Post by Ana Somnia on Feb 9, 2024 23:24:36 GMT -5
XIV.
“PRAY FOR TEMPESTS”
ANASTASIA WESTEN’S CONDO.
DENVER, COLORADO.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 24th.
10:04 a.m.
“PRAY FOR TEMPESTS”
ANASTASIA WESTEN’S CONDO.
DENVER, COLORADO.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 24th.
10:04 a.m.
——When Lydia Poole’s eyes open in the late morning, the usual disorientation of one’s waking moments pervades her demeanor. Slowly but surely, she regains control of her faculties and allows her gaze to drift about the room. As her wherewithal corporealizes, she recalls the previous night’s tense interaction with her girlfriend, Anastasia Westen.
——While it certainly hadn’t been their first night at odds with one another, last night was different in a variety of ways. First and foremost, the emotion present in Westen wasn’t something Poole was accustomed to witnessing; she often doubted Westen was capable of it despite stories of Ana’s time with Sara Daniels. Beyond that, there had been at least some degree of a sensation of finality to the experience.
——The last time Lydia had felt that finality was when she pummeled Westen—competing under her ring name of Ana Somnia for VICTORY Pro at the time—inside a New Age Deathmatch, leaving her bloodied and unconscious with a series of unrelenting knockout punches with the added severity of brass knuckles. Even though she hadn’t been drinking last night, the emotional toll of the conversation she’d had with Ana last night weighs on her. She feels as if she’d been pummeled with brass knuckles, herself.
——She sits up with haste, as though waking from a nightmare. The speed with which she rises to a seated position, however, leaves her lightheaded for a moment, only reinforcing the disorientation she’d awoken to. Once she settles, she flicks her eyes around the room in search of a sign of Anastasia. She has no such luck, though.
——Climbing out of bed, Lydia leans to either side to stretch away the stiffness of a long night’s sleep. Her back cracks a little in each direction, though she finds the sound somewhat cathartic in a way. Drawing a deep, long breath inward, the London native holds it in her diaphragm and lungs before sighing and venturing out of the bedroom.
——The first thing she notices once she vacates the bedroom—aside from the nearly blinding natural light pouring in through the wide array of windows, that is—is the wealth of suitcases and duffel bags sitting by the front door. A frown furrows her brow, the corner of her mouth curling into a puzzled scowl. Shrugging it off, she follows the scent of the products that comprise her girlfriend’s morning routine into the next room: a kitchen.
——Standing at the counter and facing the window overlooking the backyard is none other than her Russian paramour, Anastasia Westen. For a moment, Lydia stands in the doorway admiring Westen’s callipygian figure. The EHWF Hall of Famer is already dressed and seemingly ready for her day, though Lydia is unsurprised at her assumption that Ana has been awake for far longer than she has. Ana is clad in a black pair of Reebok Russia leggings, white Reebok Russia socks, a black sports bra (also presumably of Reebok Russia origin), and a gray crop top hanging loosely off of one of her shoulders.
——Lydia quietly approaches her from behind before slapping her playfully on hers and wrapping her arms around her waist, pulling her close. She nuzzles into the nape of Ana’s neck and takes a deep breath in through her nose to savor the way Ana smells. Almost immediately, however, Poole notices Ana’s frame tenses upon contact. It isn’t quite the recoil from the night before but it still concerns the Londoner.
——“Mornin’, love,” she says, tonally testing the waters as she watches steam rise from the cup of coffee on the counter on the far side of Westen. “Did you sleep well?”
——“Nyet,” she states succinctly. She does not offer anything more in the way of a response.
——Lydia removes herself from Ana and strolls over to the nearest table in the room, taking a seat at it and placing her feet on the end of the seat of the adjacent chair. She reclines comfortably against the chair despite its more rigid stature and sighs almost contentedly, opting to ignore Ana’s body language in hopes it is merely residual tension from last night.
——“I’d say I’m more of a tea girl,” she says. “But is there any coffee left? I can’t seem to wake up.”
——For a moment, Ana tilts her head down to look into the coffee in her mug. She breathes in deep through her nose, the steam filling her nostrils briefly before she lifts her head back up. Turning around, Ana leans back against the counter and places her hands against its edge on either side of her.
——“Nyet,” repeats the Russian. “I did not make enough for two.”
