Breaking the Illusion

Vlog 5: The Golden Child March 30, 2013

The screen flickers to life, the dim glow of the desk lamp illuminating Asher Creed’s face. Unlike the previous vlogs, there’s a different energy in his expression… lighter, brighter. He leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, a self-satisfied smirk creeping onto his lips. The usual tension in his shoulders is absent, replaced with something else. Something closer to pride.

“Man… what a week.”

His tone is smoother, almost cocky, but not in an over-the-top way, just enough to suggest he’s feeling himself a little more than usual. He exhales, shaking his head as if even he can’t believe what he’s about to say.

“State championships. First place in the 100-meter dash. Broke a record that went undefeated for 20 years. Everyone’s still talking about it.”

He lets that hang in the air, his smirk deepening. There’s no hesitation in his voice, no doubt.

“Feels good, you know? To walk through the halls and see people looking at you like they know you’re something special. Teachers nodding, classmates giving daps, even the ones that don’t like me? They still know.”

His fingers tap lightly against the desk, that confidence rolling off him in waves. But then, something shifts.

“And Dad… man.”

The smirk falters for just a moment. His eyes flicker, memories running through his mind like a highlight reel.

“I swear, I’ve never seen him smile like that before. Told me I made him proud. Said I’m proving what it really means to be a Creed. That we’re not just here to be good at things, we’re here to be great.”

His jaw tightens slightly, the weight of those words pressing down on him, but not in a way that seems burdensome. No, this? This is fuel.

“And, I mean, he’s right. I am great. Even as proud as he was in that moment, I feel like he still expects more of me. Like running is great, but… I don’t know, maybe I will try soccer too. Two sport athlete, can’t get much better than that.”

He leans forward now, elbows resting on the desk, his smirk creeping back—but there’s something sharper behind it now.

“Then there’s Eric.”

The name alone sours his mood just a little. His fingers stop tapping.

“Look, I get it. Not everyone’s built for this. Not everyone’s got that thing inside them. That drive. That need to be better. But the way he just… lets things happen? How he folds the second things don’t go his way?”

Asher scoffs, shaking his head, his expression shifting from pride to frustration.

“It’s like he wants to be average. Like he’s fine with it. And I don’t get that. I can’t get that. You think I don’t feel the pressure? You think I don’t know what happens if I stop pushing?”

His green eyes darken, intensity replacing the brief moment of elation.

“That’s why I can’t stop. That’s why I won’t stop. Because I know what happens when you do. You become… him.”

His lips press into a thin line.

“I love my brother but you become a spectator in your own life.”

There’s a long pause, after a beat, he forces a small chuckle, shaking his head as if brushing it off.

“Anyway… that’s where I’m at. Feels good to win. Feels good to be somebody.”

The smirk returns, but this time, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Feels good to be the Golden Child.”

He reaches forward, his hand hovering over the camera for a moment before clicking it off.

The screen goes black.

****

“I am Ashers Hyperphantasia I am the deepest part of his cognitive processing. I am the voice in his head. I am responsible for who he is today. I am his reactions, his emotions, his frontal cortex processing. I am his experiences. I am his fears in carnet. I am the voice the praises. I am the tool for his success. And now, I am the tormentor of his failure.”

****

Pure darkness. The state that everyone wishes to achieve, weightlessness, nothingness. There ever was a blissful state, this is it. This is where the big bang of dreams begins, the realm where your subconscious becomes conscious. Fantasy becomes reality.

The stillness often attracts disruption. A void begs to be filled. The weightlessness you seek is fleeting, because in the quiet, something always stirs. A thought. A sound. A presence.

Stillness is never truly still. Like the ringing of the ears grunts slowly come to the foreground. Grunts of passion, but the context is missing. Thus, leading to the imagination, is it of frustration, physical exertion, or the grunts of erotic activities. The sounds of things being slammed against the walls, furniture, breaking of glass items, all accompany the grunts.

The camera fades in from black, revealing a dimly lit room, familiar, but wrong. This was once a place of controlled chaos, of structured performance. A space meant to capture moments, frame narratives, and deliver words with precision.

But now? It’s destroyed.

