Title: Endless Love
Author: Crimson Coin Crimson_Coin@yahoo.com
Rating: PG 15 and higher at some points.
Summery: The sequel to "Unstoppable". Will Chris Jericho and Trish Stratus's love truly be able to last?
Disclaimer: I do not own the WWE or any of the affiliated wrestlers.
Timeline: From March 22, 2004 and all said dates.
Archiving: Ask me first.
+++
May 3, 2004
Edge winced, clutching at his wrist, rubbing the cast as he walked backstage to his locker room. They attacked his wrist, his injury. What kind of bastards were Evolution to attack his injured wrist. He'd stop using the cast as a primary weapon, even had it painted black so that it was less noticeable.
Nope.
Didn't matter. They attacked it anyway. Almost like they wanted to break it again, like they wanted him on the shelf for another few months.
Edge gritted his teeth. Like hell that would work. He would not be put out of action again; wrestling with a broken wrist had proved that and Edge would not give up. The words 'Give up' were not even in his vocabulary, which was why he was still in the wrestling ring.
An angered growl slipped from his lips as he stormed into his locker room. "Ahhhh! Shit!" he swore, shaking out his wrist again. "Stupid, Fucking Stupid" he scolded himself. "Smart one, Edge." He sarcastically jested. "Why don't you just crash through the door LEADING with your bum wrist. Stupid fucking son of a..."
"Oh my God, Edge."
Edge staggered as he was attacked by a worried blonde, the diva running her hands over his abs, chest, then cupping his face to look in his eyes.
"Are you ok?"
"I'm fine." He hissed, looking down at his wrist. "Just those fuckers decided to ..."
"I know." Stacy said, gently grabbing his wrist, holding it preciously in her hands, as if that the slightest move could break him. "Let me see." She turned his wrist one way then the next, inspecting both sides and all areas of the cast. "They didn't break your cast at least. Come here. Sit down."
Edge followed her to the couch in his locker room and he sank heavily into it, tilting his head onto the back cushion, staring at the ceiling as he took a few deep breaths. He felt the couch sink at his left side and her hands were on his arm again. He glanced at her.
Stacy kept her head ducked, a soft icepack in her hands. "I don't know how much this will help." She gently draped the icepack on his wrist, still cupping the cast in her hands. "But it might chill the pain a little." She kept her eyes on his hand. "Even if it's just a little."
Edge sighed, relaxed by her touch and his gaze softened as he watched her. Her tiny fingers danced over his cast before brushing delicately over his fingers, her touch so gentle he could barely feel her. Like the gentle caress of a summer breeze, affectionate and sweetly, she touched him. His fingers reflexively twitched and she brushed those thin fingers back up his cast, readjusting the ice.
He yearned for her to play with his fingers again and as if sensing his desire, she brushed back down his hand, her touch tickling his digits. So soft, so gentle, so caring. He never knew a touch could be so.
Stacy nervously licked her lips, indulging herself in touching him. Maybe, just maybe he wouldn't notice. Wouldn't notice the reason why she touched him so, why she caressed him with such affection. But she couldn't help it. She'd wanted to touch his hands for the longest time. He had such beautiful hands. They were so large, his fingers thick and she couldn't resist. She wanted to touch them.
"You won't break me."
Stacy jostled at his voice, nervously pulling her hands away as she looked in his eyes, worried she'd done something wrong.
But he only smiled. Not that bright grin that he usually smiled; this was something different. This smile was soft, sensual and sweet. "It's ok, Stace. You won't break me."
She bowed her head, a smile tugging at her lips and she did everything she could to hide her blush. "I ... I just didn't want to hurt you."
He reached over with his other hand, hooking his fingers under her chin to lift her gaze to his. "You never could."
Stacy swallowed hard as their eyes met. His eyes, Good Lord, his eyes; she was drowning. As cliché as it was, she never believed a person could drown in another's eyes. Yet here she was, helpless as she grasped at the ledges of reality, trying to pull herself from his gaze. And she couldn't. He was engulfing her with nothing more than a look.
His smile broadened as his fingers abandoned her chin and he brushed the tips over her cheek before affectionately tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "So don't you worry about little ol' me."
She smiled, shy and unsure but leaned slightly closer, shaking her head a little in a scolding way. "I will if I want to, Mister."
Edge laughed, nodding submissively. "Well I can't really argue with that now, can I?"
"Nope, you can't."
"Good." He breathed seriously, leaning closer to her. So close that Stacy thought he would kiss her. But he didn't, instead stopped just a few inches from her, his eyes piercing hers and he licked his lips, speaking so she could feel his breath on her lips. "Cuz I don't really want to."