——Lydia perceives the peculiar tone with which Ana offers this response. This prompts Poole to allow her eyes to glide up and down Westen’s figure in hopes of surveying her body language for a hint as to where her headspace might be at the moment. Her gaze lingers long enough for Ana to lift her mug to her lips to take a somewhat pointed sip. Quickly, Poole rises back to her feet and approaches Westen, pressing herself against her and, by extension, pressing Ana back into the counter.
——“Not a problem,” she says with a smirk, bringing her lips within an inch or two of Ana’s. “Perhaps a quick snog will suffice? That might wake us both up, yeah?”
——Lydia then plants a kiss upon Ana’s lips. At first there is no reciprocation from Ana, but soon the Russian seems to relent and kisses her back. She pulls away quickly afterward, though, much to the dismay of Lydia. Poole smiles as she studies Ana’s features before turning from her and returning to the doorway in which she had stood mere moments ago.
——“So where are we goin’, love?” she asks, gesturing interestedly to the luggage by the front door. “Someplace warm, I hope?”
——“We are not going anywhere,” she says. “These bags, they… they do not belong to me. They do not belong to us.”
——Ana turns to her side and pours the remainder of her cup of coffee into the sink. Between Lydia’s confusion over Ana’s response and her confusion over Ana wasting the rest of the coffee when she had just intimated she would enjoy some, Poole’s demeanor is bewildered.
——“These bags belong to you,” she says.
——“What are you on about?” asks the Brit. “Where am I g—”
——And then it dawns on her. Her voice trails off and she turns to look at the luggage by the door. She reunites her attention with Ana before once again looking at the luggage, processing what she believes Ana to be implying. When she looks back to Westen, the platinum blonde has placed the mug in the sink and ventured toward the doorway in which Lydia now stands. Westen passes her without so much as a glance thrown her way, something that cuts Lydia to the bone.
——“I have made my decision,” Ana says. “You will need to leave. Today. Now.”
——Lydia follows Ana out into the landing, where she finds Westen approaching the front door. As Ana places her hand on the knob, Lydia picks up the pace and places her hand atop Ana’s to stop her.
——“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she says. “I told you last night, pet! You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easily, yeah?”
——“You can leave by choice,” begins the bantamweight, “or you can leave by force. This is decision for you to make.”
——“It’s goin’ to ‘ave to be force, mate,” Lydia responds. “We can talk about this. We should talk about this—we ‘ave to talk about this.”
——“I am not interested in talk,” offers Westen, not allowing any emotion to present itself. “I will remove you if this is what I must do. This is not what I would prefer but this is what I will do if I must.”
——Ana rips the door open, forcing Lydia’s hand to fly off of hers. In what feels like the same motion (though it could not possibly be), Ana reaches down and endeavors to pick up one of Lydia’s bags. Lydia, however, snatches it from her grip and storms toward the bedroom with the bag in hand! Ana, puzzled, pursues Lydia. Once she enters the bedroom, she finds Lydia has torn the bag open and is unpacking her clothes back into the walk-in closet!
——“i’m not going anywhere,” she says. “And you’re not going to make me.”
——“Nyet,” repeats the Russian again, far more forcefully this time. “You will leave!”
——Ana grabs the first article of clothing Lydia returned to the closet and pulls it off of the hanger to throw it back into the bag. She does this to every piece of clothing Lydia moves until she catches up and latches onto a classy button-down shirt Lydia attempts to hang up. They play a small game of tug-of-war before the fabric rips and Ana charges Lydia, pressing her forearm into the Brit’s jaw and throat as she forces her back into the wall behind her.
——“I do not wish to hurt you,” she says. “But I will. You know this, Lydia. You know I will do this if you make me.”
——“Don’t threaten a girl with a good time,” replies Lydia, instantly filling Westen’s mind with memories of when she had said the exact same thing to Sara Daniels in the identical position, though the roles were reversed at the time.
——“Do not make me do this,” pleads the platinum blonde, the façade suppressing her emotions beginning to wear thin. “Please.”
——For a moment, there is silence. Neither woman expresses themselves verbally, though they both breathe heavily under the weight of the situation. As moisture wells up in Lydia’s eyes, though, the London native breaks the silence with a heartfelt request. It’s unclear if there is a frog in her throat or if the pressure of Ana’s forearm against it is responsible for the muted timbre of her words.
