on about?”
——Silence yet again.
——“I know you’re fumin’ I couldn’t be there tonight,” begins Lydia once more. “But you’re not that upset, right? We’re not br—”
——“I do not know,” Ana admits, her voice trailing off. “I… do not know.”
——“Ana,” Poole pleads. “Please... I’ll be home soon and we can talk then, yeah? We don’t need to be makin’ any hasty decisions, right? Particularly after what happened toni—”
——Click.
——It isn’t even ten seconds after Ana hangs up the phone that Lydia calls right back. Westen, though, makes the choice she wishes she had earlier and ignores the call. She removes her gaze from the road to pull up her music on the dashboard screen, playing a Louna playlist at top volume. The doors to her Senat vibrate with the bass and heavily distorted guitars, causing her head to throb. Or maybe it’s her heart—if she even has one?
——Much as she had the phone call, she ignores the headache and sinks into her seat. When she reunites her gaze with the road ahead, however, she finds that she is rapidly approaching a curve in tonight’s pouring rain. She abruptly reacts to the sudden change in the path ahead but remains on the road. Ana can’t even hear the shriek of her tires rounding on the wet asphalt over her music but she nonetheless knows it’s there.
——The drive isn’t obnoxiously long, but the thoughts running rampant in her mind make it feel like it drags on and on and on. What was it Bad News Brooks had said a couple of years ago? She was haunted by ghosts? They don’t feel like ghosts to Ana, though. Not really.
——Does she still think of Sara Daniels, the woman she once loved and envisioned spending her life with? Of course she does. Who wouldn’t? Her time with Lydia has slowly but surely pushed the thoughts of her former muse from her mind but Ana always doubted she would ever be rid of those thoughts for good. Right now, though, the tension between Ana and her girlfriend harkens her mind back to the final year of her time with Sara. The surprise birthday trip to Lake Blue Ridge, the dinner with her mentor and his wife cut short, the ruined Valentine’s Day...
——By the time she pulls up to her place, her mind is racing. She had put in so much work to be the woman outside of the ring that Sara wanted and it wasn’t enough. Sara never came back to her, no matter how desperately she wanted her to, although she never let Sara know the degree to which this desperation reached. With Lydia, things were different. Not worse but definitely not better, either. For a long time, Ana has wondered if the reason she’s felt so stuck in place has something to do with her choice to reunite with Lydia after their tumultuous end over a year ago.
——The rain refuses to relent, but Ana doesn’t mind. She turns the music off and listens instead to the rather soothing din of raindrops pelting the roof of her car. Before long, though, the same haunting thoughts creep back in. Lydia never cared if Ana put her career first, one of the main points of contention between her and Sara. In this moment, perhaps for the first time, Ana wonders if this contributes to her indecision regarding her future with Lydia. Does Lydia not caring whether Ana prioritizes her over her career mean she doesn’t love her like Sara did?
——Ana’s brow now furrows in bewilderment. She cannot believe she is thinking this way! This is completely out of character for her. She shakes it all off as best as she can before drawing breath sharply through her nose and turning the car off. Climbing out of the Senat, Ana leaves her bag in the trunk (or, more accurately, forgets it’s even there) and heads straight inside.
——Once inside, she longs to collapse back against the closed door and crumple to the floor, her knees hugged to her chest. She had done this long ago when Sara had left their condo in Miami for the last time. Instead, she forces herself past the desire to do so and ventures toward the master bathroom to shower, leaving articles of her clothing strewn about the floor on her way.
——Mere moments after she gets out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel, she can hear a car door closing outside. A few months ago, she might’ve met Lydia at the door without the towel, but tonight? Tonight she doesn’t even know if she wants Lydia to sleep in the same bed, let alone the same condo. She steps into her walk-in closet and puts on comfortable clothes: a loose-fitting top and a pair of shorts.
——When Lydia finally comes inside, Ana is standing in front of her vanity mirror untying her braids. Lydia observes Ana’s body language but approaches anyway. She is clad in black boots, a pair of faded jeans, a matching faded denim jacket, and a black tube top beneath it. The rain has soaked her hair, suggesting to Ana that she, perhaps, stood outside in the rain debating whether or not to come inside. Ana would roll her eyes at the thought if she weren’t so focused on her task.
——“I don’t understand,” Lydia says. “How is it you always look this brilliant even after a fight?”
——It’s like the Universe wants Ana to roll her eyes.
——“Flattery will get you nowhere, Lydia,” rejects the Russian. “And perhaps fight is ahead, not behind us.”
——The London native hates when Ana calls her by her name. For so long it has only been pet names. Lydia removes her jacket and tosses it onto the foot of the bed a few feet away. Ana’s eyes drift to the jacket for a moment before returning to the mirror. Slowly, maybe even cautiously, Lydia advances toward her lover, kicking her boots off at the same time.
——“I don’t want to fight with you, pet,” Lydia says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight. It’s proper fucked I couldn’t be there.”
——“Da,” says Ana quite simply.
——As Lydia gets closer, she can see more clearly the welts and bruises on Ana’s body. She wonders if Ana is more upset with the fact she couldn’t attend her fight or the whole elephant in the room of Ana’s defeat.
——“49-46 is some shit, innit?” asks Lydia. “I don’t ‘ave to ‘ave seen the fight to know those judges were some right cunts.”
——Finally, Ana turns around and meets Lydia’s gaze. A small smile starts to spread across Lydia’s lips as a result of this development, but she manages to read the room well enough to suppress it.
——“Do you wish to poke bear?” Westen asks demandingly. “If you do not wish to fight, why do you speak of this? Why have you even come here? What is it you are after?”
——A frown commandeers Lydia’s expression before she inches even closer.
