At first there was silence, which was followed by a ringing. It escalated until it became piercing and unbearable.

Instinctively, Mitch reached for the back of his head while the rest of his body assumed the fetal position. As far as he could tell, he was on the floor. Not the padding around the ring, but the concrete floor itself, roughly 10′ from the ring itself. When his vision returned, the overhead lights blinded him again, but he lacked the coordination to shield his eyes from them.

Voices began to cut through the shrill noise in his head, and he sort of made out things like ambulance, get back, and holy shit were uttered ad nauseum.

“I’m OK,” Mitch groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m OK.”

“Yeah dude?” A recognizable voice came from somewhere above him. “It’s Jodie. You with me, Mitch?”

“Hey Jodie.” He glanced upwards, and vaguely made out familiar purple of her hair. “I’m OK, really.”

“Don’t move,” Jodie warned. “You took a big spill from the top rope. Ambulance is on its way, we’re gonna get you out of here.”

It wasn’t until he was lifted onto the stretcher that Mitch felt anything, but once the EMTs shifted him from his position on the floor, a searing pain consumed his shoulder and arm. His head throbbed. The breath left his lungs.

His vision went dark again.

----------------------------------------

Unsurprisingly, he tested positive for a mild concussion, and Mitch handled that news as well as anyone could. But then the doctor diagnosed him with a torn rotator cuff, and that proved to be much more difficult to remain upbeat about. Though not so severe that it required surgery, he’d still need to take a few weeks off from any physical activity that involved his right arm; being left-handed was a rare silver lining, rather than an inconvenience.

When a nurse outfitted him for a sling, the fog which plagued him at last lifted, and he became acutely aware of just how undressed he was and how strange he looked in his facepaint and wrestling gear and how rank he probably smelled; the impact was far more agonizing than any concrete floor could hope to deliver. But they made no mention about it, which left him to wonder whether something even stranger drifted into the ER that night. A written prescription for oxycotin was handed over, along with discharge instructions and a mention about making adjustments to the sling once he had access to a shirt. He thanked them, hardly hearing a word they said as he invested every bit of focus into not fixating on the 4″x5″ sheet of white bond paper in his hand; in the end, he stuffed it into the flimsy plastic bag that contained his prosthetic ears and his dog collar, normal wrestling stuff. Christ, he probably looked like he just stumbled out of a BDSM club.

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Enough time lapsed that he was granted permission to walk around on his own, and he met up with Jodie in the waiting room. He flashed a tired smile and she was already on her feet before he got any words out. After a grey hoodie was placed over his bare shoulders (who it belonged to was as good as anyone’s guess, but he assumed that it’d been taken from another roster member among the chaos), she presented a wad of dollar bills once his modesty was sufficiently defended. Guilt gnawed at him for taking her away from the show, being the sole reason that she was away during a live taping.

“Jodie, you don’t have to-” Mitch began to protest as he looked over the money, but Jodie rolled her eyes and forced it into his hand.

“It probably won’t cover the entire co-pay, but,” she shrugged. “Everyone pooled together. Just take it.”

“Alright,” Mitch conceded, despite the nagging concerns. He knew damn well that the money was hers alone, but stood at an impasse; if he called her out, she would throw up further walls due to her stubbornness. It was late, he was too worn down to make an attempt.

“That spill was gnarly,” Jodie talked as they made their way over to check-out. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to get back home tonight. It’s a long ride, and the Tri-State crew already took off.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Mitch’s eyebrows knit.

“Crash at my place?” offered Jodie. He openly grimaced at the idea, and in exchange she bristled. “OK well, for starters, it’s after midnight. Greenwich is several hours away.” She counted on her fingers as she listed off points. “You can’t drive like this, and if you could, your car’s held together with shit like duct tape, hopes, and prayers.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Mitch agreed with a half-hearted laugh, which was short lived. His face fell as realization settled in regards to other matters that he needed to address. “Fuck, I gotta call Calvin. FUCK, Jodie, where’s my-“

“Dude, chill. Here.” She held up his backpack, which he hastily unzipped and proceeded to rifle through. Its contents were tossed haphazardly onto the floor, until he reached his phone. She frowned at him and started to collect the scattered items. “You think he’s gonna be up?”

“Don’t know.” Mitch stared at the screen, his thumb hoovering over the contact info. “Shit, I don’t want to wake him if he isn’t.”

“OK, but you almost…man, I don’t want to say ‘died’, but-” Jodie gestured as she trailed off. “You coulda been hurt real bad, y’know. You ARE hurt real bad. Your significant other should probably know about that.”

Frowning, Mitch lowered his phone to his side. “I’ll wait until I’m outside.”