Stacy's breath caught high in her throat; she couldn't breathe. Her body trembled just a little at his nearness and Stacy expelled a shaky nervous breath, nearly melting when he reached up to cup her cheek.
"Now, Princess." He cooed, his voice deep and gruff as he kept his tone and volume as soft as possible. "Why don't you get your things from the locker room? I'll give you a ride back to the hotel."
Giving a shaky nod, she slowly pulled away from him, ducking her head and turning her back, walking quickly from the room. When the door swung closed behind her, Edge released the breath he'd been holding.
"Good Lord," he swore, closing his eyes a moment to regain his composure. Shaking his head, he looked into his lap. "I must commend you, my friend, for staying in control." He licked his lips, leaning back in the couch as he stared at the ceiling. "Now ... please, God, let me stay that way the rest of the night."
+++
Lita viciously wiped her eyes, pacing the length of the women's locker room. Matt Hardy stood close by, watching his love as she tried desperately to stop the tears. "Lita."
But Lita only shook her head. "Don't, Matt. I ... I can't think straight right now. I ... I'm so ..."
Matt watched her pace and when close enough, he wrapped his arms right around her, pulling her protectively into his chest. "Shhh, Baby, it's ok." He rocked her gently, pillowing his head against hers as he hushed into her ear.
Lita clutched at him, the tears falling again. "Why me, Matt? Why ... why me?"
"I don't know, Sweetheart." Matt drawled. "I don't know." He cupped her face, looking into her eyes. "Let me see you," he looked carefully, checking to see if the rumors he heard might be true. But he couldn't tell. Her tears blocked anything else. He sighed, pulling her back into his arms.
She buried her head in his throat, her arms wrapping around his neck as she mumbled against him. "I ... I can't take this anymore. It's all too much and happening so fast."
"What is?"
She sniffled. "Everything. Trish and Christian and then Edge and now Stacy and Edge are acting weird and ever since I told Jeff about how Chris was there for me when everything went down after Wrestlemania and how we spent that night together and Jeff hasn't talked to me since then and he doesn't return my calls and now with Kane and I'm so scared and you've had this sudden change of heart and ... and I ... I just don't know what's going on."
"Shhh, Sweetheart." Matt cooed, rocking her gently. "Don't worry about it. It'll all work out. I ... Jeff hasn't talked to me since ... since that night I ..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'll ... I'll call him tonight, and we'll think of something. Don't worry." He sighed. "We'll ... we'll think of something."
+++
Chris Jericho gritted his teeth, sitting on a steel chair in the trainer's room, leaning forward, his head between his legs as he breathed deeply.
"Chris, just breathe. Take it easy."
Jericho growled, glaring up at the trainer. "You weren't just cocked in the balls. Telling me to breathe? You try to breathe!"
The trainer nodded, understanding and still calm. "All right. You just sit there. I'm going to go check on Tajiri."
Chris shook his head, watching the trainer cross the room. "Right in the balls. Right in the fucking balls! You telling me to breathe ... come here ... I'll give you 'breathe'." He shook his head, bowing again. "Prick." He mumbled, licking his dry lips.
His thoughts raced, the possibilities, the emotions charging through his body faster than he could categorize them. He didn't know what he was feeling. One moment, anger; the next, betrayal; the next, sorrow; the next, confusion. He couldn't keep his mind straight.
Forcing himself to his feet, he sucked up the pain and walked out of the room.
+++
In his street clothes, Chris left the arena. He just had to get away. It was all too much. His duffel bag hanging heavily from his shoulder, he walked slowly down the city streets. The hotel wasn't that far away, and it was nice outside. He had no plans of driving to or from the arena. And so he walked.
His mind hadn't stopped a moment; he had no rest. He couldn't still his thoughts, couldn't gather his ideas. His head hurt, spinning with his loss and Chris reached up, cupping the back of his neck as he walked.
Shaking off the weakness, he glanced around the city, his eyes falling on a familiar structure. The stairs, the door, the arches, the steeple, the windows; he walked inside. He sighed, an odd relaxed feeling filled him, warmed his core and he no longer felt so alone. His eyes softened as he looked around.
The church was beautiful. High gothic pillars rose like giants from the floor, stretching to the heavens and supporting a richly painted ceiling, the design resembling the bottom of a ship. Dark oak pews occupied the floor, a long center aisle; the marble floor led to a carpeted sanctuary. A Roman marbled altar sat strong and heavy under a giant wooden crucifix, two pulpits to the sides, standing guard.
