A Prayer for the Faithless

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The house is too quiet.

The old wood settles in the night, pipes groan through the walls and I hear my own breathing louder than anything else. At first, the muffled sounds from the television were a distraction; now it provides a static soundtrack to my existence, a white noise of sorts to dull my reality. It keeps me company - I don’t have guests around here.

Well, not really.

Max Kael makes it a point to make an appearance at least once a day. MAXKAEL Jr. has stopped by a few times, always with a way-too-small kimono stretched over his musclebound body and clinging to that creepy body pillow. I’m pretty sure there are other, more nefarious uses for that pillow, but I try to not let my brain explore those thoughts.

Max calls this a town, Arkham, but it feels more like a prison built out of ghosts. I’ve stopped counting the days because it makes the walls close in faster. Most days are spent staring out the window - although there’s nothing to see outside except fences and the same stretch of trees, black and endless. By day, they showcase the beauty of the changing of seasons. By night, they’re a stark reminder that I’m far, far away from anyone who cares that I’m here.

I’ve counted every crack in the walls.

Every grumble from the pipes in the wall.

Each creak from the old, wooden floors has been catalogued.

Anything to pass the time.

Most times, it doesn’t work. It leads me to think about how I got here.

It wasn’t my captor who dragged me halfway across the world in the name of “togetherness”.

It wasn’t Ivan Stanislav or the Red Army.

It was Bryan.

He insisted on the tour.

Australia, Japan — “It’ll be good for us, Kai. Nico will love it. I can finally be there for him.” I thought Nico would love it. He said it would be safe.

Safe.

If we’d stayed home, maybe I’d still be free. Maybe Nico would be enjoying high school instead of living with a father who thinks chaos can be a kind of love. Instead, I’m trapped in a stranger’s house, under lock and key, while Bryan fights ghosts in the ring.

Sometimes I wonder if he even notices I’m gone.

Does he feel the weight of an empty house when he tucks Nico in at night?

Or is he too busy chasing the next fight, the next enemy, the next storm? Maybe he’s hoping the next fight might lead to a breakthrough.

I have doubts. I’ve got a deep, sinking feeling that The Red Army is Bryan and Nico’s new family. Admittedly, I don’t know much about them aside from what I’ve seen on television, but it seems that Nico’s father has been fully indoctrinated into their ways. You can see it in the way he carries himself. He used to be a beam of light in a sea of darkness. Now, he uses those red and gold sunglasses to hide that the light is now gone.

The Herald once told me he was the glue holding us together.

The glue. Could you imagine?

This from a man who once lit his own shoes on fire “for science.” When he first told me that I wanted to slap the joyful smirk from his youthful face, but now I wonder if he was right. Because when The Herald was around, at least Bryan smiled…even if The Herald nearly drove him insane. At least he wasn’t unraveling piece by piece. But The Herald isn’t here now.

No one is.

Just me, the silence, and the mistakes Bryan made that left me stranded in this place. I keep telling myself that this is all temporary. That there will be an end and that I’ll see our son again.

I’ll be out soon. Bryan will come. I just know it.

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The television is always on in this house.

PRIME programming, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Max insists it keeps the rooms from feeling too empty. At first, I believed him. The voices of Richard Parker and Nick Stuart have kept me company on many a day. I’m pretty sure if I ever got a chance to meet Richard Parker, he’d leave that encounter missing some teeth.

What an asshole.

But I’ve watched it all.

After a while, it hit me. I now know the truth: Max wants me to watch. Not because he thinks I’m a wrestling fan. Or that he wants me to be entertained while in his captivity.

He wants me to see Bryan out there. To see him as this new, more serious version of himself alongside those Russians. To hear him call his new ‘friends’ “comrade.” I’m not even sure Bryan knew where to locate Russia on a map before all of this.

