I could have taken Hunter back to my hotel room in St. Louis, and I didn't. I still have no fucking clue why I didn't. I mean, fuck, I *HAD* him! Everything I have been dreaming of, obsessing over for God knows how fucking long could have come true, and I didn't give it a second thought when I saw Rocky haul ass out of the arena.
Hunter had offered for me to go back to his hotel room that night, and for fuck knows what reason, I said no. Fucking no. I have to be completly bat-fuck crazy. I have lost sleep, quit eating, and totally closed myself off to everything that *isn't* Hunter, and I totally fucking blew it.
Way to frickin' go, Jericho.
But, you see, something changed last night. Something inside of me, that is. For one whole minute, I didn't even think of Hunter at all. I don't know what the fuck happened, or if it even happened at all, to be honest, but I saw something in Rocky's eyes after the match that seemed strangely familiar...
There's that look again, about three inches from my face. I hadn't expected him to come into my dressing room, though I don't know why. We are always barging in on each other.
"Congratulations, Chris." There is something in the tone of his voice that sends a shiver up my spine, and hopefully I am doing a good job of hiding what that tone is doing to me. I lose a little of what he says because of it. He's going on about the Dudleys, and I really can't focus on what the hell the words actually are.
Am I WWF? he asks now, but I hear something underlaying the question, I just can't place it. I tell him yeah, I am WWF. Always. Forever. He repeats the last two words to me, and I would swear to fucking *GOD* that I hear something that resembles lust when he says them. As if the words mean something entirely different to him.
I know I need to do something besides stand here looking like a fucktard.
So what the fuck do I do? I give him his name plate back. I have no idea why I still have the damn thing, or why I waited 'til now to give it the fuck back. I actually slept with it last night. He seems a tad confused about it, too, like I have totally caught him off guard. I can see his mind trying to figure out what the hell my 'gift' means, and I tell ya, I don't have a fucking clue what it means either.
That smile again. If It could be called a fucking smile. It's as if a realization just hit him then, like I just played right into his hands about something I have no clue of. And I can't help but notice how fucking pathetic my voice sounds in my own ears as I tell him he can hang it on his wall in his den.
When he gives me that fucking chair, I know he's not even meaning what the hell he is saying for the camera. "One day, in some form, some fashion..." is all I caught of the rest of his conversation. It has nothing to do with a rematch for the belt, nothing to do with the ring.
Then what the hell is it? Wanting? Lust? Obsession?
I'll be fucked if he didn't just leave me here to ponder what it really does mean.