The backdrop is in tatters, hanging in limp, jagged strips. The table where Asher once sat is overturned, its legs snapped at odd angles, splintered remains scattered across the floor. The chair is nowhere to be seen. The lighting rig flickers, casting jagged shadows against the walls. Fragments of broken props lie like casualties of some unseen war, glass shimmering among the ruins.

And in the center of it all, Asher Creed sits on the edge of the stage, his elbows resting on his knees, breathing deep and slow.

He’s not looking at the camera. Not yet. His gaze is distant, locked on some point in the wreckage that only he can see. His hands, wrapped tightly from a session long since finished, hang loosely between his knees, the white tape dirtied from sweat and dust. His chest rises and falls with measured breaths; controlled, restrained.

A long silence. Then, finally, he exhales through his nose, head tilting slightly, as if just now acknowledging the destruction around him. His jaw clenches, but his body doesn’t move. He lets the weight of it all settle.

Then, in a voice low and steady, Asher finally speaks.

“… what a year…”

He takes another beat.

"Funny thing about silence… it always finds a way to get broken."

His fingers flex slightly, the only movement in his otherwise still frame. He doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t adjust his posture. Just sits there, in the wreckage, breathing.

"Some things you can fix. Some things you leave behind. And some things?"

A pause. A slight smirk, humorless and fleeting.

"Some things were never built to last in the first place."

His eyes flick toward the camera. Not angry. Not amused. Just… present.

"And that? That’s what you gotta figure out."

Another slow breath. His hands tighten into loose fists before relaxing again. The broken set around him, the heavy stillness in the air… it all lingers, waiting for what comes next.

The camera holds on him for just a second longer, the weight of the moment stretching out like a taut rope.

Cut to black.

****

Enter the new character Name: Dr. Elias Carter Age: 48 Profession: Licensed Sports Psychologist & Mental Performance Consultant Education: Ph.D. in Sports Psychology, University of Texas at Austin Specialties: • Athlete Mental Resilience • Performance Anxiety & Pressure Management • Identity & Self-Worth in Competitive Sports • Trauma & Emotional Regulation • Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) for Athletes

Date: March 19th 2025 Setting: A split-screen shot, Dr. Elias Carter appears in a professional but comfortably lit office space, bookshelves lined with psychology and sports performance literature behind him. His desk is minimalistic, save for a few files and a steaming cup of coffee. On the other side, Asher Creed sits in a dimly lit hotel room, the curtain slightly drawn, revealing a city skyline in the background. He leans back in a chair, arms crossed over his chest, camera slightly off-center like he didn’t bother to frame it perfectly.

Dr. Carter: Asher, it’s been a long time, haven’t heard from you since the last few games as a Blue Devil, soccer, correct?

Asher pauses, not quite looking at the camera, not quite looking away.

Asher: Yeah, ACC Championships.

Dr. Carter looks to the side of the camera, assumingly looking up something on his computer before answering.

Dr. Carter: Yes, I remember now. How did that turn out for the team?

Asher: We won the ACC title, but failed to move past the first round of the NCAA tournament.

Dr. Carter: He slightly nods as therapist do. “That is still exciting, how did your collagen career end?”

Asher almost looks shameful, as if thinking about his college success has somehow negatively reflects who he is today, in this moment.

Asher: ACC Finalist nine times, NCAA Finalist, NCAA Final Four and Elite 8, All-American two sports, Olympic Trials for the 100m, over three sports.

Dr. Carter: That is an achievement, I know when we used to speak, it was helping you keep yourself focused on things. Balancing three sports and school was a difficult challenge for you, but you did it, and at a very high level it sounds like. So, tell me Asher, what has life looked like recently for you?

Asher almost pouts in protest, acknowledging without acknowledging things have been less than anticipated. How could anyone be expected to confidently listing the highest success anyone could achieve, then speak about how much of a struggle it’s been outside of that. Admittedly a lot of his success has come from team sports, ones he relied on others to accomplish a goal. If he slipped, someone was there to help pick up the slack.

Now without a team, he stumbles, he slips, he falls. Logic would point out his success at single sports, his track and field life. In life and wrestling, its more than how fast you can run, or how far you can jump. Though the thought of running away has weighed heavily on his mind, after all, he’s been really good at running since he was a child.

Asher: Questioning if I am making the right decisions.

Dr. Carter: How so? Give me an example.

Asher: After college I went into professional wrestling, call it a whim, call it interest in a new challenge.