——“What am I after?” she repeats back almost incredulously. “I live ‘ere, love. We live ‘ere. I might not ‘ave been able to make it to your fight tonight but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to make up for it, yeah?”
——“Разве?” offers Ana before turning back to the mirror. “How is it you expect to do this? Hmm?”
——Lydia reaches out and places her hands on Ana’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort her. Ana, however, recoils from Lydia’s touch. The younger woman cannot remember the last time Ana had done this, if she even ever had. She pulls her hands back and sheepishly shoves them into her pockets, unsure how to proceed.
——“By any means necessary,” she states rather straightforwardly, her British accent nearly as thick as Ana’s Russian. “You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy.”
——The Londoner ventures over to the bed upon which she had just thrown her jacket, taking a seat atop its comforter. She keeps her eyes situated on the platinum blonde before her.
——“You don’t even ‘ave to talk if you don’t want to, pet,” she says. “I can think of more than a few things we could do that don’t involve much in the way of talkin’.”
——When they were first starting out, Ana found Lydia’s crudeness almost endearing. It was always at the very least amusing to her. Tonight, though, she finds it grating.
——“I am in no mood,” she declines. “I would just like to sleep.”
——“Well then why don’t we get into be—”
——“I would just like to sleep alone.”
——Ana’s interjection cuts to the bone. Lydia’s stature shifts and she sits up far taller now, her ears perked up at the tone with which Ana speaks. She rises back to her feet and walks over to Ana, where she crouches down into a deep squat and takes Ana’s hand into hers, turning her toward her in the process.
——“Please, Ana,” she says. “It doesn’t ‘ave to be like this. You can let me in! You can talk to me, you can scream at me, I don’t care. You can beat the shit out of me if that’s what it’ll take to make you feel better. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time—and maybe I’d like that, meself.”
——“You know,” she says. “I once felt I did not have luxury of exhaustion. I once felt…”
——Her voice trails off, her eyes drifting away from Lydia at the same time. She rises to her feet, prying her hand away from Lydia’s grip; from here, she ventures over to the bed and sits upon it much like Lydia had moments prior. Unsurprisingly, Lydia soon joins her there, her eyes imploring Ana to continue, though she makes no verbal request for her to do so.
——“I once felt I was best fighter on planet,” she says. “I once knew I was best fighter on planet. But in last twelve months, I no longer know this. I do not know if I even feel this. Tonight made me wonder… Perhaps I am not so undisputed anymore.
——“This Allison Price, she is no Ana Somnia. She is no elite martial artist. She is nothing, nobody! And yet I sit here and she has defeated me. She has defeated me in front of world. After loss to Alyssa Grace, even after loss to MYŌJIN I did not feel this way. I do not feel like Ana Somnia. I do not even feel like Anastasia Westen.
——“If I do not know who I am, how should I know who we are? How should I know what we are? I look into mirror tonight and I feel disgust for what I see, for who I see. This is unfamiliar. This is… wrong. If papa could see me now he would feel same disgust I feel. I cannot allow this. I need to make this right, Lydia. You want me to let you in, tell you truth? This is truth. I need to become Ana Somnia again and I do not know if I can do this with you at my side.”
——The silence hangs in the air as if it has kicked a chair out from beneath its feet and now dangles from a rope. Lydia’s eyes slowly drift to the floor, crestfallen. She can hardly believe what she is hearing. Moments ago it had only been Ana who did not recognize what she saw in the mirror, but now Lydia doesn’t recognize her either. She swallows—loudly, mind you—and takes a deep breath before reuniting her attention with the weathered façade of Westen’s visage.
——“If you want me to fuck off I will,” she concedes. “But I don’t think this is about us, Ana. I don’t think this is about us at all. If you don’t love me anymore, that’s one thing, but this feels like somethin’ else. You and I are bloody fuckin’ brilliant together and we both know it. That’s the truth. You’re still the same crazy cunt I fell in love with and we both know I’m still the same crazy cunt you fell in love with. A couple of losses ain’t gonna change that, love.”
——Lydia tucks some of Ana’s loose hair behind her ear and cups her hand around the base of her skull and the outer corner of her chiseled jaw. Ana turns to meet Lydia’s eyes and they both can see the emotion welling up in one another’s demeanors. The Russian presses her lips together tightly, as if suppressing words that endeavor to claw their way out of her throat. With a sharp breath inward, Lydia pulls Ana closer and kisses her softly on the lips. When she pulls her lips away, Lydia watches a single tear cascade down Ana’s cheek. She wipes it away before lowering her hand to the bedspread.
——“If you need to be alone to figure this out,” she begins. “Then I can go sleep on the couch or find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I’m willin’ to do that for you, Ana—for us. But I’d much rather sleep right ‘ere in this ‘ere bed, with you. We can sleep all this off and talk about it more in the mornin’, yeah?”
——Ana stares silently at Lydia for a moment or two before lowering her gaze to the floor. Her mind now races at a hundred times the speed it had on her journey home from Ball Arena. Lydia breathes in deep and exhales long and loud before turning to vacate the bedroom they’ve shared for quite some time.
——“Ждать,” Ana says, causing Lydia to stop in her tracks and turn over her shoulder to look back at the platinum blonde. “Stay.”
——The smile Lydia has been holding back for a few minutes finally breaks free. She saunters back over to the bed and circumnavigates it to stand on the far side. She removes her jeans and her top and climbs into the bed, reaching out to pull Ana into a comfortable embrace against the pillows. Softly caressing Ana’s hair, Lydia whispers to her.
——“That’s my girl.”
——Ana fights back tears and closes her eyes. Within a couple of minutes, she’s asleep, leaving the still-awake Lydia to grapple with ghosts of her own.
