Mark's Contemplation

He sat in the empty locker room. It was empty in more ways than one. He had hung around to watch the last of the guys mingle, he had stayed back to take in his last visions of the more narcissistic of the men taking ages to just get their look right, he stayed because he couldn't bring himself to leave. He looked down and felt the tears line his bottom lid and threaten to fall, careen over the edge, and run down his cheek. He had known this day would come, he had hoped it wouldn't. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at the lockers which were now void of wrestling attire. They were just empty, meaningless boxes. They mimicked the hollowness of his heart. He let out a strangled sigh and looked down at his feet. They were now encased in plain tan work boots, never again would they feel the familiar support of his wrestling boots.

Tonight he had his last ever match, he heard the clang of the bell and would never hear it again, he absorbed the cries and cheers of his fans, his wonderful, devoted, followers. He saw the tears on their faces, the sobs on their lips, the admiration in their eyes. It took every fiber of his being to keep his well known façade from crumbling away into blubbering. He was until the end, The Deadman. He was until the end, The Phenom.

Now, he was just a crying old man, not sure how he would live the rest of his life. For so long he had been The Undertaker, and now he was forced to part with this which had became more than just a gimmick, but what had became a part of himself. He knew Taker better than he knew himself. He felt more comfortable being The Phenom. He would rather be Taker than Mark…he couldn't remember…and that was why. He couldn't remember how to be Mark.

He rested his head in one of his big tired hands and slouched over. He felt tremendous weight on his shoulders, a heavy burden, a dark path ahead of him. He had lay in bed full of anxieties about this night even years before he had came to the point where he knew it was nearing. He had decided long ago, after he had lost himself to Taker, what he would do when the day came that he could no longer wear his signature wide brimmed hat and his long black coat. He had tried to bear up for the devastation of his break with wrestling, he had tried to prepare, but never had he expected the monumental pain that washed over him. It was so much more than he had expected, so much more. He had some small hope that he may be able to hold on to things just by his fingernails but even that was now impossible. He shuddered and looked at the object in his other hand. He had to do this.

He studied the silvery object. What would it be like to watch your blood drain from your body and puddle away on the floor? What would it be like to take your last breath? What would it be like to be really dead? He was used to playing a man who wasn't among the living, but what was death really? It didn't matter, it was better than this. It had to be, how could he exit this locker room for the last time and face the world outside without The Undertaker? The thought alone sent him into a near panic attack. He tried to calm his breathing, he wiped sweat from his brow, and cursed his hands for trembling. He waited for the panic to pass and then sat on the bench still feeling alone but now feeling more drained that ever. It would be so, so, easy.

Tears fell from his eyes as he ran the tip of his finger over the sharp edge. He unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up revealing his ornately tattooed and muscled arms. He pushed the rolled shirt up his arm and past his elbow. He touched the cold blade to his inked skin and ran it along his flesh softly, not enough to bite, just enough to contemplate what it would be like. Don't be a coward…he scolded himself mentally. Just do it! You know this is too much! God you can't go out there… you can't just be…Mark.

He pressed the blade more firmly and felt it bite. He watched fascinated as a bead of blood grew from the tip of the blade until it snaked down his arm in a crimson runner. He drew the blade downward slicing longer and deeper but keeping it slow to experience the pain the object caused knowing it was nothing to the pain he would face if he did not do this. He squeezed his eyes tight and more salty drops slid down his face and dripped off his nose. Suddenly, he heard the door to the locker room swing open. He rolled his shirt sleeve down quickly and tucked the blade into his pocket. He hurried over to the sink where he washed away the blood that had dribbled down his hand.

"Mark?"

The voice he heard behind him was familiar. It was that of fellow long time co-worker, "brother", and friend, Glen Jacobs. The big man rested a hand on Marks shoulder. Mark wiped his hands dry on his jeans and looked back at Glen who also had some tears left in his eyes and a bittersweet smile pressed to his lips.

"It will be okay."

Glen squeezed his shoulder.

"You know what?" Glen went on. "I'll have to come for a visit to your ranch. We'll have a beer together."

Mark was surprised to feel the beginnings of a smile twitch his lips. We'll have a beer together. It was such a simple and common gesture by an old friend. But somehow, it was more. We'll have a beer together. Maybe that was a good way to start being Mark again. Maybe he could be alright again if he could just bring himself to do something that simple, have a beer together. He could allow it to be the beginning instead of the end. Mark wiped tears from his gray-green eyes and locked the other man in a hug.

"Thank you, Glen, thank you."

The two left the locker room, arms around shoulders, like real brothers. They were so close in real life, they might as well be. Mark stopped one last time to turn back and look at the locker room. He savored it one last moment and then he and Glen made their way out of the arena, the razor in his pocket, forgotten.