——“Please, Ana,” she says. “Please just talk to me about this. There’s still somethin’ ‘ere, love. We both know that. There’s somethin’ worth fightin’ for between us, still between us. Me leavin’ isn’t going to change that, innit? We can make this work, you and me. We can...”
——Whether Lydia is trying to convince Ana of this or herself is equally unclear. Briefly, it appears as if Ana’s façade might come tumbling down, as if the emotion within her will claw its way free of its shackles and rear its ugly head for the world to see. Lydia watches this development with eagerness, but Westen chokes it back down and a dejected and crestfallen expression spreads across Lydia’s visage.
——“I will not deny this,” she says, inadvertently offering a glimmer of hope to Lydia. “But this is not enough. We are not enough. I have made decision to become Undisputed again. I… I cannot do this with you at my side. I cannot reach loftier ambition with you at my side. Without loftier ambition, without pursuit of loftier ambition, I am not Ana Somnia. I am not Anastasia Westen. But this is who I must be. You love this. You love who this is. I cannot allow this! You loving this teaches me this is okay and this is not! This is not okay! I cannot accept who this is. You should not want me to.
——“I do feel lo… I do still possess feelings for you, Lydia. This is truth. But I cannot—I will not—allow emotion to cloud judgment. I will not allow emotion to dictate decision. I will become Undisputed again. I must become Undisputed again. This is what is best for me and I will not allow you to get in way of this. You say you love me, Lydia. If this is truth, you would not wish for this. You would not fight. You would leave because you know this is what I w—what I need.”
——Ana relinquishes her brace against Lydia and takes a couple of steps backward. Lydia’s hand drifts to the base of her neck for a moment as she catches her breath before she swallows loudly enough for Ana to hear it.
——“I’m always going to fight for you, Ana,” she says. “I’m always going to fight for us. We ‘ave always pushed each other; we ‘ave always made each other better. In our careers, in life... always. Please, love. We don’t ‘ave to throw this all away! Just tell me what it is you need me to do to make this better, to make this work. Tell me, Ana. Please.”
——“Leave,” says Westen simply. “Leave so I do not have to make you.”
——While Lydia’s shortness of breath as a result of Ana’s forearm having been pressed against her windpipe finally subsides, a shortness of breath remains as a result of her heart pounding inside her chest. Could this really be the end for them? Lydia shakes her head as if to answer this unasked question before gulping again and allowing her eyes to drift harmlessly to the floor, much like a snowflake falling from the sky.
——Ana untenses, but only for a moment. Does it wound her to see the anguish in Lydia’s eyes as they reunite with her gaze? Slowly, Ana’s brow furrows again. She clenches her teeth tightly shut before stepping toward Lydia, seemingly prepared to enforce her demand—if one can call it that.
——“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Poole professes. “It d—”
——Before Lydia can continue giving utterance to her thoughts, she finds her mouth not full of words, but with blood! Westen cracks her across the corner of the mouth with a closed fist, staggering the Londoner aside. Lydia’s eyes widen in bewilderment as she presses her tongue to her bottom lip, tasting the familiar flavor of iron. It certainly isn’t the first time the two have come to blows, though Lydia hopes it also won’t be the last.
——She spits blood onto the floor and turns to look back at Ana, who cracks her in the jaw again! This time, blood splatters from Lydia’s mouth across the vanity mirror at which Ana had sat last night. Lydia shakes off the cobwebs to the best of her ability before turning back to Ana, tears in her eyes (though these presumably derive from the emotional pain as opposed to the physical).
——“Again,” grunts the Brit. “If you really want to end this, you’re going to need to end this.”
——Ana stares at her. For whatever reason, she had not expected the stubbornness Lydia now exhibits. She’d known Lydia’s conviction to be nearly unparalleled but this feels different to the platinum blonde. As such, Ana unwinds her fists and looks down at the blood of the woman she loves (or perhaps loved, past tense) staining her knuckles. She looks back up at Lydia and sighs, her tone bordering on defeat.
——After studying Ana’s demeanor for a moment, Lydia wipes the blood from her lip and steps closer to Ana, reaching out to try to take her hand into hers. Ana, though, rips her hand back and uses this motion to power yet another strike into Lydia’s skull. Suddenly, Ana is blinded by emotion and unleashes unimpeded blows into Lydia’s body and head, over and over and over. Lydia refuses to defend herself, hoping against hope this will prove to Ana how much she cares.