He slowly walked up the center aisle. The pulpits were high, small spiral staircases leading to the podium and a decorative wooden awning with detailed wooden figures carved round the bust loomed over the blessed books. He couldn't tell what the stained glass windows were; it was dark outside.
But the side sanctuaries flickered with lit candles, statues of holy figures erect in each and ... he wasn't sure which Saint ... but the statue stood large and proud beside the Gospel pulpit, that same figure painted into the ceiling above the altar. Chris assumed it was the patron Saint for whom the church was named.
Sighing, Chris bowed his head in respect then sat in one of the pews. Looking around the church, he spotted a box he'd only heard about. Cocking his head, he fixed his bag, shouldering it as he walked to that box. A green light shined bright above his head and he couldn't see inside, but only saw three doors next to each other. Choosing one, he stepped inside.
The room was small, dark. A small translucent window to one side, a cushioned kneeler in front, Chris dropped his bag to the floor and knelt down. Squinting his eyes, he tried to look through the wavy glass. He jumped as he heard a wooden scratch and light shone through the still foggy glass. He could see the figure, only a silhouette and the man seemed to have long hair.
"What is it, child?"
Chris felt comforted at the deep male voice. And he ducked his head as if out of instinct, folding his hands as he spoke. "I'm not Catholic, Father, but ... I don't know where else to go."
"It's ok, my son." The priest sad, softly, paternal in his tone. "This is a house of God. All are welcome here."
Chris smiled, shaking his head. "I don't really think I deserve to be in a house of God. I haven't exactly been a good person."
"We are all human." The priest answered. "God understands us and always forgives our mistakes, if we are penitent within ourselves."
"I don't know if I am."
"Mmmm," The priest paused a moment. "Well, what seems to be troubling you?"
Chris sighed. "It's a long complicated story." He chuckled at himself. "About a girl."
"Ah."
"Yeah," Chris agreed. "I swore she loved me. And I loved her. God, did I ... oh, uh ... sorry about that. But man, did I love her. I ... I can honestly say I have never loved anyone on this earth more than her. And then all of a sudden one day, she just changed. She turned on me. She became a bi ... a witch. She left me for my friend, who'd treated her like garbage and tried to physically hurt her. And ... then she just looked me in the eye and said she was playing me ... she never cared."
Chris growled, scolding himself. "I was so stupid for believing that she cared about me. But I believed her. I believed her eyes when she looked at me. I ... I thought she was completely open, that I could see her soul. Oh, when she looked at me. I swear she loved me. I could see it. I knew it; I felt it. From the way she touched me to the way she kissed me. I just ... I knew it."
"I was wrong." Chris reprimanded, his shoulders tensing. "Damn it, I was so wrong. So very wrong. I'm so stupid. I'm even stupider because I ..." he sighed. "I still love her. I ... I still love her so much. Just ... just so much. Even after everything she's done. Leaving me for a physical relationship with my ex-friend and demeaning me then attacking me, stalking around and I ... I still love her. What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you, son." The priest answered. "It's natural for us to love. It's unnatural for us to hate."
"But I do hate her."
"No, you don't." The priest said with a smile. "You said yourself that you still loved her."
"But she doesn't love me."
"Are you so sure?"
Chris nodded. "Yes. Yes, she's told me so."
"What is your name, son?"
Chris stuttered a moment, thrown off track by the question. "Uhm, Chris."
"Has she actually said, 'Chris, I don't love you'?"
"I ... I can't remember. We ... we work on camera for a living and she said a lot to me on camera."
"Mmmm," The priest scratched his chin. "Is it customary to act differently on camera than one's true feelings."
"Uh," Chris shrugged. "Well ... I do. But ... but most people don't. It's as real on camera as it is backstage."
"But you said that you 'act' on screen. Did it ever occur to you she may be acting for some reason?"
Chris shook his head. "No. No, that couldn't be possible."
"Why not?"
"Because she doesn't love me. She said that I was out of her league."
"On camera."
"That doesn't matter."
"But it does, Chris." The priest said. "I may be a man of the cloth, but in my years of service, I've learned about people. I've learned that when a person looks into another's eyes and sees love ... then there is love there. If you saw love in her eyes, then she loves you."
Chris shook his head. "No, she couldn't. She ... she couldn't love me. She ... I ... we've been so horrible to each other over these last few months. There is no more love."
The priest didn't respond at first. "Chris, when you see her ... how do you feel?"
"It hurts."
The priest nodded. "Yes. And when you tear away the hurt and the anger and the betrayal, what do you feel when you look at her?"
Chris bit his lower lip, his eyes narrowed as he thought. But his thoughts stung true.
"It's ok, Chris." The priest cooed. "What do you feel when you look at her?"
