What's wrong, Lenore? Why are you so quiet all of a sudden? Why aren't you frothing at the mouth and chomping at the bit to get at me, hmm? Why aren't you just bursting at the seams with the desire to verbally butt in to my life, eh?
Because you seem oh so eager to throw yourself at me when my back is turned. That you just adore coming at me when I'm not looking and trying to blindside me.
You're all ready and raring to go, as your mush-mouthed manager would say, a mare all a-lather, and yet here you are. It's been three weeks since FUF VII, where you stuck your nose all up in my business once again.
But you haven't said a word. Not one peep.
You can't go two weeks without skipping down the aisle, sliding into the ring, and hitting me with the only move in your arsenal you think can possibly keep me down.
So why the wait, lost Lenore? What's happened in the past three weeks that's made confronting me such a terrible, horrible, dire prospect that you have to cower behind Silas Mason's certified Southern gingham apron skirts for your big ULW PPV debut? What's changed?
And the answer to that is obvious.
It's me.
I've changed.
You've been weeks complaining about how I'm such a horrible person for being happy and bouncy and funny and not taking everything so stone cold serious, that I treat the wrestling business as a joke.
I'm not laughing any more. I'm not being funny right now, and I don't know when, if ever, I'm going to be able to be the person I used to be when I'm around soul-sucking leeches like you.
I've vowed to rip the heart of of the shadowy conspiracy that's sunk its claws deep into professional wrestling, intent on destroying anything that it cannot corrupt. And that means ripping the heart of of Silas World and drowning Silas Mason in a river of the blood of his legion of bitches.
And now Lenore is scrambling, fearing for her life. I'm not a journeyman hack like Piddle. I'm not a ninety pound slip of a woman with more compassion than sense. I'm not some random up and comer who popped into pro wrestling to get her face on TV and a career in Hollywood once her contract expires.
I'm not an empty-headed model with delusions of grandeur.
I'm not the scion of a generational pro wrestling dynasty demanding the world on a platinum fucking platter.
I am a warrior. I am a soldier who has fought in battles you are incapable of imagining.
I am a dragon. I am a monstrosity of flesh and bone wrapped around a core of pure elemental cold.
What I am makes me infinitely more qualified as a professional wrestler than Lenore Price-Mason will ever be.
Lost Lenore with her books and her chess metaphors and her little cabinet of delightful pedophilia.
Little Lenore, who like much of this world thinks that the corporate board room is a battlefield, that the pen and the PDA are equals of the sword and shield.
I'm going to tell you right here and now that they are not. That your fake warrior culture is nothing but hot air, lies, and a foundation with sand that generations of empty suits have used to pump up their miserable, empty, soulless lives.
It's not a battlefield because there are no consequences. Oh sure, there are consequences for those beneath you, for your pawns, your "soldiers", your little game pieces on a table.
But you're not generals, captains, and commanders. You never will be. Because when you fuck up, very little of it is going to come back to haunt you. You can run a company into the fucking ground, rip out its revenue, slash its workforce into a splinter, skullfuck each and every method of profit into bloody mush, and you'll still get a multimillion dollar golden parachute so you can sail away to safety and con some other son of a bitch into murdering his company and raping its corpse for profit.
The boardroom is never going to be a battlefield for one simple reason; you can die on a battlefield. You're not going to end up set on fire, you're not going to get shot in the head, you're never going to be stabbed in the heart while making your little powerpoint presentations.
I've fought in battles. I've taken part in wars. I've seen people's heads explode, I've seen hearts ripped out, I've torn out the throats of men and women with my own fucking teeth.
I was stabbed through the chest with a sword the size of a motherfucking traffic light and that wasn't enough to stop me, let alone end me.
So I'm not going to let some soul-sucking leech in an overpriced suit and his army of factory bred bimbo bitches fuck with my life. Everything you work for in ULW, Silas, I'm going to destroy it. I'm going to tear it down. I'm going to set it on fire. And when it's done I'm going to piss on the ashes and pour each and every cupful of those ashes down your speech-impediment laden throat.
Thanks for giving me Lenore. I know your sister-cousin-wife means fuck all to you, so you're not going to shed a tear when I cut her up so badly that her plastic surgeon is going to throw up and the paramedics are going to be unable to hold down their lunch giving her the blood transfusions she needs to keep her alive after the beating I'm going to give her.
But I'm not going to stop there.