——But before long, Lydia slips in and out of unconsciousness. She collapses back against the vanity mirror, cracking it a bit before slumping down to the floor. Ana drops to her knees in front of Lydia and grabs her by her top, shaking her as she screams in anguish of her own. With what little wherewithal remains in Lydia’s body, she tries to smile at Ana. It mostly peaks through in snippets, the damage already swelling her visage past the point of being able to control her facial muscles to the degree necessary to smile.
——Ana knows she cannot relent, not now. If she doesn’t get Lydia out of the condo now, she’ll never leave—and Ana will never be able to leave her. She knows this. More importantly, so does Lydia. Ana also knows she cannot leave the condo herself. After the ordeal of her move to Denver from Miami, from the home she shared with Sara Daniels, the notion of leaving yet another home is untenable to the Russian.
——Instead, she drags Lydia to her feet, the Brit’s mostly dead weight burdening Ana far less than the emotional weight of the situation. Ana guides Lydia toward the front door and pries it open while Lydia struggles to keep herself upright upon her spaghetti legs. Once the door is open, though, Ana tosses Lydia out into the sharp, morning air. Poole looks up at her from the grass in front of the condo, using what she has remaining of her faculties to wonder if this will be the final time she will gaze upon Ana in person. A tear cascades down her cheek as she watches Ana slam the door shut.
——Inside, Ana locks the door and collapses back against it. Unlike when she and Sara had broken up, though, Ana does not slump down to a seated position. She summons the resolve to instead trudge toward the bedroom, each step feeling heavier and heavier. By the time she makes it across what feels like a sea of concrete to the bedroom, she has taken the emotion of the moment and forced it deep down inside. She steels herself and approaches the cracked vanity mirror to look upon her fragmented reflection.
——Once again she looks down at Lydia’s blood on her knuckles; there’s far more than when she had last looked at the crimson staining her skin. Peering back up at her reflection, she drags her bloodstained skin across her cheeks, simultaneously wiping away any remaining tears and adorning her face with the warpaint of her most recent victim, much as she does in the ring. Her upper lip twitches for a brief moment before she nods to herself.
——Memories of her most formative past loves flash across her mind: Nikki Summers, Shawn Hunter, Sara Daniels, Lydia Poole. She throws her fist out to press it against the mirror, but the force cracks it even further. As each face and haunting memory crosses her thoughts, she pumps the fist against the surface of the mirror, again and again until her reflection is no longer recognizable.
——“No one survives,” she whispers.
——While it certainly hadn’t been their first night at odds with one another, last night was different in a variety of ways. First and foremost, the emotion present in Westen wasn’t something Poole was accustomed to witnessing; she often doubted Westen was capable of it despite stories of Ana’s time with Sara Daniels. Beyond that, there had been at least some degree of a sensation of finality to the experience.
——The last time Lydia had felt that finality was when she pummeled Westen—competing under her ring name of Ana Somnia for VICTORY Pro at the time—inside a New Age Deathmatch, leaving her bloodied and unconscious with a series of unrelenting knockout punches with the added severity of brass knuckles. Even though she hadn’t been drinking last night, the emotional toll of the conversation she’d had with Ana last night weighs on her. She feels as if she’d been pummeled with brass knuckles, herself.
——She sits up with haste, as though waking from a nightmare. The speed with which she rises to a seated position, however, leaves her lightheaded for a moment, only reinforcing the disorientation she’d awoken to. Once she settles, she flicks her eyes around the room in search of a sign of Anastasia. She has no such luck, though.
——Climbing out of bed, Lydia leans to either side to stretch away the stiffness of a long night’s sleep. Her back cracks a little in each direction, though she finds the sound somewhat cathartic in a way. Drawing a deep, long breath inward, the London native holds it in her diaphragm and lungs before sighing and venturing out of the bedroom.
——The first thing she notices once she vacates the bedroom—aside from the nearly blinding natural light pouring in through the wide array of windows, that is—is the wealth of suitcases and duffel bags sitting by the front door. A frown furrows her brow, the corner of her mouth curling into a puzzled scowl. Shrugging it off, she follows the scent of the products that comprise her girlfriend’s morning routine into the next room: a kitchen.