"Home." Chris sighed. "I feel ... home."
"Ah, my son." A smile could be heard in the priest's tone. "Then you truly love her. And nothing she could ever do will change that."
Chris looked into the translucent window. "What do I do, Father?"
The window slid open.
Chris gazed on the face of this priest. He could feel a strange comforting caressing sensation as blissful relaxation filled his core. There was warmth, understanding and love ... such absolute love.
The priest smiled. "Do what your heart yearns for?"
Chris couldn't stop his lower lip from quivering, a tear slipped from his eye. He was filled with awe, wonder, and helplessness. "I yearn for her." His voice cracked out.
"It shall be." The priest said then cocked his head, his eyes softening and hypnotic. "Trust in God and the power of love. If you love her the way you say you do, then she can never deny you. Take action. Don't look at the surface."
Chris nodded.
"She may have been seduced by evil." The priest continued. "She may have reasons beyond your comprehension at this very point. But I can tell you, Chris, that I know she loves you. She loves you with all her heart. Trust me. Trust God. Trust yourself."
Chris licked his lips, transfixed on the sight of this young priest. "How ... how will I know?"
"You'll know." The priest said, softly. "You see ..." the priest blinked slowly, leaning a little closer. "It is in the word of God, the love of which you speak. 'For love is as strong as death, jealousy is as severe as Sheol; its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord. Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it; if a man were to give all the riches of his house for love, it would be utterly despised.' So spaketh the Lord."
"Amen," Chris breathed, dazed and awed, as if the answer came from his conscience, his soul.
"Go, my child." The priest said soothingly. "Remember what I've said to you. Remember the gift that our Lord has given you. In his infinite kindness, he has given you the gift of purest love." The priest closed that window, the translucent fog separating them once more. "Go, my son, and remember what you've heard and seen today."
Chris, unable to respond, obeyed. He stood, slowly shouldering his bag as his eyes focused on the still form behind the glass. Exiting the confessional, Chris stood dazed in the aisle for a few moments.
"What are you doing here?"
Chris jumped at the voice and an elderly priest approached him. The priest spoke again. "What were you doing in there? Confessions don't begin until midnight."
"I ... I'm sorry." Chris slowly apologized. "I ... I already spoke to the priest who was in there. I'll be on my way."
The elderly man cocked his head, eyeing the younger man with curiosity. "What priest? No one was in there."
Chris nodded. "Yeah. There was ... I ... I just spoke with him." He bowed his head in respect then turned, walking down the aisle towards the exit. His eyes shifted one way then the next, his pace slowed. Dazed, drained, he forced his feet to move though he stumbled.
As Chris approached the final archway, he eyed the altar once more before walking into the final sanctuary. Pausing at the exit door, his hand hovered over the large handle and as if something forced his will, he looked to the side. His head cocked, his eyes focused on the statue.
His bag dropping subconsciously to the ground, Chris walked towards that small sanctuary niche. His eyes narrowed, focusing intently on the statue, the face, the body.
"Son?"
Chris didn't react to the elderly priest's voice.
"Son, there is no priest in the confessional. I don't know who you spoke with."
Chris swallowed hard, raising a shaky hand and pointing at the statue. His eyes searched frantically, every inch of the statue, at the candles adorning the wall, the floor and all along the sides of the sanctuary. "Who ... who is that?"
"Who? That statue?"
Chris nodded, barely controlled. He recognized the face. He recognized the eyes, the hair, the body structure. The outline of the statue matched ... he quickly looked back to the priest. "Yes. Yes, the statue who ... who ... who is ... is that?" his face twitched and contorted as an overwhelming sensation surged through his body. His knees shuddered, his body trembled and all of a sudden, he felt weak.
"Why that's the Archangel Raphael. Patron Saint of the blind, travelers and love." The elderly priest answered. "His feast day is September 29 or October 24. It had been in September but in 1921 it was combined with St Gabriel and St. Michael in October because ... Son, are you all right?"
A wave of nausea rushed through his body and Chris winced, his sides aching beyond comprehensible pain and his stomach jostled and jerked. His head whipped violently as Chris looked into the face of this statue yet again. Quivering, trembling, Chris felt sick. Pangs shot through his spine and all strength drained from his body as the new sensations of humility and meekness filled his being.
He shook his head. "No," he cried softly. "No, no ... no ... no ..." He swallowed hard, his meager human control no match for the celestial power by which he was overcome.
Chris collapsed at the feet of the statue, tears bursting from his eyes.
*** Please, review ***
(The above mentioned Bible verse is Song 8:6-7)
Author: Crimson Coin Crimson_Coin@yahoo.com
Rating: PG 15 and higher at some points.
