Her porcelain skin seemed to be cracking under the blue-tinted light of the early morning hours. The sky was a deep shade of blue, almost to the point of black, and the world seemed to be still as though on this one night every person in the world had agreed to respect the late hours and fall into a peaceful slumber. The bathroom door was wide open and water endlessly poured into the already full sink as the small blonde woman stood with her face submerged in the water. Nearly three years of normalcy, and Trish Stratus felt the walls crashing down around her. For a moment she had been foolish enough to believe she could walk away from the cartoonish world of wrestling and lead a normal life, but she seemed to forget that the moment she stepped into the ring she had stepped into an irreversible alternate reality.
Those days of chaos and confusion had been pushed into the back of her head, only pulling out the most pleasant memories ever-so-delicately when in the presence of old friends. But now, now all of those memories were violently whirling in her head. Visions of stinging barbs being traded accompanied by punches, her past loves betraying her, and her journey to discovering who she was—they were all coming back to her but they brought with them so many more hurtful memories. She was done with the pain; she had left it all behind. Pulling her face out of the water, she brought her hands up to cradle her face.
Damn Amy.
3:52. Indeed it was an odd time to memorize, but with the unusual events of that night it certainly wasn't absurd for the number to embed itself into her brain. A couple hours earlier, give or take a handful of minutes, Trish had burst through the door of her hotel room back-first. Hands were roaming, lips were smacking, and clothes were being discarded before the door even shut. Much to her dismay, the scene was hardly anything out of the ordinary. It seemed that once every three months her on-again-off-again lover, Christian, would reappear in her life and trick her into thinking that things could go back to the way they were, that they could be happy again. For a while these tricks worked, and when he vanished hours later Trish would be heartbroken, but now, with her liquid encouragement, she was able to appreciate their relationship for what it was: convenience. Maybe she still loved him, but thinking only made things complicated.
They had fallen asleep in each other's arms: he had one arm draped lovingly around her waist and the curve of her back pressed against his front. She felt safe. But even in this picturesque scenario there was something unsettling in the back of her mind. For some reason she seemed to awaken every fifteen minutes, only to rationalize her worries and fall back asleep. But then her phone vibrated on the night stand and she understood her fears were very real. Of course, she didn't know what mess she about to wander into, and the foreign numbers gave no clue as to who was calling her at that dreaded hour. Reluctantly, Trish pulled herself away from Christian's grip and slid over toward the night stand, pressing the phone up to her ear.
"Hello?" She said in a whisper. Her face contorted, mostly out of curiosity, as her question was followed by deep breathing. "Trish?" The voice said, trembling. "It's Amy. I really need you right now but—" The line went dead and Trish found herself repeating her friend's name, yelling in her carefully restrained voice. "Amy? Amy? Answer me. Just let me know you're okay. " Finally she sighed as she rolled out of the bed. "Damn it, Amy. What have you gotten yourself into this time?