Every single person she brings down to the ring with her is going to get the same treatment. This is war, and I don't care if the slightly older kid from the Baby Godfather meme and that horse-faced thing she has advising her are minors.
They're enemy combatants. They're potential vectors for Silas Mason to reach out of his dark, dank dungeon of petulance and fuck with my match. ULW won't take measures to assure fairness and justice in their own matches. So now ULW feast on agony, misery, and medical bills for the supporting staff of anyone and everyone dumb enough to put them in my way.
Lenore's own head of security couldn't stop me from putting his ass in the hospital. The only thing the man in charge of protecting her from the world could do was throw himself at me and take Lenore's place in the trauma center.
That's not going to be enough this time.
A friend, an ally, an employee, an associate, someone who she happened to say something nice about in the third grade, if they get on the wrong side of the ring barricade, anyone and everyone with a connection to Lenore or Silas Mason is going to be another fucking bodybag on the pile.
Bring everything you have, Silas. Bring it all and throw it at me, because it's not going to be enough. It's never going to be enough. It's just going to make the pile of bodies that much higher, just a little more fuel for the fire, just a little bit more brightness on Silas World's funeral pyre.
I'm going to send you and your kind running from this federation with your tails between your legs. If I let you keep your tails. And if your legs aren't broken and mangled into a million pieces.
Fuck with SCW all you want. Shit all over the wreckage of what you've done to the IWC whenever you like, hell it might make the place smell better.
But ULW?
ULW is mine.
ULW belongs to me.
And anybody that thinks they can take it away from me isn't going to end up running for the hills, oh no.
They're going to be crawling on broken legs and bleeding, oozing, frostbitten stumps where their hands used to be.
Chilled.
To the bone.
I have an amazing wealth of knowledge at my disposal. Between Spark, the Matriarch, and the Hand of Arimus I have an incredible amount of information about an unimaginable variety of topics.
I have videos and instructional books for hundreds of martial arts. I have an encyclopedic knowledge of hundreds of draconic species and subspecies. I have step by step guides on precisely just how to torture and torment someone so that upon death they will arise from the grave as any of dozens of types of undead.
I have the experience of an unimaginable old goddess who warred with other gods for centuries. I have the combined research of a hundred necromancers in a vessel that would be a supervillain if it had a body of its own and weren't grafted to me. I have a limitless amount of snark, memes, and movie quotes on basically any and every subject under the sun on constant running commentary in my head.
They can't all be winners.
But what they don't grant me is muscle memory, experience, reflexes. They can influence me, control me a little bit, but they can't just take over. They can't fight my battles for me. For all the power my patrons can grant me, I still have to do all the hard work.
That is if I want to keep things purely physical. If I want to rip the soul out of somebody's body, or animate a nest of hornets into an even more evil assault force, or if I wanted to infuse an army of devout followers with elemental essence to quote "begin replacing the weak, putrid humanoid blood in their veins with that of the draconic master race" unquote, I've got all that and more with just a memorized hand gesture and an expenditure of dark power away.
So for my most important ULW PPV match to date I'm having to do all the heavy lifting myself. Lenore Price-Mason, the sister-cousin-wife of Silas World's CEO, President, and Dictator for Life Silas Mason.
Mason likes sneak attacks, he likes to hit people from behind. He likes to interfere in matches, send out distractions. I'm training to not only avoid falling prey to the usual tricks of the trade, but to reverse them. To drag whoever has decided to fuck with me into a position where I can show them the error of their ways and send them on their way a little bit wiser.
And also pissing blood from their ruptured kidneys.
I'm interrupted while I'm practicing a new tail strike; sweeping my tail between the bottom and middle ropes when I bounce off them. Anybody who might be trying to trip me up is going to feel like they've been smacked in the face with a 2x4.
Spark swoops down from from his perch atop one of the light fixtures, the cell phone that doubles as his personal computer tucked under one tiny foreleg. "Got some trouble on the way. Looks like Leo the Fart has sent over someone for the purposes of evaluating your "psychological fitness" to compete in ULW. It's some doctor of psych something or other. I can't remember which one is which without consulting my data stores."
I stop in my ceaseless running, bouncing, and swatting and stare at Spark. "Psychology is an -ology, meaning study of. That means books, like the crappy pop psych bullshit. They have a PhD, for Piled Higher and Deeper. Psychiatry is an MD, and that means More Drugs. Anyway, the Fart's got to be fucking kidding. He knows for a fact that trying to give me a psychological evaluation is going to trigger all sorts of diagnoses that basically sum up as "batshits insane.""