Summery: The sequel to "Unstoppable". Will Chris Jericho and Trish Stratus's love truly be able to last?
Disclaimer: I do not own the WWE or any of the affiliated wrestlers.
Timeline: From March 22, 2004 and all said dates.
Archiving: Ask me first.
+++
May 3, 2004
Edge winced, clutching at his wrist, rubbing the cast as he walked backstage to his locker room. They attacked his wrist, his injury. What kind of bastards were Evolution to attack his injured wrist. He'd stop using the cast as a primary weapon, even had it painted black so that it was less noticeable.
Nope.
Didn't matter. They attacked it anyway. Almost like they wanted to break it again, like they wanted him on the shelf for another few months.
Edge gritted his teeth. Like hell that would work. He would not be put out of action again; wrestling with a broken wrist had proved that and Edge would not give up. The words 'Give up' were not even in his vocabulary, which was why he was still in the wrestling ring.
An angered growl slipped from his lips as he stormed into his locker room. "Ahhhh! Shit!" he swore, shaking out his wrist again. "Stupid, Fucking Stupid" he scolded himself. "Smart one, Edge." He sarcastically jested. "Why don't you just crash through the door LEADING with your bum wrist. Stupid fucking son of a..."
"Oh my God, Edge."
Edge staggered as he was attacked by a worried blonde, the diva running her hands over his abs, chest, then cupping his face to look in his eyes.
"Are you ok?"
"I'm fine." He hissed, looking down at his wrist. "Just those fuckers decided to ..."
"I know." Stacy said, gently grabbing his wrist, holding it preciously in her hands, as if that the slightest move could break him. "Let me see." She turned his wrist one way then the next, inspecting both sides and all areas of the cast. "They didn't break your cast at least. Come here. Sit down."
Edge followed her to the couch in his locker room and he sank heavily into it, tilting his head onto the back cushion, staring at the ceiling as he took a few deep breaths. He felt the couch sink at his left side and her hands were on his arm again. He glanced at her.
Stacy kept her head ducked, a soft icepack in her hands. "I don't know how much this will help." She gently draped the icepack on his wrist, still cupping the cast in her hands. "But it might chill the pain a little." She kept her eyes on his hand. "Even if it's just a little."
Edge sighed, relaxed by her touch and his gaze softened as he watched her. Her tiny fingers danced over his cast before brushing delicately over his fingers, her touch so gentle he could barely feel her. Like the gentle caress of a summer breeze, affectionate and sweetly, she touched him. His fingers reflexively twitched and she brushed those thin fingers back up his cast, readjusting the ice.
He yearned for her to play with his fingers again and as if sensing his desire, she brushed back down his hand, her touch tickling his digits. So soft, so gentle, so caring. He never knew a touch could be so.
Stacy nervously licked her lips, indulging herself in touching him. Maybe, just maybe he wouldn't notice. Wouldn't notice the reason why she touched him so, why she caressed him with such affection. But she couldn't help it. She'd wanted to touch his hands for the longest time. He had such beautiful hands. They were so large, his fingers thick and she couldn't resist. She wanted to touch them.
"You won't break me."
Stacy jostled at his voice, nervously pulling her hands away as she looked in his eyes, worried she'd done something wrong.
But he only smiled. Not that bright grin that he usually smiled; this was something different. This smile was soft, sensual and sweet. "It's ok, Stace. You won't break me."
She bowed her head, a smile tugging at her lips and she did everything she could to hide her blush. "I ... I just didn't want to hurt you."
He reached over with his other hand, hooking his fingers under her chin to lift her gaze to his. "You never could."
Stacy swallowed hard as their eyes met. His eyes, Good Lord, his eyes; she was drowning. As cliché as it was, she never believed a person could drown in another's eyes. Yet here she was, helpless as she grasped at the ledges of reality, trying to pull herself from his gaze. And she couldn't. He was engulfing her with nothing more than a look.
His smile broadened as his fingers abandoned her chin and he brushed the tips over her cheek before affectionately tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "So don't you worry about little ol' me."
She smiled, shy and unsure but leaned slightly closer, shaking her head a little in a scolding way. "I will if I want to, Mister."
Edge laughed, nodding submissively. "Well I can't really argue with that now, can I?"
"Nope, you can't."
"Good." He breathed seriously, leaning closer to her. So close that Stacy thought he would kiss her. But he didn't, instead stopped just a few inches from her, his eyes piercing hers and he licked his lips, speaking so she could feel his breath on her lips. "Cuz I don't really want to."