Dr. Carter: That’s a far leap from your previous athletics.

Asher: But it makes money.

Dr. Carter pauses for a moment, just watching, observing Asher’s unspoken language in the moment. Seemingly he notices something Asher isn’t saying and reacts with a hm.

Dr. Carter: I see, was this before or after you didn’t qualify for the Olympics?

Asher: Pause. Slightly confused and borderline insulted. “After, I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply.”

Dr. Carter: I imply nothing, just getting an understanding for your current situation. So, what is the questionable choice that you’ve made?

Asher exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before answering.

Asher: I thought I had this figured out. Thought I knew what I was getting into. But right now? Right now, I’m sitting at two losses, and in both of them, I wasn’t just outmatched—I was outnumbered. The first time, I got jumped before the bell even rang. The second? My opponent didn’t come alone. And every time, I’m left there, wondering if this is just the way things are going to be.

Dr. Carter: Like you’re fighting an uphill battle?

Asher: More like a rigged one.

His jaw tightens, the frustration evident in his voice.

Asher: I’ve been in PRIME for months now, and I still feel like I haven’t found my place. I’m not accepted… not really. Maybe it’s because I’m new, maybe it’s because I came in talking big, but whatever the reason, I’ve got a target on my back. And now, after Culture Shock? After that disaster? I can’t shake the feeling that I screwed up… bad.

Dr. Carter leans in slightly.

Dr. Carter: What happened at Culture Shock?

Asher lets out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

Asher: Everything. Nothing. I don’t even know where to start. I walked into that match thinking it was my chance to turn things around, to show that I belong. Instead, I walked out questioning everything. The moment slipped through my fingers, and I felt… worthless.

He finally looks up, directly at Dr. Carter.

Asher: Do you know what it’s like to go from being “the guy” to being just another name on a list? I spent my whole life winning, proving I was the best. Now? I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing. I came here to be undeniable, but so far? The only thing undeniable is that I’m struggling to keep my head above water.

Dr. Carter watches him carefully, his expression calm but intent.

Dr. Carter: That’s a lot to carry, Asher.

Asher: Yeah, well. I lift heavy.

Dr. Carter gives a small, knowing smile, not quite taking the bait.

Dr. Carter: You’re used to winning. Used to proving yourself through performance, through results. Your value, for as long as you’ve competed, has always been tied to achievement.

Asher doesn’t respond, but the truth of it sits between them like an unspoken weight.

Dr. Carter: But wrestling doesn’t work like the sports you’re used to. There are more variables, more politics, more chaos. You can do everything right and still come up short. So, the real question is… if you take away the winning, what’s left?

Asher scoffs slightly, shaking his head.

Asher: You want me to say I doubt myself. That I’m insecure, or scared, or whatever. But that’s not it. I know I can do this. I know I’m good. It’s just…

His voice trails off, his fingers tapping a slow, steady rhythm against the desk.

Asher: It’s just, what happens if I’m not? If I don’t make it? If I don’t become what I’m supposed to be?

Dr. Carter: And what are you supposed to be?

Asher opens his mouth, but the words don’t come right away. His jaw tenses, his throat works around a response, but when he finally speaks, it’s quieter.

Asher: …undeniable…

Dr. Carter studies him for a long moment before nodding once.

Dr. Carter: That’s something we’ll work on.

Asher leans back in his chair, exhaling as he rolls his shoulders.

Dr. Carter: We’ll pick this up next time. In the meantime, I want you to consider something, success isn’t just about winning. It’s about resilience. It’s about what you build, even when things don’t go your way.

Asher scoffs, shaking his head.

Asher: Yeah. I’ll… think about that.

Dr. Carter: Good.

A small silence lingers before Asher nods. With that, the call ends. The screen fades to black.

****

The camera fades in to a modest wrestling gym in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, not a high-end facility, not a polished performance center, but a place built on legacy, on history. A place that smells like sweat, resin, and decades of hard lessons learned. A throwback to the Dungeon, but not quite.

The ring sits in the center of the space, worn but sturdy, its ropes slightly frayed from years of training and toil. The mats lining the walls are faded from countless impacts. A row of free weights sits along the side, their iron edges chipped from time and use. A single heavy bag swings lazily from a chain, its surface marked with old tape from repairs made over the years.