I'm a seven foot fall, bright blue woman with a tail who breathes fire and hails from another dimension. I'm the sort of thing that shows up in schizophrenics' hallucinations. Trying to use the whole of the human race as a baseline to judge me is going to end up badly for both me and the human race.
"Yeah. That's probably the whole point. You did REALLY lay into him hard with that last one. And with just hours to go before the big show you're not going to have time to appeal."
My muse draws in a deep breathe, I know what's coming and cut it off at the pass. "Spark, if you start singing that guy's entry theme, I'm going to punt you so hard your phone breaks."
The tiny elemental spirit shaped like a dragon protectively clutches his cell phone. "I'll be good!" he protests.
"I'll believe it when I see it." I say with a dismissive snort as I hop out of the ring and begin heading towards the entrance to the gym. Spark isn't the only one to have gotten a text from the front desk, as the place virtually empties out.
Probably because no one wants to end up covered in blood when some egotistical doucheprince starts talking shit at me and I show them the error of their ways.
Then the double doors part and a small, smirking woman in a pink suit coat and a magenta miniskirt comes striding in like she owns the place. She's got a manilla folder and a legal pad tucked under one arm. Her expression wavers only slightly as she sizes me up.
"My, you're quite dedicated to the role." she says, making me grind my teeth already less than five seconds into our first meeting.
Speech pattern, accent, facial features, all moderately familiar. She's got some blood in the wrestling business. More specifically in the Shadow Cartel. ULW's kind and loving overlord isn't even bothering with the pretenses of impartiality.
"Pardon?" I ask, pretty sure I know what she's talking about but I want to make sure.
"Here you are in the middle of the day, training, all suited up in your makeup. I'm sure it must be terribly hot with so much… whatever it is. There's not a speck of your natural skintone showing."
Yup. Exactly where I thought she was headed. "This is my natural skin tone. I'm a dragon."
"Of course you are." she says condescendingly, and right then I know she's a terrible doctor. You need to build up trust with a patient, even if that means buying into their supposed delusions for awhile.
If some PTSD war veteran is sitting next to you on the bus talking about how he was part of the super soldier program, drops some buzzwords involving radiation, plutonium, and quantum mechanics, and how the government took his kids away because he walked out on said super soldier program after having been clinically dead for four hours, you just nod and humor the bastard. (OOC: Ron has literally had to this within the last month, BTW.)
"And you are?"
"Claudia O'Rourke. Mr. der Vaart is upset with some things you said during your most recent video taping, and feels that some of the things you said were beyond hurtful. They were in fact very threatening and unsafe words meant to make one's co-workers frightened and sad."
"No shit." I say, smiling and all sweetness. She flinches slightly at my use of foul language. I point to the wedding band on her left hand, "And I'm sure that this has totally everything to do with a wrestler saying big bad scary things, and certainly not having anything to do with your maiden name."
That's put her off balance. She's been drinking the Kool Aid and believes that I'm dumb as a post.
"My personal life is none of your business, and I do not appreciate having my professionalism called into question! Even if I did in fact have blood relations to personnel involved in this incident it would in no way affect my evalution of you here today."
She adjusts her suit coat and places herself on a nearby folding chair, crossing her legs and placing the clipboard and folder on them.
"Now if you would take a seat so we can begin your evaluation?"
"I'll stand, thanks."
Dr. Claudia begins scribbling. Heh heh heh, Dr. Claw. That's funny. "Very fixated on appearances of strength and weakness."
"That's bullshit."
Another wince and more scribbling, "Exceptionally defensive..."
"No, I'm not being defensive. I'm being realistic. I weigh over four hundred pounds. These crappy steel chairs are fine if I want to hit somebody with them, but they're going to crumple like tinfoil if I take a seat on one."
Dr. Claw (hee!) glares at me, "Having looked at your official ULW profile, you weigh approximately 285 pounds. If you're so worried about breaking a chair you can take off that ridiculous prosthetic."
"What prosthetic?" I ask, trying my best not to growl even though I have my teeth clenched just about as hard as I can.
"That tail thing." she says, pointing with her pen.
"Sure, I'll take off my so-called prosthetic tail if you take off your prosthetic head, because I'm pretty sure that your real one is crammed up your ass."
"Excessively hostile when confronted with reality of her situation, seems unhealthily obsessed with living her on-screen persona."