Stacy's breath caught high in her throat; she couldn't breathe. Her body trembled just a little at his nearness and Stacy expelled a shaky nervous breath, nearly melting when he reached up to cup her cheek.
"Now, Princess." He cooed, his voice deep and gruff as he kept his tone and volume as soft as possible. "Why don't you get your things from the locker room? I'll give you a ride back to the hotel."
Giving a shaky nod, she slowly pulled away from him, ducking her head and turning her back, walking quickly from the room. When the door swung closed behind her, Edge released the breath he'd been holding.
"Good Lord," he swore, closing his eyes a moment to regain his composure. Shaking his head, he looked into his lap. "I must commend you, my friend, for staying in control." He licked his lips, leaning back in the couch as he stared at the ceiling. "Now ... please, God, let me stay that way the rest of the night."
+++
Lita viciously wiped her eyes, pacing the length of the women's locker room. Matt Hardy stood close by, watching his love as she tried desperately to stop the tears. "Lita."
But Lita only shook her head. "Don't, Matt. I ... I can't think straight right now. I ... I'm so ..."
Matt watched her pace and when close enough, he wrapped his arms right around her, pulling her protectively into his chest. "Shhh, Baby, it's ok." He rocked her gently, pillowing his head against hers as he hushed into her ear.
Lita clutched at him, the tears falling again. "Why me, Matt? Why ... why me?"
"I don't know, Sweetheart." Matt drawled. "I don't know." He cupped her face, looking into her eyes. "Let me see you," he looked carefully, checking to see if the rumors he heard might be true. But he couldn't tell. Her tears blocked anything else. He sighed, pulling her back into his arms.
She buried her head in his throat, her arms wrapping around his neck as she mumbled against him. "I ... I can't take this anymore. It's all too much and happening so fast."
"What is?"
She sniffled. "Everything. Trish and Christian and then Edge and now Stacy and Edge are acting weird and ever since I told Jeff about how Chris was there for me when everything went down after Wrestlemania and how we spent that night together and Jeff hasn't talked to me since then and he doesn't return my calls and now with Kane and I'm so scared and you've had this sudden change of heart and ... and I ... I just don't know what's going on."
"Shhh, Sweetheart." Matt cooed, rocking her gently. "Don't worry about it. It'll all work out. I ... Jeff hasn't talked to me since ... since that night I ..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'll ... I'll call him tonight, and we'll think of something. Don't worry." He sighed. "We'll ... we'll think of something."
+++
Chris Jericho gritted his teeth, sitting on a steel chair in the trainer's room, leaning forward, his head between his legs as he breathed deeply.
"Chris, just breathe. Take it easy."
Jericho growled, glaring up at the trainer. "You weren't just cocked in the balls. Telling me to breathe? You try to breathe!"
The trainer nodded, understanding and still calm. "All right. You just sit there. I'm going to go check on Tajiri."
Chris shook his head, watching the trainer cross the room. "Right in the balls. Right in the fucking balls! You telling me to breathe ... come here ... I'll give you 'breathe'." He shook his head, bowing again. "Prick." He mumbled, licking his dry lips.
His thoughts raced, the possibilities, the emotions charging through his body faster than he could categorize them. He didn't know what he was feeling. One moment, anger; the next, betrayal; the next, sorrow; the next, confusion. He couldn't keep his mind straight.
Forcing himself to his feet, he sucked up the pain and walked out of the room.
+++
In his street clothes, Chris left the arena. He just had to get away. It was all too much. His duffel bag hanging heavily from his shoulder, he walked slowly down the city streets. The hotel wasn't that far away, and it was nice outside. He had no plans of driving to or from the arena. And so he walked.
His mind hadn't stopped a moment; he had no rest. He couldn't still his thoughts, couldn't gather his ideas. His head hurt, spinning with his loss and Chris reached up, cupping the back of his neck as he walked.
Shaking off the weakness, he glanced around the city, his eyes falling on a familiar structure. The stairs, the door, the arches, the steeple, the windows; he walked inside. He sighed, an odd relaxed feeling filled him, warmed his core and he no longer felt so alone. His eyes softened as he looked around.
The church was beautiful. High gothic pillars rose like giants from the floor, stretching to the heavens and supporting a richly painted ceiling, the design resembling the bottom of a ship. Dark oak pews occupied the floor, a long center aisle; the marble floor led to a carpeted sanctuary. A Roman marbled altar sat strong and heavy under a giant wooden crucifix, two pulpits to the sides, standing guard.
He slowly walked up the center aisle. The pulpits were high, small spiral staircases leading to the podium and a decorative wooden awning with detailed wooden figures carved round the bust loomed over the blessed books. He couldn't tell what the stained glass windows were; it was dark outside.