——Standing at the counter and facing the window overlooking the backyard is none other than her Russian paramour, Anastasia Westen. For a moment, Lydia stands in the doorway admiring Westen’s callipygian figure. The EHWF Hall of Famer is already dressed and seemingly ready for her day, though Lydia is unsurprised at her assumption that Ana has been awake for far longer than she has. Ana is clad in a black pair of Reebok Russia leggings, white Reebok Russia socks, a black sports bra (also presumably of Reebok Russia origin), and a gray crop top hanging loosely off of one of her shoulders.
——Lydia quietly approaches her from behind before slapping her playfully on hers and wrapping her arms around her waist, pulling her close. She nuzzles into the nape of Ana’s neck and takes a deep breath in through her nose to savor the way Ana smells. Almost immediately, however, Poole notices Ana’s frame tenses upon contact. It isn’t quite the recoil from the night before but it still concerns the Londoner.
——“Mornin’, love,” she says, tonally testing the waters as she watches steam rise from the cup of coffee on the counter on the far side of Westen. “Did you sleep well?”
——“Nyet,” she states succinctly. She does not offer anything more in the way of a response.
——Lydia removes herself from Ana and strolls over to the nearest table in the room, taking a seat at it and placing her feet on the end of the seat of the adjacent chair. She reclines comfortably against the chair despite its more rigid stature and sighs almost contentedly, opting to ignore Ana’s body language in hopes it is merely residual tension from last night.
——“I’d say I’m more of a tea girl,” she says. “But is there any coffee left? I can’t seem to wake up.”
——For a moment, Ana tilts her head down to look into the coffee in her mug. She breathes in deep through her nose, the steam filling her nostrils briefly before she lifts her head back up. Turning around, Ana leans back against the counter and places her hands against its edge on either side of her.
——“Nyet,” repeats the Russian. “I did not make enough for two.”
——Lydia perceives the peculiar tone with which Ana offers this response. This prompts Poole to allow her eyes to glide up and down Westen’s figure in hopes of surveying her body language for a hint as to where her headspace might be at the moment. Her gaze lingers long enough for Ana to lift her mug to her lips to take a somewhat pointed sip. Quickly, Poole rises back to her feet and approaches Westen, pressing herself against her and, by extension, pressing Ana back into the counter.
——“Not a problem,” she says with a smirk, bringing her lips within an inch or two of Ana’s. “Perhaps a quick snog will suffice? That might wake us both up, yeah?”
——Lydia then plants a kiss upon Ana’s lips. At first there is no reciprocation from Ana, but soon the Russian seems to relent and kisses her back. She pulls away quickly afterward, though, much to the dismay of Lydia. Poole smiles as she studies Ana’s features before turning from her and returning to the doorway in which she had stood mere moments ago.
——“So where are we goin’, love?” she asks, gesturing interestedly to the luggage by the front door. “Someplace warm, I hope?”
——“We are not going anywhere,” she says. “These bags, they… they do not belong to me. They do not belong to us.”
——Ana turns to her side and pours the remainder of her cup of coffee into the sink. Between Lydia’s confusion over Ana’s response and her confusion over Ana wasting the rest of the coffee when she had just intimated she would enjoy some, Poole’s demeanor is bewildered.
——“These bags belong to you,” she says.
——“What are you on about?” asks the Brit. “Where am I g—”
——And then it dawns on her. Her voice trails off and she turns to look at the luggage by the door. She reunites her attention with Ana before once again looking at the luggage, processing what she believes Ana to be implying. When she looks back to Westen, the platinum blonde has placed the mug in the sink and ventured toward the doorway in which Lydia now stands. Westen passes her without so much as a glance thrown her way, something that cuts Lydia to the bone.
——“I have made my decision,” Ana says. “You will need to leave. Today. Now.”
——Lydia follows Ana out into the landing, where she finds Westen approaching the front door. As Ana places her hand on the knob, Lydia picks up the pace and places her hand atop Ana’s to stop her.
——“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” she says. “I told you last night, pet! You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easily, yeah?”
——“You can leave by choice,” begins the bantamweight, “or you can leave by force. This is decision for you to make.”
——“It’s goin’ to ‘ave to be force, mate,” Lydia responds. “We can talk about this. We should talk about this—we ‘ave to talk about this.”
——“I am not interested in talk,” offers Westen, not allowing any emotion to present itself. “I will remove you if this is what I must do. This is not what I would prefer but this is what I will do if I must.”