Max wants me to remember just how far away I am. And to see that Bryan and Nico have moved on and found their new purpose. To see that the great Ivan Stanislav is providing the family that Bryan has wanted so badly. That’s all he’s really wanted from the beginning. Going back to last summer - he just wanted to be involved and have a family to call his own. He was so alone, whether it was in Japan or back in Seattle. The Red Army is that family now.

Most nights I tell myself I won’t look. And most nights, I fail.

Bryan has failed too.

Bryan losing the Alias Championship to Sebastian Gold.

His unsuccessful attempt to win it back.

His unsuccessful attempt to protect Ivan during Manhunt.

Failure after failure after failure.

But lately, Bryan’s been missing.

There’s a part of me who wants to believe he’s spent the past month looking for me. I’ve got so many questions and so few answers. Mainly, where has Nico been? I almost wish Ivan would indoctrinate our son into The Red Army just so I could see him again…

…and then I realize what that might mean and I hate myself for it.

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Bryan’s next opponent is someone new: Sage Pontiff.

A man who preaches about rising above the body, finding light through suffering. He speaks like every punch is a prayer, every bruise a sacrament. I can see the appeal. God knows I’d love to believe pain could mean something more than just another scar. But watching him talk, I can’t help but laugh. How could someone be so stupid as to think that inflicting pain on others would lead to enlightenment? How does that do anything but make you a monster? The idea of transcendence via violence is a complete joke. It’s a lie.

Bryan has never transcended a thing in his life. He doesn’t rise above chaos. He lives in it. He drowns in it.

And he drags everyone else down with him.

Me.

Nico.

Even The Herald.

The Herald told me about the time he tried to teach Nico how to meditate.

Ten minutes in, Nico was crying, The Herald was chanting in broken Latin, and Bryan was dragging them both out of the living room before our son hyperventilated.

That’s what Bryan surrounds himself with — chaos dressed up as wisdom.

Just look at his relationship with Ivan Stanislav. Bryan crawled on his hands and knees to the great Russian Bear, pleading for help. And what did that get him? I’m still in this prison, Ivan lost his coveted Universal Championship, and Bryan has been an absolute afterthought in the place that was supposed to be his home. It would be hard to find the positives in 2025 for Bryan Dawkins.

He’s made friends who think they’re helping when they’re just adding fuel to the fire. His bad decisions continue to compound. It’s actually kind of impressive how much damage he has been able to inflict both on himself and those around him.

And now here comes Sage, telling the world he can turn pain into transcendence.

As if Bryan needs another sermon.

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When I look at Sage Pontiff speak and it sounds almost holy, like every bruise is a scripture and every drop of blood is another step toward whatever afterlife he believes is real.

He calls it transcendence.

A higher truth. I suppose there’s beauty in that, if you want to believe pain means something more than just hurt. I also believe you’re fooling yourself if you believe that’s the truth.

But Bryan doesn’t transcend. He never has. He doesn’t rise above the body, or the chaos, or the mess he leaves behind. He drowns in it. He’s been drowning since January. Drowning since I disappeared in Australia. There’s part of me wondering if the man I used to love just quit swimming. Hell, the choices he’s made this year make it more likely that he’s carrying around an anchor that he’ll never truly shed.

An anchor that will ultimately lead to his demise.

It was supposed to be a short run on vacation - something to clear the mind and excise the demons that were trying to claw their way out - next thing I know, I’ve got a sack over my head and am being taken from my son. Thrown into the back of a van and driven to God-knows-where. All I really remember is that laugh…

“...heh-heh…”

Bryan takes pain and turns it into another excuse to keep swinging, another reason to burn the people around him. He’s got good intentions, sure, but the man I used to love just doesn’t know how to execute. How to actually get things done. He might keep swinging, but he’s swinging at nothing but air.

Sage wants to climb the proverbial ladder, maiming and breaking bodies along the way. Bryan just digs deeper. And when you’re close to him, you get buried right along with him.