But the side sanctuaries flickered with lit candles, statues of holy figures erect in each and ... he wasn't sure which Saint ... but the statue stood large and proud beside the Gospel pulpit, that same figure painted into the ceiling above the altar. Chris assumed it was the patron Saint for whom the church was named.
Sighing, Chris bowed his head in respect then sat in one of the pews. Looking around the church, he spotted a box he'd only heard about. Cocking his head, he fixed his bag, shouldering it as he walked to that box. A green light shined bright above his head and he couldn't see inside, but only saw three doors next to each other. Choosing one, he stepped inside.
The room was small, dark. A small translucent window to one side, a cushioned kneeler in front, Chris dropped his bag to the floor and knelt down. Squinting his eyes, he tried to look through the wavy glass. He jumped as he heard a wooden scratch and light shone through the still foggy glass. He could see the figure, only a silhouette and the man seemed to have long hair.
"What is it, child?"
Chris felt comforted at the deep male voice. And he ducked his head as if out of instinct, folding his hands as he spoke. "I'm not Catholic, Father, but ... I don't know where else to go."
"It's ok, my son." The priest sad, softly, paternal in his tone. "This is a house of God. All are welcome here."
Chris smiled, shaking his head. "I don't really think I deserve to be in a house of God. I haven't exactly been a good person."
"We are all human." The priest answered. "God understands us and always forgives our mistakes, if we are penitent within ourselves."
"I don't know if I am."
"Mmmm," The priest paused a moment. "Well, what seems to be troubling you?"
Chris sighed. "It's a long complicated story." He chuckled at himself. "About a girl."
"Ah."
"Yeah," Chris agreed. "I swore she loved me. And I loved her. God, did I ... oh, uh ... sorry about that. But man, did I love her. I ... I can honestly say I have never loved anyone on this earth more than her. And then all of a sudden one day, she just changed. She turned on me. She became a bi ... a witch. She left me for my friend, who'd treated her like garbage and tried to physically hurt her. And ... then she just looked me in the eye and said she was playing me ... she never cared."
Chris growled, scolding himself. "I was so stupid for believing that she cared about me. But I believed her. I believed her eyes when she looked at me. I ... I thought she was completely open, that I could see her soul. Oh, when she looked at me. I swear she loved me. I could see it. I knew it; I felt it. From the way she touched me to the way she kissed me. I just ... I knew it."
"I was wrong." Chris reprimanded, his shoulders tensing. "Damn it, I was so wrong. So very wrong. I'm so stupid. I'm even stupider because I ..." he sighed. "I still love her. I ... I still love her so much. Just ... just so much. Even after everything she's done. Leaving me for a physical relationship with my ex-friend and demeaning me then attacking me, stalking around and I ... I still love her. What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing's wrong with you, son." The priest answered. "It's natural for us to love. It's unnatural for us to hate."
"But I do hate her."
"No, you don't." The priest said with a smile. "You said yourself that you still loved her."
"But she doesn't love me."
"Are you so sure?"
Chris nodded. "Yes. Yes, she's told me so."
"What is your name, son?"
Chris stuttered a moment, thrown off track by the question. "Uhm, Chris."
"Has she actually said, 'Chris, I don't love you'?"
"I ... I can't remember. We ... we work on camera for a living and she said a lot to me on camera."
"Mmmm," The priest scratched his chin. "Is it customary to act differently on camera than one's true feelings."
"Uh," Chris shrugged. "Well ... I do. But ... but most people don't. It's as real on camera as it is backstage."
"But you said that you 'act' on screen. Did it ever occur to you she may be acting for some reason?"
Chris shook his head. "No. No, that couldn't be possible."
"Why not?"
"Because she doesn't love me. She said that I was out of her league."
"On camera."
"That doesn't matter."
"But it does, Chris." The priest said. "I may be a man of the cloth, but in my years of service, I've learned about people. I've learned that when a person looks into another's eyes and sees love ... then there is love there. If you saw love in her eyes, then she loves you."
Chris shook his head. "No, she couldn't. She ... she couldn't love me. She ... I ... we've been so horrible to each other over these last few months. There is no more love."
The priest didn't respond at first. "Chris, when you see her ... how do you feel?"
"It hurts."
The priest nodded. "Yes. And when you tear away the hurt and the anger and the betrayal, what do you feel when you look at her?"
Chris bit his lower lip, his eyes narrowed as he thought. But his thoughts stung true.
"It's ok, Chris." The priest cooed. "What do you feel when you look at her?"
