TITLE:  Breaking Point
AUTHOR: Me, Raquel!
EMAIL: EmotionlyUnblncd@aol.com
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Trish Stratus or Paul Levesque, I am using their names without permission.  I am not making any money off of this story, so please don't sue!!
DISTRIBUTION:  Krissy can have it! Other than that, just ask me please!!
RATING: PG-13 I guess.
CONTENT: Lots of swearing and that's about it, really.
SPOILERS: none.
SUMMARY & NOTES:  Trish reaches her breaking point.  Don't ask me where this fic came from LOL and all of Trish's thoughts are in italics.


       Trish Stratus sped down the hall of the hotel almost running, but not quite.  The tears that stung her eyes threatened to spill over at any second.  I will not cry, not out here.  She got to the door of her room, and her hands shook uncontrollably while she struggled to get the key into the lock.  After what felt almost like hours, the key finally turned and allowed her access to her room.  She bolted in.
       As she slammed the door shut, she buckled slowly to the floor.  The tears that had threatened her were now coming forth in wracking sobs, making it hard to breathe as she pulled her legs to her chest and leaned back against the door.  This always happens.  Why does this always fucking happen!?  Just when I think I have it together, that I'm improving… I go and do this shit to myself.  Trish slowly pulled herself to a kneeling position and crawled further into the room.  She felt like all the energy had been drained from her body and it was all she could do to pull herself onto the bed and curl into a shivering, sobbing ball.  Dammit, I'm so goddamned pathetic sometimes.  Crying over shit like this.  One of her hands unsteadily reached from the bed for the Kleenex box on the nightstand next to the pillow.  She grabbed several tissues and clutched them in a death grip, not even noticing that she wasn't using them.
       Just when I think I'm doing well, when I actually think I'm starting to wrestle, I have to go and fucking watch someone like Jackie train and fight.  God, the skill she has.  I can't do HALF that shit!!  Trish tore a couple tissues from her grasp and held them to her eyes with both hands as she tried to stop more tears from falling.  And I actually took the time to sign autographs in the parking lot at a show today.  These are the people I'm doing this for; they are why I'm here, to entertain them.  And what do I get?  Boos, dirty looks, and some bitch asking me snidely how much my last fucking boob job cost.  These are supposed to be my FANS?  She involuntarily let out a small cry through her hands as her sobs began anew.  Looking around the hotel room, she thought back on her recent career with the WWF.  And it seemed that the only things she could call to mind were the disasters.  The angles nobody went for, the "relationships" the crowds hated, all of the insults about her wrestling ability (or lack there-of), and the name-calling.  Cheap, slut, whore, bimbo, bitch, idiot, hussy, tramp.  And that was only where she cared to stop.  It's stupid useless shit, I know it, but it still can fucking tear me apart!!
       Clenching her eyes tight, Trish recalled how her family had reacted to her news that she was going to be a "Sports Entertainer."  They had practically disowned her, furious that she had not only abandoned an education in medicine, but also a career in fitness.  I think they were right.  Sometimes I think I should just FORGET about being a wrestler.  How the fuck do I do this to myself?!?  I let myself build up this inner hope, 'Yeah, I can do this, I can learn this technical stuff, and the fans will love it.'  Bullshit.  Plain and simple fucking bullshit.  She sluggishly forced her body into a seated position, crossing her legs Indian style.  Another tissue wiped her eyes and nose, and she sighed deeply.  Her tears had slowed.  So what if I can still wrestle better than the fucking eye-candy chicks like Torrie or Stacy.  Not like any one gives a fucking shit.  That's still nowhere near ready to hold my own, fully legit.
       Trish's hazel eyes slowly steeled over as she gazed off in thought, the tears starting to end.  She knew that she couldn't do this anymore.  So I'll just throw away my first and only REAL goal in life, the first thing I ever truly WANTED.  I can never meet my own standards anyway.  JUST ONCE I want to be really good at SOMETHING.  Just one thing I can do better than average.  Her hands went to her face once more, trying to ward off her pain, but she knew there was no escape.  And I can't.  I just can't.  Every time I find something I enjoy that I'm halfway decent at, it's never enough.  I ALWAYS fall short.  Every goddamned time.  She felt the old familiar sting at her eyes, and took a deep breath and sighed.  This had to stop.  The crying, self-pitying, the self-deception; it all had to stop.  So chalk one more loss up on the board.  Who the fuck cares anyway.
       And the door opened gently, and a man walked cautiously to the foot of the bed.  Trish looked up, embarrassment plainly written on her tear-streaked face.  "Hey," she breathed quietly.  Her voice wasn't working very well after all the crying she'd just done.
       "Hey," Paul whispered back, softly as well, "I'd wondered where you'd gotten to."
       A fragile smile caught her lips as she replied, "I just… had to get out of there.  You know?"  Her eyes searched his, needing that reassurance.
       "Yeah, babe.  I know," he said.  With a sigh, he gently crept onto the bed and sat beside her.  "I know," he repeated, quieter still.
       They gazed at each other in silence for a moment, just a moment, and then Trish flung herself into his waiting arms and let it all out.  She sobbed against his soft cotton shirt, not even trying to articulate her thoughts and feelings.  But she didn't have to.  Paul really did know.
       He stroked her hair gently and whispered sweet words of love as she clung to him.  When her sobs had reduced themselves to sniffles, she slowly drew back and lay down in his arms so that she was looking up into his face.  "You can do this, Trish," Paul whispered, bringing a hand up to caress her cheek.  "You really can.  You have the talent and the ability.  You are NOT hopeless."
       The faintest touch of a blush colored Trish's cheeks as she spoke.  "I can almost believe it when you tell me that."
       "Well, believe it, sweetheart.  And there's one other thing that you can't forget."  He stared at her with such adoration that the last several minutes almost seemed like a dream to her.  It never ceased to amaze her how he knew so much about her, yet could still look at her with those eyes in that way.
       "What's that?" she asked, her weak voice almost catching in her throat.
       Paul leaned down so that his face was only a couple inches from hers before he answered: "You're not alone."  And he kissed her, softly, lovingly at first, then more passionately.  Trish slid her arms around his neck and pulled him tightly against her, kissing him back deeply, needing this more than anything at the moment.  When they broke apart for a breath, she snuggled into his arms once more and closed her eyes.
       "I love you, Trish."
       "I know, Paul.  I love you, too."
       And right then, Trish knew that no matter what, she would be all right.

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