Maybe that’s what this match really is: belief against chaos. Sermons against storms. And if you asked me which one will break first, I’d have to bet on the man who’s been breaking everything he’s touched in his life.

But hey, who knows…even the worst fighters can land an errant punch every once in a while. Sometimes those ones can be the most dangerous…especially if they feel like they’ve got something to prove.

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I hate that I still watch.

I hate that I can’t look away when Bryan’s music hits, when he steps into that ring with his shoulders squared like he’s about to fix everything with his fists. It’s almost as if he’s following Sage’s mantra - pain will lead to good things.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that he made his choice when he dragged us onto that tour, when he left me here to rot.

When he didn’t even attempt to find me.

When he sought out a new fucking family. How was it that easy to replace the mother of his child? I’m not sure I’ll ever get the answer to that question. And to be honest, I’m not sure I’d want it anyway.

Regardless…when the bell rings, I hold my breath.

Every. Single. Time.

How could I not, right? He’s the father of our child. The man I once loved. More than that, he’s the only one watching over our son right now.

The Herald would probably tell me to be proud.

To believe Bryan is still fighting for me.

For us.

The Herald always thought you could solve tragedy with a joke, that you could laugh your way out of chaos. It’s clear to me now that he’s a fool. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that the joke’s over.

I’m here, alone.

Nico’s out there, confused, waiting for a mother who may never come home.

And Bryan… Bryan is out there bleeding in front of the world while telling himself it means something. Telling himself that by getting one more win, it’ll get him closer to me. Closer to us again.

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I’ve never prayed before. Not really. At least, not to God or to saints…not even to the ghosts that haunt the place I now call home. But tonight, Sage Pontiff, I’ll give it a shot.

Not because I believe the nonsense you spout.

Not because I believe that bruises and gashes are divine or that fists can open the door to heaven.

But because you might be the only one on earth who can stand across from Bryan Dawkins and make him listen.

So hear me.

If what you say is true, that pain and suffering lead to transcendence, then take him with you.

Take him to that higher place by whatever’s necessary.

Strip the chaos from him, burn it away, make him see that there is something else to life beyond the storm that follows him everywhere he goes.

And if you’re a fraud - if the “transcendence” you speak of is just another lie dressed in blood - then break him.

Break him until he has no choice than to stop digging.

Break him until he’s forced to cut ties with the anchor that keeps dragging him further and further from the surface.

Break him until he realizes that Nico needs a father who can come home in one piece.

Break him until he remembers that there’s a woman trapped in this prison who used to love him dearly. Who thought she was going to spend the rest of her life as Mrs. Bryan Dawkins.

This is my prayer, Sage.

Not for me.

Not even for Bryan.

But for the boy who still waits at the window for us both.

Amen…or whatever word you use when your sermon ends.

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I hate that I even muster up the courage to speak Sage’s name. It’s hard to rationalize trying to talk to someone whose main language is spoken with his fists. And to boot, asking him to use his preferred method of communication to try to snap him out out of…whatever this is.

I’m ashamed that most of my thoughts these days aren’t of our son. I’m ashamed that I’ve been all but consumed by the obsession of where he’s been and why he hasn’t come through. Why he hasn’t even tried.

I know that deep down, I need to continue to believe. I need to remind myself that at his heart, Bryan Dawkins is a good man. And a good man wouldn’t just leave the mother of his child to die with a cold, merciless monster like Max Kael.

And then I see him again on the television. Will he dare to speak my name on camera? Will he acknowledge the fact that someone in the same building is responsible for my disappearance? Will he actually do anything about it?

Either way, it won’t bring me back.

It won’t undo the damage. Because every time Bryan steps into that ring, I lose a little more of him. I lose a little more of myself. Whatever pieces are left keep crumbling, fight by fight, until one day there’ll be nothing left but the chaos.

So go fight your fight, Bryan. Break him. Break yourself. Do what you always do. Because the truth is, you already lost me a long time ago.