As I stretched I felt the pull across my chest. It was hard to describe, even to myself, but it felt how I imagined a shirt would if it was two sizes two small for the person wearing it. That is exactly how my chest felt. Almost without conscious thought my finger moved in a line, vertically, down from my throat to my stomach, tracing the unseen hairline fracture of the sternum. Out of sight and out of mind , I thought to myself, grimly at least to the ones who matter. Only a select few knew that there was any injury still unhealed, let alone one as serious as that. It had taken a lot of threats – and not to mention a substantial amount of money – to ensure that the medical clearance I required was submitted. At the end of the day I had to sign a disclaimer acknowledging that competing was entirely at my own risk and that the clinic couldn’t be held responsible for any ‘unforeseen’ outcomes.

The fact of the matter was that the doctor had been very clear to ensure that the outcome wasn’t unforeseen at all. Graphic descriptions of what could happen if my chest was hit hard enough had followed lectures about the damage that punctured lungs could actually do. I had thought that the use of a china plate and small hammer – to highlight what bone exploding ‘could’ look like – was a little on the melodramatic side but then considering that I was sitting in the doctor’s office in a black, latex face mask who was I to talk about drama?

At the end of the day it only took the signature of my lawyer and myself and the doctor was satisfied. I couldn’t help but smile as I saw the framed Hippocratic oath that hung behind his desk. I am sure that old Hippocrates had meant well when he had first espoused his twee little thoughts on healer’s and their patients but then again he had probably never considered that medicine would become one of the World’s biggest industries, with more money spent each year on lawsuits and cosmetic surgery than on actual patient care. The bottom line was that the doctor got exactly what he wanted out of things – a healthy cheque and absolution from any blame – and I got what I wanted.

… or at least I thought that I did.

As I sat in the deserted gym, trying in vain to make the muscles in my upper body obey me and lift the lightest of weights on the inductor machine, I couldn’t help but question the course of action I had set myself upon.

Just a short time ago it had all seemed so clear. Everything had been laid out before me and the plans that I had laid down with Khaled had started coming to fruition, falling into place like dominos all placed in exactly the right position. The World championship belt was where it belonged, around the waist of the best wrestler in the WWA – myself. Khaled had claimed the US title for his own and together, as the aptly named Deadly Alliance, we were dominating the federation and the industry itself. Then something happened, something unexpected and unplanned for.

… a domino fell out of sequence, at the wrong angle perhaps, and everything else just fell apart.

At Rage in the Cage Mal Somers walked into the ring against me broken in mind and spirit and as I looked into his eyes I knew that I had beaten him already. Just like a Japanese samurai who wins the duel before his sword is even drawn, I was confident that things would go my way. If I hadn’t decided to make the last statement, to stamp my mark on Somers forever, perhaps they would have too. Instead of walking out of the cage, instead of pining him when I had my chance, I decided to fly from the top of the cage and not just beat him but to send a message to him and to everyone else.

I made a mistake … not my first and most definitely not my last.

Instead of flying I fell; instead of giving a clear message I barely managed a muted cry of despair before the darkness took me. I didn’t even know that I had lost until I woke up nearly two days later in the hospital. I didn’t actually need anyone to tell me, the surroundings gave it away. If I had won then I wouldn’t be there, lying alone in a dark room.

The second mistake, or possible mistake I argued in the quiet confines of my own mind, came when I ensured that I had a rematch against Somers. I knew that even injured I Should … would .. be able to learn from my mistakes and instead of grandstanding for the crowd – something that I still didn’t understand completely why I had done – I would go into the ring with only one thing on my mind. Victory. No showboating, no playing games, I would just go in there and beat Mal; I would take back my title and make him realise that my lapse of judgement would never be repeated. To sweeten the bait a little, to ensure that the trap worked, I put something on the line that I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. I put the mask on the line.

My soul.

A small chuckle escaped my mouth as the thought came unbidden into the recesses of my mind. The only thing that I actually gave a damn about was myself, and the mask was the only way that I knew to ensure that I was myself. To think that something as cold and dark as black latex was what I considered to be my soul seemed very apt indeed.

Whatever I thought about it though, how ever much I considered the mask to be beyond precious, it was obvious that both Mal Somers and Vik Ventressa agreed with me because the match was signed, sealed and so very nearly delivered.

Title versus mask. Bourbon Street Brawl. Mal Somers versus Ember.

… like I said, though, so very nearly. Two out of three. The title would still be on the line against the mask and Bourbon Street would still be the venue … but poor, unfortunate Mal wouldn’t be the opponent. At the last moment - like a man on death row seeing his pardon arriving just as the lever was pulled to send the volts through his dying body – just a little too late, I got to the ring as Thorne pinned Somers; as he became the new World champion.

I didn’t know the man … I still don’t I reminded myself internally … but as I looked deep into his eyes as he held the title aloft I knew the only thing that I needed to. The title wasn’t what Thorne was after, beating Mal for it had only been an added bonus. He was after something that couldn’t be taken back, he was after something that was more precious simply because he knew – as I had thought that I did – that no one else could take it.

My mask.

I tried to clear my mind of all thoughts as I reached up and gripped the inductor pads tightly, gritting my teeth as I tried to push them together. A scream of frustration escaped my mouth before I could stop it and the only saving grace I could think of was that the gym was still empty. Knowing that just like with the injury no one would ever know about it anyway I wiped away a single tear of frustration, disgusted with the sign of weakness; the brief slip into humanity. Rearranging the mask I stood up from the machine and walked towards the exit, squaring my shoulders and moving as if I had not a care in the World as I saw someone else walking in. So many layers of deception, so many masks that were being worn. To the outside World I was the cocky and arrogant former World champion, I was at the pinnacle of fitness and about to go into an important match with – literally – everything on the line. I couldn’t … I wouldn’t I silently, but vehemently affirmed … let any sign of weakness show.

As I left the building I breathed in a lungful of the night air, hiding the wince through clenched teeth, and vowed that I wouldn’t let my third decision – the decision to ensure that I was cleared to wrestle Thorne – be a third mistake. The shiver that ran down my spine as I thought about stepping foot inside the ring against Thorne, a man who seemed to be more like me than even I was, was put down to the chill of the night air only as I knew without allowing myself to even acknowledge the tiny voice at the back of my mind that any doubt – any hesitation – any fear would lead to a third, and final, mistake.

Two out of three was more than enough.