I don't want this pain.

Pain hurts.

Hurts far too much.

But maybe I deserve it.

For all the things I've done.

I saw my reflection in the mirror. I saw everything she said I was.

A sick freak.

Those words never used to bother me that much before. I had actually taken them as a kind of twisted compliment. But now I was seeing through new eyes and I don't like what I see.

The agony in those eyes chilled me to the marrow.

I didn't want to, but I found myself stepping out of the hotel bathroom and into the bedroom, staring at the television, knowing that she was very likely accompanying him to the ring at that very moment. I sank into the chair and press the remote just in time to hear his music start.

I didn't want to see, but I gazed at the screen drinking in every detail of her walk, the way her hair fell over her shoulder…the way she looked at him.

Months. She said she'd been seeing him for months behind my back while I blissfully, obliviously did her bidding, blithely assuming she was mine.

I should have known. After all, I've had plenty of experience with beautiful, scheming, duplicitous women before. First Tori, then Chyna…now her. They'd all betrayed me. Used me and betrayed me.

I think I've finally learned my lesson. Three strikes and I'm definitely out.

My eyes slowly moved to him. Him. The blonde that had stolen my wife from under my nose.

Tall and lean. Good-looking. Not a disfiguring scar in sight. I could see why she would fall for such as he. After all, she'd s..............poken true when she said that she never claimed to love me. I had forced her to have sex with me. Forced her into marrying me. Everything against her will.

But I'd foolishly believed that I could bully her into falling for me. In my twisted brain, I thought that if I simply did what she wanted, she'd discover that I wasn't as bad as she'd originally thought and…and…

And what? Just suddenly forget all the horrible things I'd done to her in my quest for an heir?

As I watched them together, my self-disgusted thoughts started to shift. I saw her pound on the mat, encouraging him to win and become champion. I saw him give her smoldering glances after administering a devastating move on his opponent. Slowly…very slowly, the anger that I was directing towards myself began to metamorphose into a deep, simmering rage.

Rage at the two people that had made a fool of me.

I felt the burn climb up my chest, up my throat until it burst from my lips in a howl of fury and anguish.

I didn't recall moving, just that in the next instant, the TV screen exploded in a gout of glass and tubes, electricity sparking and smoldering black smoke rising from the wreckage. I looked down at my hand, which was buried up to the forearm inside the ruin of the set. I gradually pulled it out, noticing with vague detachment the blood pouring from my hand, slivers of glass bristling from my knuckles. I didn't feel any pain, my entire body was numb, except the boiling rage blazing in my gut.

A long time passed before I started to feel light-headed. I then rose and went into the bathroom once more. I began pulling the bits of glass from my hand, then cleansed and bandaged the wounds. I was almost finished before I caught my reflection in the mirror. This time when I looked into the eyes, the pain was gone. In it's place was a dark, cold determination.

I saw the glitter of madness and it didn't disturbed me as it had in the past. Previously, if I saw that gleam of a man unhinged, I would squelch it down, bury it as deeply as I could.

Now, I welcomed it. I held out my arms and embraced it and it drew me in like an old friend.

A slow, maniacal grin began to spread my lips into one of lunatic glee.

Ahh, well. I've lost my wife to another, though I'd actually never really had her to begin with.

Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. At least now that I knew her true face, I was well rid of her. I have the consoling belief that once a cheating slut, always a cheating slut. Eventually, after she'd bled him dry, she'll toss him aside like a used tissue, just like she'd done all the others before him.

As I finished bandaging my injured hand, my mind started to race. A plan began to form. I squeezed my injured hand into a tight fist, feeling sharp, jagged stabs of pain shoot up my arm. Instead of grimacing, I grinned, relishing the pain, feeding on it, using it to fuel the rage and hatred burning in my soul.

Perhaps a little something for the new couple wouldn't be amiss. A present of sorts. Yes. I definitely think I can come up with just the right sort of gift for my whore of a wife and her blonde bimbo of a boyfriend. I looked down at my bandaged hand and could see the blood already beginning to seep through the gauze. Ahh, red is a lovely color. I think both of them would look perfect covered in red.

The End