Post by Erin Gordon on Apr 29, 2019 18:41:22 GMT -5
They say wrestlin's a young man's game... shee-it. Lookin' at it like that, I ain't sure which is worse--bein' a woman, or bein' on the wrong side of thirty with only a handful of matches under my belt. No wonder I got written off so fast, and got forgot even faster'n that.
The night air was just warm enough to be enjoyable without needing a coat, though in truth? Erin Gordon would've gone without one anyway, considering how easily she'd overheat once she got to work--and even if she'd gone out when the sun rose that morning, there was a new mountain of literal cowshit to deal with before she called it a night. While she could've hired on workers to do the nightly chores with the upswing in business, the truth of the matter was that she wasn't about to do that when she was still capable of doing it herself. Asking for help was the same as admitting that she wasn't able to do it on her own anymore and, considering how she was still on the mend from the injury that forced her out of the squared circle... well, she wasn't about to allow the one consistent job she's ever done out of her grip that easy. She'd barely survived being all but bedridden for a couple months soon after the end of her last disastrous match in FGA. At one point, Benson had compared his mother's temperament to that of a pissed-off bull that wanted nothing more than to trample the cowboy that wanted to climb on board, and he'd been spot on.
(He'd also been the only one to be able to say that to her face without getting his own ripped off.)
The thought of her son earned a faint, but bittersweet smile as she paused her limp-hampered walk toward the open mouth of the main cattle barn, gray eyes lifting to the stars overhead. It was nigh impossible to comprehend how quickly he'd grown into his proverbial paws, how strong he'd become. He towered over her by almost half a foot now, but her mind still kept trying to envision him as the mop-headed little boy that was still sweet as sugar and just as innocent besides. He was still plenty sweet, and sweet on the Pratt girl besides--but time had a way of bringing the reminders of what was around to take the forefront. Those reminders were from before Si passed away, of course--years before that nightmare of a day that had ripped her world to pieces. God, Benson was his father's spitting image... and that resemblance was gonna grow stronger still, a thought that made her ache for the man that had helped make him.
"Least he's got my eyes," she mumbled to herself as she shook her head and forced herself to get moving again. Being frozen by grief wasn't as much of an issue as it had been before, but it still liked to rear its head every now and again to remind her of its presence. She reckoned it'd always show up in some form or another, but at least now it wasn't so bad as to leave her unable to function. She had Stevie Kingsley to thank for that, roundabout at least. His leaving had ripped away her blinders to how she'd buried all of that deep in the name of surviving, even living some here or there--but it had never been complete. It couldn't be, not with as deep as her anger and sadness and grief had dug its way into her craw. For a moment, she wondered where he was and how he was doing... but that, at least, was a subject she could herd her mind away from with some level of ease. Ain't no point living in the past, after all.
Not when there was so much work to do in the present.
I can't blame'em, though. When the biggest accomplishment you've got to your name is puttin' Amy Jo Smythe on her pompous ass and fuckin' up on what you said to Izzy Anders so you look like a dumbass, there ain't much to remember. But while wrestling's moved on same as it always does, I remember what happened. I remember my wins and losses both, my failures and my successes, what I loved and lost... and all that unfinished business that's been sittin' there, starin' me in the face every time I put my weight down wrong on my leg.
It's stuck itself in my craw, and there ain't no way in Hell that it's gonna budge.
Not unless I do somethin' about it.
The night air was just warm enough to be enjoyable without needing a coat, though in truth? Erin Gordon would've gone without one anyway, considering how easily she'd overheat once she got to work--and even if she'd gone out when the sun rose that morning, there was a new mountain of literal cowshit to deal with before she called it a night. While she could've hired on workers to do the nightly chores with the upswing in business, the truth of the matter was that she wasn't about to do that when she was still capable of doing it herself. Asking for help was the same as admitting that she wasn't able to do it on her own anymore and, considering how she was still on the mend from the injury that forced her out of the squared circle... well, she wasn't about to allow the one consistent job she's ever done out of her grip that easy. She'd barely survived being all but bedridden for a couple months soon after the end of her last disastrous match in FGA. At one point, Benson had compared his mother's temperament to that of a pissed-off bull that wanted nothing more than to trample the cowboy that wanted to climb on board, and he'd been spot on.
(He'd also been the only one to be able to say that to her face without getting his own ripped off.)
The thought of her son earned a faint, but bittersweet smile as she paused her limp-hampered walk toward the open mouth of the main cattle barn, gray eyes lifting to the stars overhead. It was nigh impossible to comprehend how quickly he'd grown into his proverbial paws, how strong he'd become. He towered over her by almost half a foot now, but her mind still kept trying to envision him as the mop-headed little boy that was still sweet as sugar and just as innocent besides. He was still plenty sweet, and sweet on the Pratt girl besides--but time had a way of bringing the reminders of what was around to take the forefront. Those reminders were from before Si passed away, of course--years before that nightmare of a day that had ripped her world to pieces. God, Benson was his father's spitting image... and that resemblance was gonna grow stronger still, a thought that made her ache for the man that had helped make him.
"Least he's got my eyes," she mumbled to herself as she shook her head and forced herself to get moving again. Being frozen by grief wasn't as much of an issue as it had been before, but it still liked to rear its head every now and again to remind her of its presence. She reckoned it'd always show up in some form or another, but at least now it wasn't so bad as to leave her unable to function. She had Stevie Kingsley to thank for that, roundabout at least. His leaving had ripped away her blinders to how she'd buried all of that deep in the name of surviving, even living some here or there--but it had never been complete. It couldn't be, not with as deep as her anger and sadness and grief had dug its way into her craw. For a moment, she wondered where he was and how he was doing... but that, at least, was a subject she could herd her mind away from with some level of ease. Ain't no point living in the past, after all.
Not when there was so much work to do in the present.
I can't blame'em, though. When the biggest accomplishment you've got to your name is puttin' Amy Jo Smythe on her pompous ass and fuckin' up on what you said to Izzy Anders so you look like a dumbass, there ain't much to remember. But while wrestling's moved on same as it always does, I remember what happened. I remember my wins and losses both, my failures and my successes, what I loved and lost... and all that unfinished business that's been sittin' there, starin' me in the face every time I put my weight down wrong on my leg.
It's stuck itself in my craw, and there ain't no way in Hell that it's gonna budge.
Not unless I do somethin' about it.