Wonderland [WWE] [Shawn Michaels] {Book 1}

Chapter 31: I Don't Hate You

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Shawn's POV
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I was in a mood. I had been being short with everyone lately, even Paul. I knew that wasn't fair, especially since the guy had been by my side through everything, but not even that guilt could pull me out of my downward spiral.

I just wasn't the same without Kat.

I was just so pissed, all the time recently. I wanted to hit someone, or break something.

I threw my fist at the wall, but just my luck, the shitty hotel wall gave in and my hand went threw it. So then I was stuck with my fist in the wall. Fantastic.

I groaned. This was not helping my mood. "Hey, Paul?"

He came around the corner, to see me attached to the wall. "What the fuck did you do?"

"What does it look like I did?" I shot back.

"You're a dumbass."

I rolled my eyes, because I knew he was right. "Yeah, thanks. I got that. Can you help me out?"

Between the both of us, we wrestled my fist from the wall. My hand was cut and bleeding, so I had to go to the bathroom and wash it up. I came to the conclusion that Paul was definitely right: I was a dumbass.

What good did I really think would come from sending a right hook at the wall?

When I came back, trying to wrap my index finger -unsuccessfully- with a bandaid, Paul was already moving one of the taller hotel plants in front of the hole I'd made. The bandage was aggravating me, because I couldn't get it on. If Kat were there, she'd know better than I on that kind of thing.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Kat wasn't there.

Paul's voice snapped me from my thoughts. "Can you see it?"

If I tilted my head just right, and took two steps back... I could still see it. I cringed, both internally and outwardly. "Russia can see it," I replied.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. He stepped back to where I was standing and muttered again.

I finally gave up on the bandaid, which wouldn't sit right, and accepted my fate of bleeding out. I could see the tombstone: "Here lies Shawn, the fucking idiot that punched a wall". I snickered to myself, which caused Paul to glance my way to make sure I was still sane.

"Look, let's just leave it and hope they don't see it," I suggested. I knew that was a terrible plan, but I didn't have a better one.

"They're going to see it," Paul argued. "...but, maybe if we leave fast enough, we'll be out of state by then."

"I like your thinking." I tore my gaze from the gash in the wall and dropped down onto my bed with a defeated sigh.

Paul sat across from me, crossing his arms over his chest. "Are you going to tell me why you decided to take your anger out on the perfectly innocent hotel?" he asked with a raised brow.

I didn't meet his eye contact, tensing at the conversation. "You know why." It was a non-answer, but at the same time, it was true. Paul already knew everything that I could possibly be upset about.

He let out a disappointed huff before standing and grabbing his bag. "Fine. Let's go, then."

***

I tried to ignore everyone but Paul while we were in the arena. I wasn't up for any niceties or chit-chat. Or bullshit, most likely.

I was not thrilled, obviously, when I was suddenly joined by Bret Hart. I hated his guts, he hated mine. That was just the way it was. He was probably at the very bottom of the list titled "People I actually want to talk to".