"Look, I know wrestlers are so uptight with this whole "kayfabe" thing, but I'm evaluating you as a person, not as a character on television. I'd like to get your real name, please, so I can access your medical history.
"Kalinda Kriegsdottir is my real name." I say, surprised that my teeth aren't shooting off sparks with the way I'm grinding them.
"Mmm. Name change in order to bypass company trademarks, I bet. The IWC probably still has the trademark on that name, I'd wager."
"You'd lose." I say, and with a motion of my hand and a snap of my fingers I've got my armored Coat of Holding summoned to my hands. I pull out my wallet and remove my ID, showing it to her.
She looks up from her writing, her eyes narrowing. I've gone from holding nothing to holding a trenchcoat with spiked, armored shoulders sized to fit my seven foot frame in the span on less than a second. I'm standing in the middle of the room with nothing bigger than a weight set within my reach.
She reaches out and takes the card, looking it over for a moment before handing it back to me. "Mmm, you've actually undergone the court filings to get this done."
She hands it back to me.
"No driver's license?"
"I don't drive. The tail doesn't work with your typical bucket seats."
"Again with that silly fake limb."
"And I don't need a car. I can teleport."
She grins wickedly, "Can you repeat that for me?"
I meet her grin with a ridiculous one of my own and repeat myself, speaking slowly and loudly as if I'm talking to a child. Because I pretty much am. "I. CAN. TELE. PORT. I need water to do it, though. I can't just teleport between point A and point B for any given selection of points."
"Of course you can." she says smugly, scribbling on her pad.
I sigh and shake my head. I don't need this bullshit. The temperature around me has dropped a good twenty degrees since the conversation has started.
"Leave. Right now. Walk out the door, tell Raymond I'm a delusional asshole, whatever. If you stay you are not going to like what you discover."
Dr. Claw glares at me, "Ms. Kriegsdottir, are you threatening me?"
"No, doctor. I'm making you a promise." my exhalations are making little puffs of fog in the air, and the doctor hasn't noticed at all. "No one is ever happy when they learn that the rock that they've built their entire existence on is nothing but sand."
"Are you projecting your negative traits onto me, Kalinda? That's something a great number of mentally ill people do."
"Can I just butt in for a second to say that it's pretty screwy that you don't think Kalinda's real. That she's all special effects makeup that never, ever comes off even during a wrestling match and features a prosthetic tail that's functional way beyond the scope of modern technology. And that everybody seems perfectly fine with a cat-sized dragon that flies around and talks?" says Spark, who has flown down from the rafters and alighted on a rack of dumbbells.
"That's sneaky, getting someone to creep over here and stick that puppet over there when I'm not looking." the doctor says, glaring at Spark.
"Are you stupid, lady? I'm not a puppet." Spark spreads his wings, tenses up, does that silly waggle thing with his butt, and then leaps into the air, flapping his wings and flying around the gym before making a picture perfect landing on my shoulder.
"The amazing things they can do with animatronics these days."
Spark and I share a glance, there is no end to the depths of stupidity that some people can reach. When his mouth isn't flapping, Spark moves as quietly as the cat whose size and general body layout he shares.
"I think I'm going to go hide in a locker. I don't want her brains splattering on me when her head explodes from the revelation." Spark says disgustedly, and flies off.
"It's amazing what special effects can do these days." Dr. Claw says with a big grin.
"Now, let's talk about these death threats you made to your boss a few weeks ago."
"I didn't make any death threats."
"You quite clearly said..."
"I quite clearly stated one of many methods that I could use to assure that no one will ever find his corpse. I said I wanted that thought to be in the forefront of his mind every time he went to sleep. He can't go to sleep if he's dead, now can he?"
"Still, Mr. der Vaart did not appreciate the threats, nor did he appreciate the exceedingly violent imagery your words invoked. Your patron may be the head of a film studio specializing in horror movies, but the ULW audience does not need to hear depictions of unspeakable violence straight out of a horror movie."
I chuckle and pulls a bottle of water out of my coat, taking a long drink.
"It's no laughing matter, Ms. Kriegsdottir. Threatening to carve up one of your fellow wrestlers like a Thanksgiving turkey..."
"Going to stop you right there. I don't gouge the image of dickbutt into my food. Nor do I carve TWAT in big capital letter into my Christmas ham with a butter knife. Hams and turkeys serve a purpose. Most of my opponents do not."
"Shows very little empathy for..."
