forgive me || dean ambrose story

day ten-

Dean Ambrose-

I'm so fucked up it's unreal.

There she stands, filling up the gas tank of the car I rented in Cleveland. Here I'm stood across the road, against a tree with a cigarette in between my lips and not a hope in the world of ever explaining myself to her.

The way her hair moves in strands of colored spaghetti never fails to amuse me, and although her style is so out there. . it's something I'd never picture myself liking but I find it attractive. So goddamn attractive that I can't keep away.

But I get afraid. Whenever I think of her these thoughts invade my mind like a plague and I don't want it, I can't want it. Not when I once had a woman in my life and I promised her she was the only woman I ever needed.

I am a liar. I am a dirty faced liar and I know it, but there's nothing I can do about that. I don't feel good about it, but I can't speak the truth. She hates me, I'm supposed to hate her, not be attracted by her every move.

As the smoke evaporates away into the air I find my mind wondering to the time when things were simpler, easier.

When Mickey would take me out shopping and spend hundreds of dollars on pointless heels and makeup because she thought it would make her look better but she was a beautiful human being. Even the most heartless could see that.

The way she'd make me breakfast on our days off in her gown and slippers with a cheesy grin on her face as I walked down the staircase in nothing but my underwear and noticed how she would stare.

Even the secrets she held we shared, she let me read her journal the once. A few pages from when she was first starting out and alone. It explained how she met me and it all went from there.

We were one. I could never imagine Rory doing anything of the sort with someone like me.

We would throw pans and ingredients when making breakfast.

She would not dare to take me anywhere – Seth and Roman wouldn't allow it. She would probably rather gouge her eyeballs out with a fork than spend another second in my company.

The simple thought of her writing a journal made me chuckle, she'd write her own comical death not a life event. If I even tried to ask her I can see her tearing my hair out by the roots and making me eat the torn pages from the private book.

She's nothing like Mickey, my oh so perfect Mickey. . but I don't want her to be.

She is so different and I find myself enticed. It's a disaster, a train wreck but I can't keep myself away for much longer. . .

The tattoo on my ribs only cements why I can't be involved with Rory. I belong to someone else, even if she isn't here. I can't promise myself away from someone I spent thousands of dollars on to get married.

I'm not good enough for another woman, I was never good enough for Mickey – but she wouldn't let me go. I should be a widow until I'm old and gray because those vows aren't just in my mind, they're set in stone.

It's like I have this voice in my head, pulling me towards Rory – telling me I should explain myself and tell her the truth to be with her. But the other half – it would torture me if I even tried to move on from the tragedy.

I want to be alone. When I was Moxley I enjoyed being alone. But I'm not Moxley, I'm Ambrose, I'm Good. And I don't want to be alone anymore. I want to hold someone, love someone.

"Hey, you coming? I'm leaving," I looked up from the ground as she called over the road, I nodded kicking off of the tree to walk over.

"We need to catch a flight you know? We'll never drive there in time." I called huskily throwing the cigarette butt down on the grass behind me, not bothering to check twice I crossed the road and jumped into the passenger seat.