——Ana rips the door open, forcing Lydia’s hand to fly off of hers. In what feels like the same motion (though it could not possibly be), Ana reaches down and endeavors to pick up one of Lydia’s bags. Lydia, however, snatches it from her grip and storms toward the bedroom with the bag in hand! Ana, puzzled, pursues Lydia. Once she enters the bedroom, she finds Lydia has torn the bag open and is unpacking her clothes back into the walk-in closet!
——“i’m not going anywhere,” she says. “And you’re not going to make me.”
——“Nyet,” repeats the Russian again, far more forcefully this time. “You will leave!”
——Ana grabs the first article of clothing Lydia returned to the closet and pulls it off of the hanger to throw it back into the bag. She does this to every piece of clothing Lydia moves until she catches up and latches onto a classy button-down shirt Lydia attempts to hang up. They play a small game of tug-of-war before the fabric rips and Ana charges Lydia, pressing her forearm into the Brit’s jaw and throat as she forces her back into the wall behind her.
——“I do not wish to hurt you,” she says. “But I will. You know this, Lydia. You know I will do this if you make me.”
——“Don’t threaten a girl with a good time,” replies Lydia, instantly filling Westen’s mind with memories of when she had said the exact same thing to Sara Daniels in the identical position, though the roles were reversed at the time.
——“Do not make me do this,” pleads the platinum blonde, the façade suppressing her emotions beginning to wear thin. “Please.”
——For a moment, there is silence. Neither woman expresses themselves verbally, though they both breathe heavily under the weight of the situation. As moisture wells up in Lydia’s eyes, though, the London native breaks the silence with a heartfelt request. It’s unclear if there is a frog in her throat or if the pressure of Ana’s forearm against it is responsible for the muted timbre of her words.
——“Please, Ana,” she says. “Please just talk to me about this. There’s still somethin’ ‘ere, love. We both know that. There’s somethin’ worth fightin’ for between us, still between us. Me leavin’ isn’t going to change that, innit? We can make this work, you and me. We can...”
——Whether Lydia is trying to convince Ana of this or herself is equally unclear. Briefly, it appears as if Ana’s façade might come tumbling down, as if the emotion within her will claw its way free of its shackles and rear its ugly head for the world to see. Lydia watches this development with eagerness, but Westen chokes it back down and a dejected and crestfallen expression spreads across Lydia’s visage.
——“I will not deny this,” she says, inadvertently offering a glimmer of hope to Lydia. “But this is not enough. We are not enough. I have made decision to become Undisputed again. I… I cannot do this with you at my side. I cannot reach loftier ambition with you at my side. Without loftier ambition, without pursuit of loftier ambition, I am not Ana Somnia. I am not Anastasia Westen. But this is who I must be. You love this. You love who this is. I cannot allow this! You loving this teaches me this is okay and this is not! This is not okay! I cannot accept who this is. You should not want me to.
——“I do feel lo… I do still possess feelings for you, Lydia. This is truth. But I cannot—I will not—allow emotion to cloud judgment. I will not allow emotion to dictate decision. I will become Undisputed again. I must become Undisputed again. This is what is best for me and I will not allow you to get in way of this. You say you love me, Lydia. If this is truth, you would not wish for this. You would not fight. You would leave because you know this is what I w—what I need.”
——Ana relinquishes her brace against Lydia and takes a couple of steps backward. Lydia’s hand drifts to the base of her neck for a moment as she catches her breath before she swallows loudly enough for Ana to hear it.
——“I’m always going to fight for you, Ana,” she says. “I’m always going to fight for us. We ‘ave always pushed each other; we ‘ave always made each other better. In our careers, in life... always. Please, love. We don’t ‘ave to throw this all away! Just tell me what it is you need me to do to make this better, to make this work. Tell me, Ana. Please.”
——“Leave,” says Westen simply. “Leave so I do not have to make you.”
——While Lydia’s shortness of breath as a result of Ana’s forearm having been pressed against her windpipe finally subsides, a shortness of breath remains as a result of her heart pounding inside her chest. Could this really be the end for them? Lydia shakes her head as if to answer this unasked question before gulping again and allowing her eyes to drift harmlessly to the floor, much like a snowflake falling from the sky.