"Empathy? EMPATHY? Listen here you stuck up little bitch, Raymond der Vaart threatened Jason King with motherfucking LEGAL ACTION if he failed to show up for a match with his wife in the hospital and his kid IN THE FUCKING GROUND. He tore himself away from the damned near worst grief that a human being could possibly endure to fulfil his legal obligation for that one fucking match. And kind, compassionate, loving der Vaart ran him down on the air for being a horrible heartless human being because he wrestled that gods-damned match!"
I slam the water bottle down onto the floor, the flimsy plastic no match for the cement, sending water everywhere.
"You need to leave."
Dr. Claw stands up, brushing spots of water off her outfit, more outraged at the tiny specks of moisture than my outburst at her employer's hypocrisy. "No, I don't think so! You are most certainly some sort of paranoid schizophrenic that is having a severe break from reality!"
"While you are most assuredly not mentally stable enough to wrestle on Ascendancy, I need to probe deeper to find out if you're even worth employing."
I tilt my head and smile. "Last chance to get out of here without your world crashing down around you."
"You think you can threaten me? Do you know who I am?"
"I don't care." I say as the floor drops out from beneath us. I've connected the pool of water on the floor we both were standing in with a spot ten feet down beneath the surface of the Arctic Sea. I give Claudia a moment to suck some ice cold water into her lungs before shifting us elsewhere, right into the middle of the Antarctic Tundra.
No creature alive today has set eyes on the icy wasteland before us. It's the coldest place on Earth.
"The body loses heat thirty two times faster when wet than when dry." I say simply as Dr. O'Rourke hacks and coughs up her two seconds worth of exposure to seawater.
While the water begins to freeze on the good doctor's body, it's long since frozen on mine. I'm pissed off. Murderously pissed off. I'm colder than the frozen desert around me and I like it. It's been awhile since I've been quite this cold, it's absolutely invigorating. All the aches and pains of my training have vanished in the scant few seconds I've been here.
Dr. Claw has curled up into a feeble ball as she shivers, trying to keep warm. I theatrically flop down into the snow next to her, thrashing my limbs to make a snow angel.
"So we have two options. The first being that I'm obviously a delusional schizophrenic who is absolutely ridiculous for fancying the very idea that magic exists. In which case this cannot possibly be real. Since I cannot teleport, you and I are obviously still back in the Nine Rings Gym hale and hearty, safe and sound, and you're decidedly NOT freezing to death in the middle of the Antarctic continent."
I think her eyes and lips have frozen shut. I wish more people would have their mouths frozen closed, it would make them so much more pleasant company.
"Option two being that I am, of course, exactly what I say I am. I am a seven foot tall, fire-breathing blue dragoness from another world, a world of magic and wonders and supreme deities that actually do things and are not obsessed with beetles, balls, and where grown men and women put their genitals. In which case you are well on your way to dying of hypothermia."
With a wave of my hand Dr. O'Rouke and I drop through the ice into a nice, pleasant hot spring.
"So you either admit that my magic is real, or we go back to the frozen armpit of Planet Earth and you get to learn all about Paradoxical Undressing. Trust me, it's not as fun and sexy as it sounds."
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..." Claudia murmurs.
"Would that be the aforementioned balls and beetles guy? Because he doesn't seem as keen on personal relationships as his followers tend to say he is. Mine happens to be bit more hands on. Well, not really hands. I don't think she's managed to find her forepaws in a couple of centuries now."
I lean back in the hot spring and do one of those big showy motions that cracks every single knuckle at once before embracing my inner Chewbacca and slowly putting my hands behind my head.
Spark is a horrible influence.
"So Doc, it's your choice, freezing to death or believing in magic. So, do you believe?"
She looks at me with wide, tear filled, terrified eyes and nods her head.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I BELIEVE! I BELIEVE, YOU SICK, SICK FUCK!" she screams, still shivering despite the warmth of the water.
"And how about my goddess, you believe in her?"
"YES! HELL YES! I WILL BELIEVE IN ANYTHING YOU SAY, JUST DON'T KILL ME!" she wails.
"Good! Glad we had this talk."
And just like that we're back in the gym, dripping wet and with our hair dusted by snow making me think of sugar-frosted donuts.
Dr. O'Rourke falls on her ass and scrambles away from me. I give her a sweet smile and point to the door.
"I'm telling you one last time to leave. Get out of here. Do not come back. If I hear so much as another word I'm going to do to you the worst thing I can possibly imagine."