"Home." Chris sighed. "I feel ... home."
"Ah, my son." A smile could be heard in the priest's tone. "Then you truly love her. And nothing she could ever do will change that."
Chris looked into the translucent window. "What do I do, Father?"
The window slid open.
Chris gazed on the face of this priest. He could feel a strange comforting caressing sensation as blissful relaxation filled his core. There was warmth, understanding and love ... such absolute love.
The priest smiled. "Do what your heart yearns for?"
Chris couldn't stop his lower lip from quivering, a tear slipped from his eye. He was filled with awe, wonder, and helplessness. "I yearn for her." His voice cracked out.
"It shall be." The priest said then cocked his head, his eyes softening and hypnotic. "Trust in God and the power of love. If you love her the way you say you do, then she can never deny you. Take action. Don't look at the surface."
Chris nodded.
"She may have been seduced by evil." The priest continued. "She may have reasons beyond your comprehension at this very point. But I can tell you, Chris, that I know she loves you. She loves you with all her heart. Trust me. Trust God. Trust yourself."
Chris licked his lips, transfixed on the sight of this young priest. "How ... how will I know?"
"You'll know." The priest said, softly. "You see ..." the priest blinked slowly, leaning a little closer. "It is in the word of God, the love of which you speak. 'For love is as strong as death, jealousy is as severe as Sheol; its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord. Many waters cannot quench love, nor will rivers overflow it; if a man were to give all the riches of his house for love, it would be utterly despised.' So spaketh the Lord."
"Amen," Chris breathed, dazed and awed, as if the answer came from his conscience, his soul.
"Go, my child." The priest said soothingly. "Remember what I've said to you. Remember the gift that our Lord has given you. In his infinite kindness, he has given you the gift of purest love." The priest closed that window, the translucent fog separating them once more. "Go, my son, and remember what you've heard and seen today."
Chris, unable to respond, obeyed. He stood, slowly shouldering his bag as his eyes focused on the still form behind the glass. Exiting the confessional, Chris stood dazed in the aisle for a few moments.
"What are you doing here?"
Chris jumped at the voice and an elderly priest approached him. The priest spoke again. "What were you doing in there? Confessions don't begin until midnight."
"I ... I'm sorry." Chris slowly apologized. "I ... I already spoke to the priest who was in there. I'll be on my way."
The elderly man cocked his head, eyeing the younger man with curiosity. "What priest? No one was in there."
Chris nodded. "Yeah. There was ... I ... I just spoke with him." He bowed his head in respect then turned, walking down the aisle towards the exit. His eyes shifted one way then the next, his pace slowed. Dazed, drained, he forced his feet to move though he stumbled.
As Chris approached the final archway, he eyed the altar once more before walking into the final sanctuary. Pausing at the exit door, his hand hovered over the large handle and as if something forced his will, he looked to the side. His head cocked, his eyes focused on the statue.
His bag dropping subconsciously to the ground, Chris walked towards that small sanctuary niche. His eyes narrowed, focusing intently on the statue, the face, the body.
"Son?"
Chris didn't react to the elderly priest's voice.
"Son, there is no priest in the confessional. I don't know who you spoke with."
Chris swallowed hard, raising a shaky hand and pointing at the statue. His eyes searched frantically, every inch of the statue, at the candles adorning the wall, the floor and all along the sides of the sanctuary. "Who ... who is that?"
"Who? That statue?"
Chris nodded, barely controlled. He recognized the face. He recognized the eyes, the hair, the body structure. The outline of the statue matched ... he quickly looked back to the priest. "Yes. Yes, the statue who ... who ... who is ... is that?" his face twitched and contorted as an overwhelming sensation surged through his body. His knees shuddered, his body trembled and all of a sudden, he felt weak.
"Why that's the Archangel Raphael. Patron Saint of the blind, travelers and love." The elderly priest answered. "His feast day is September 29 or October 24. It had been in September but in 1921 it was combined with St Gabriel and St. Michael in October because ... Son, are you all right?"
A wave of nausea rushed through his body and Chris winced, his sides aching beyond comprehensible pain and his stomach jostled and jerked. His head whipped violently as Chris looked into the face of this statue yet again. Quivering, trembling, Chris felt sick. Pangs shot through his spine and all strength drained from his body as the new sensations of humility and meekness filled his being.
He shook his head. "No," he cried softly. "No, no ... no ... no ..." He swallowed hard, his meager human control no match for the celestial power by which he was overcome.
Chris collapsed at the feet of the statue, tears bursting from his eyes.
*** Please, review ***
(The above mentioned Bible verse is Song 8:6-7)