——Ana untenses, but only for a moment. Does it wound her to see the anguish in Lydia’s eyes as they reunite with her gaze? Slowly, Ana’s brow furrows again. She clenches her teeth tightly shut before stepping toward Lydia, seemingly prepared to enforce her demand—if one can call it that.
——“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Poole professes. “It d—”
——Before Lydia can continue giving utterance to her thoughts, she finds her mouth not full of words, but with blood! Westen cracks her across the corner of the mouth with a closed fist, staggering the Londoner aside. Lydia’s eyes widen in bewilderment as she presses her tongue to her bottom lip, tasting the familiar flavor of iron. It certainly isn’t the first time the two have come to blows, though Lydia hopes it also won’t be the last.
——She spits blood onto the floor and turns to look back at Ana, who cracks her in the jaw again! This time, blood splatters from Lydia’s mouth across the vanity mirror at which Ana had sat last night. Lydia shakes off the cobwebs to the best of her ability before turning back to Ana, tears in her eyes (though these presumably derive from the emotional pain as opposed to the physical).
——“Again,” grunts the Brit. “If you really want to end this, you’re going to need to end this.”
——Ana stares at her. For whatever reason, she had not expected the stubbornness Lydia now exhibits. She’d known Lydia’s conviction to be nearly unparalleled but this feels different to the platinum blonde. As such, Ana unwinds her fists and looks down at the blood of the woman she loves (or perhaps loved, past tense) staining her knuckles. She looks back up at Lydia and sighs, her tone bordering on defeat.
——After studying Ana’s demeanor for a moment, Lydia wipes the blood from her lip and steps closer to Ana, reaching out to try to take her hand into hers. Ana, though, rips her hand back and uses this motion to power yet another strike into Lydia’s skull. Suddenly, Ana is blinded by emotion and unleashes unimpeded blows into Lydia’s body and head, over and over and over. Lydia refuses to defend herself, hoping against hope this will prove to Ana how much she cares.
——But before long, Lydia slips in and out of unconsciousness. She collapses back against the vanity mirror, cracking it a bit before slumping down to the floor. Ana drops to her knees in front of Lydia and grabs her by her top, shaking her as she screams in anguish of her own. With what little wherewithal remains in Lydia’s body, she tries to smile at Ana. It mostly peaks through in snippets, the damage already swelling her visage past the point of being able to control her facial muscles to the degree necessary to smile.
——Ana knows she cannot relent, not now. If she doesn’t get Lydia out of the condo now, she’ll never leave—and Ana will never be able to leave her. She knows this. More importantly, so does Lydia. Ana also knows she cannot leave the condo herself. After the ordeal of her move to Denver from Miami, from the home she shared with Sara Daniels, the notion of leaving yet another home is untenable to the Russian.
——Instead, she drags Lydia to her feet, the Brit’s mostly dead weight burdening Ana far less than the emotional weight of the situation. Ana guides Lydia toward the front door and pries it open while Lydia struggles to keep herself upright upon her spaghetti legs. Once the door is open, though, Ana tosses Lydia out into the sharp, morning air. Poole looks up at her from the grass in front of the condo, using what she has remaining of her faculties to wonder if this will be the final time she will gaze upon Ana in person. A tear cascades down her cheek as she watches Ana slam the door shut.
——Inside, Ana locks the door and collapses back against it. Unlike when she and Sara had broken up, though, Ana does not slump down to a seated position. She summons the resolve to instead trudge toward the bedroom, each step feeling heavier and heavier. By the time she makes it across what feels like a sea of concrete to the bedroom, she has taken the emotion of the moment and forced it deep down inside. She steels herself and approaches the cracked vanity mirror to look upon her fragmented reflection.
——Once again she looks down at Lydia’s blood on her knuckles; there’s far more than when she had last looked at the crimson staining her skin. Peering back up at her reflection, she drags her bloodstained skin across her cheeks, simultaneously wiping away any remaining tears and adorning her face with the warpaint of her most recent victim, much as she does in the ring. Her upper lip twitches for a brief moment before she nods to herself.
——Memories of her most formative past loves flash across her mind: Nikki Summers, Shawn Hunter, Sara Daniels, Lydia Poole. She throws her fist out to press it against the mirror, but the force cracks it even further. As each face and haunting memory crosses her thoughts, she pumps the fist against the surface of the mirror, again and again until her reflection is no longer recognizable.
——“No one survives,” she whispers.