And in the middle of it all, sitting on the ring apron, one foot planted firmly on the ground while the other rests on the edge, is Asher Creed. His arms rest loosely over his knees, his hands wrapped from a session long since finished. His black athletic pullover is slightly unzipped, revealing the sheen of sweat at his collarbone, evidence that this isn’t just a backdrop, he’s put in work here.

This is a place of discipline. A place of suffering. A place of transformation.

Asher exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders before finally speaking.

“Calgary. Wrestling country.”

His tone is steady, deliberate.

“You hear about the legacy of this place your whole life… the stories of the Dungeon, the wrestlers who walked through fire to carve their names in history. But let’s be honest, legacy ain’t just about pain. It’s about what comes out on the other side.”

A pause. His fingers flex slightly before he interlocks them, cracking his knuckles.

“Some people believe pain is a doorway. A means to enlightenment.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head with the smallest hint of amusement.

“Sage, you live and breathe that gospel, don’t you? You think suffering leads to something greater, that breaking the body is a path to freeing the mind.”

A smirk, but not one of amusement… one of understanding.

"I get it. I really do. I’ve trained until my legs gave out. I’ve run until my lungs burned. I’ve stood in front of men bigger, stronger, meaner than me and took every shot they had just to prove that I wouldn’t fall."

His expression sharpens.

“But here’s the difference between us, Sage, I never sought the suffering. I survived it. And you?”

His green eyes flick up to the camera, cool and unreadable.

“You need it.”

A long pause.

“You live for the pain because without it, what are you? If you strip away the bruises, the scars, the blood? If you weren’t diving headfirst into a warzone every time you step into that ring, what would be left?”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“You call yourself the Bodhisattva of Violence. But let me ask you something, what happens when the violence doesn’t set you free?”

A slight tilt of his head, his voice dropping just a touch.

“What happens when I don’t play your game?”

The air around him feels heavier. He isn’t angry. He isn’t mocking. He just is.

“I’m not here to bleed with you. I’m not here to trade war stories or see who can take the most punishment before they stop moving. I’m not another piece in your path to enlightenment.”

A smirk, controlled, knowing.

“I’m here to win.”

A beat of silence. The only sound is the faint creak of the heavy bag swaying in the background.

“That’s where you and I differ, Sage. You fight to feel something. I fight to be something.”

His fingers tighten into fists, the knuckles of his hand flexing under the wrap.

“So go ahead. Find your truth in the suffering. Seek your enlightenment through the bruises, the broken bones, the sweat on the mat.”

His voice hardens, finality settling in.

“This isn’t some theater. This isn’t a drug-induced delusion. This is reality.”

His voice hardens, his posture straightens as he steps forward, gripping the ropes with both hands.

“And reality? It doesn’t bend to visions, to cosmic awakenings, to whatever you think you see when you close your eyes.”

He exhales, slow and deliberate, his grip tightening on the ropes as he leans in.

“But I’ll tell you what, Sage. If it’s enlightenment you seek, if it’s transcendence you crave—then I’ll be more than happy to guide you.”

His head tilts slightly, that flicker of a smirk returning, but this time, there’s something colder beneath it.

“I’ll be your shepherd, alright. But not to salvation.”

Asher pulls himself up onto the apron, stepping over the ropes with slow, measured intent.

“No. I’ll be the shepherd of your pain, the architect of your reckoning. And when your vision clears, when the tremors in your body finally settle…”

He finally stops, standing tall in the center of the ring, his gaze locked forward, unwavering.

“The only thing you’ll see is me, standing over you.”

A pause, thick with finality. Then, with a sharp, decisive movement, he turns his back to the camera, stepping further into the ring. The shot lingers for just a moment, the image of Asher Creed owning his place, his presence, before the screen fades to black.

****

“There was a time when winning was all that mattered. When the gold around my neck or the numbers on a scoreboard dictated my worth. When praise was currency and expectation was gospel. But now? Now, I see the truth. Pain isn’t enlightenment. It isn’t some gateway to a higher state of being. It’s just pain. It breaks. It wears you down. And if you’re not careful, it defines you. But not me. Not anymore. I don’t fight for suffering. I don’t fight to feel. I fight to take. To claim. To be undeniable. And that? That’s reality.”

Breaking the Illusion