She gets up and runs for the door, pausing for a moment to fix me with a hateful glare.
"Raymond der Vaart is going to hear about this!" she snarls.
I just shake my head sadly and shake out my coat, slipping it on. "No, button. No he's not."
She ducks out the door, but it doesn't matter. She's soaked from head to toe. I reach out with my power and connect her water to mine. I start swinging my hand and she reappears, the back of my hand connecting with her cheek, sending her sprawling into the dumbbell set.
"I said not another word. Those were words."
"FUCK YOU!" Claudia snarls, yanking an empty dumbbell bar and swinging it like a club at my skull.
I let her.
It connects with a sound like hitting frozen meat. The good doctor cries out in pain from the impact travelling up her arm. Her fingers are forced open from the vibration and she drops the weapon.
"Why doesn't anybody ever listen when I say that weapons don't really work all that well on me? Sure it stings a little bit but you can't hurt me with anything that isn't magical." I say with a sigh. I know I've said that little fact about five or six times on national television, but it never really seems to sink in.
The doctor slips on the wet floor and goes sprawling, holding her hand. At the very least she's probably bruised some fingers, she might've actually broken something in her hand.
"I told you what would happen. But your ego said that you just HAD to have the last word, didn't you? You, Raymond, the Shadow Cartel, you're all alike. I'm going to enjoy cutting you all down to size."
And with a flourish I produce one of the weapons I keep in my coat. An honest-to-goddess scythe, the handle taller than I am, shaped like bones welded together and sporting a wrinkly texture unpleasantly reminiscent of the human brain.
The scythe's blade glows a hideous shade of purple-grey that seems to warp and waver, causing nausea to look at.
The good doctor has sense to try and flee, but I'm perfectly stable on a wet floor and she is not. I catch up to her easily, sweeping the handle of the scythe across and catching her ankle, sending her sprawling. It's an easy, simple motion to bring spin the weapon, bringing the blade down and across her back.
She screams in absolute agony. Wailing for ten seconds with the pain that comes from being cut in half.
She looks right a fool when she realizes that she hasn't actually been cleft in twain, in fact she hasn't been cut at all. At least not physically.
I cease my pursuit and lean on the staff, as the blade has vanished entirely. It'll be a year and a day before the magic innate to the weapon recharges. I've been stuck on this world a year already, who knows, I may get another dozen uses out of the thing before I find a way back.
Having figured out that she isn't dead, Claudia slowly turns, looking at me with a mix of rage, fear, and confusion.
"Get out of here. I'm done with you." I say, giving her a dismissive wave of my hand.
"Raymond is going to hear about this! You're going to be FIRED!"
"He's not going to believe you."
"He'll sure as hell believe that you attacked me!"
"So? Do you think that matters to him in the slightest?"
"You're never going to wrestle for ULW again!"
"Pretty sure I will."
"Not after I give my recommendation! You're a psycho!"
"And why would your recommendation mean anything?"
"Because he sent me here!"
I grin. "No, he didn't."
"He did! And my family is going to make you suffer for this!"
"What family?" my grin widens as I tilt my head at a playful angle.
"You know damn well what family!"
"Your maiden name is none of my business."
Unable to think of a response, her hand in agony, Dr. Claw scuttles off.
I just shake my head as the door closes behind her.
I wasn't lying when I said I was going to do the worst thing I could imagine to her.
Memory Ripper is not a weapon in the purest sense. You don't swing it at someone to kill them or to deal physical wounds. It's not even particularly effective for use on one's opponent in the heat of battle.
What it does is create mental wounds, the greatest anguish and trauma that I could ever imagine inflicted on another sentient creature. A being with feelings, with friends, and with family.
She still has her feelings, but she's going to soon find that she doesn't have any friends. Or any family. She doesn't exist. I just cut her out of reality entirely. No one is going to recognize her. No one is going to remember her.
She's going to call an employer that never hired her for her medical degree from a university she never graduated from. She's going to drive a car she never registered to a home where a husband does not know who she is, maybe to children that have never seen so much as a glimpse of their own mother.
Her threats of family are empty ones. Nobody is going to get revenge for a daughter they've never had, a sister they never grew up with, a cousin they don't remember.
Claudia O'Rourke came to me to find a psychotic, crazy woman completely disconnected from reality, living in a fantasy world that doesn't exist.
And she found one.
She'll find one every time she looks in the mirror to the day she dies.
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