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Tourniquet	By : girlnextdoor Category: WWF/WWE > General Views: 1590 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrities of WWE/WWF. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Tourniquet
- 2-ch 2
- 3-ch 3
- 4-ch 4
- 5-ch 5
- 6-ch 6
- 7-ch 7
- 8-Ch 8
- 4
- 5
- 6
5.
"Can you, like, ya know, move? I know it probably takes you a while to shift that ass of yours, but c'mon - some of us have places to go."
Starting in surprise at the sound of a taunting voice, Molly realised she had been standing in a daze right in the middle of the corridor and her cheeks began to burn in embarrassment. Way to convince everyone you're not a loser, Mols. She turned around, beginning to apologise, but then stopped dead as she remembered that just wasn't her style anymore.
"What's the matter, Trish? Got a street corner to get back to?" she managed, concentrating on preventing her voice from shaking. Before the curvaceous blonde could even respond, Molly hurried away, leaving her rival with a stunned look on her face.
Throwing open the door of her changing room, Molly all but ran inside and slammed the door, breathing heavily as she leaned back against it. Had she really said that? That wasn't the virtuous Miss Molly speaking - that had been something entirely new. What a bitchy thing to have said … and yet … Nothing. She felt nothing. Running her hands over her short, brown hair, smoothing it back into place, she took a second to really assess herself and couldn't help but be surprised hat hat she found. That mild surprise - that was it. Nothing else but … emptiness. No anxiety that she had gone too far, said too much. No guilt either. And there wasn't even any malice; no small spark of pleasure at having stood up for herself. She was simply void of emotion.
And the more she thought about it, the more it began to make sense. Why would she feel anything when she didn't even really exist anymore? She had no family, no friends, no life outside her job and no pleasure within it anymore - she was nothing now but a … a shell. Molly Holly was gone and in her place was … nothing more than a shadow. A shadow which was fading fast. Soon there would be nothing left at all. The question was - would anyone notice? And if anyone did, so what? What difference could it possibly make?
*****
Jerked from her thoughts by a loud banging on the door, Molly gave herself a little shake and moved to answer it, but was stopped by an impatient voice.
"Exactly one hour until your match - DON'T be late." came the brief call, without waiting for any acknowledgement. So much for the star treatment.
With a sigh, Molly made her way into the tiny bathroom adjoining her changing room, once again glad she had been convincing in her plea for a private room in order to "protect her modesty". It wasn't that she wanted to avoid all possible contact with her colleagues; oh no, not at all. She had plenty of time to get ready, having already changed into her plain black pants and the prim white top she hated - these days even that pink cape was looking pretty good. All she had to do was check her hair and make-up and that was hardly a big task now. It was starting to seem like the worse she looked, the better it fitted in with the script writers' plans for her. Nevertheless, she would still at least try to fix her hair, using her little hand mirror to make sure the back didn't look too bad. Force of habit or something.
Trying to ignore the dark circles under her eyes, made the more obvious by her paler than usual skin, she patted ineffectually at the back of her hair and reached for her hairbrush with a frown. Unable to prevent a rare curse from slipping from her lips as the mirror tumbled from her hand, she knelt to pick up the pieces. Hissing as she drew in her breath sharply in pain, she dropped the shard of glass she had been attempting to pick up and turned up the palm of her hand. At first, she had felt only a little pricking pain, but as she caught sight of the dark red blood oozing from a small but ragged cut, the pain evolved into a sharp stabbing which made her whole hand throb. Just like when kids skin their knees and don't cry until they get a look and see even just a trace of blood. Molly only had time to think how lucky it was that the rest of her scars weren't physical, because if she ever got a look at those wounds … well, that'd be it. That'd be just too much pain to take.
Yet, it was bizarrely … comforting … if that was the right word for it, to know that she could still feel - even if what she was feeling hurt like a bitch. As time seemed to snap from slow motion to fast-forward, she shoved her hand under the cold tap and turned it on, wincing at the now biting pain as her hand started to tingle from the cold water. Watching as the water ran red, then eventually pink and finally clear, she realised how oddly … liberating … pain could be. For a few moments there, she had been Molly - just Molly. In pain and trying to deal with the cut, she hadn't had time for keeping up appearances and it seemed that, when allowed free rein, plain old Molly Holly was what came naturally. She couldn't help but wonder if it would be possible to recapture that feeling … that freedom.
*****
"Where the hell is she?"
"How should I know? I'm not her keeper …"
"I never suggested you were! But you better find her, Trish; you've got ten minutes or I pull this match …"
"But Mr. Bischoff …"
"But nothing! This show is gonna go smoothly - I've had enough aggro lately to last me a lifetime, I don't need any more!"
With a glare on her usually pretty face, Trish Stratus stomped off through the backstage area trying to find her opponent for that night's match for the Women's Championship.
"Molly! Molly!" she yelled impatiently as she searched everywhere she could think the other woman might be. "I swear to God, if my match gets pulled because of you …"
*****
Inside her changing room, Molly heard the frustrated shouting of the blonde diva and frantically splashed cold water on her face, attempting to shake the woozy feeling which had fallen over her. Glancing into the large bathroom mirror, her alarm only grew at the unclear sight of her somewhat glazed eyes. What the hell had she been thinking? She had a match to do … Patting her face dry with a towel, she glanced down at herself critically and panic rose in her once more as her gaze fell on her awkwardly self-bandaged wrist. She wasn't thinking clearly enough to be able to explain it away - even she could see that. Feeling frightened tears dangerously close, she bit her lip and concentrated as hard as she could. What could she do? Her … little Molly Holly … Mighty Molly …
That was it! The image of herself in full pink superhero regalia, complete with pink taping on her arms was just enough to spark her initiative and she hurried to her bag, hoping she was right in her assumption. Rummaging through her bag, she cried out in despair and hurled the bag to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. Sinking to her knees amongst her scattered belongings, she was about to give in to her tears when her line of vision happened to cross a familiar object - a roll of strapping tape. And black, not pink. It seemed too good to be true, but there it was - maybe, just maybe her luck was changing … Hey, no point getting carried away.
*****
With about a minute to spare, Molly made it to the curtain to await her entrance.
"Where were you?" hissed the General Manager of RAW, Eric Bischoff, frankly too relieved to be angry.
"Sorry, had to … take a phone call - it won't happen ag …"
"Damn right it won't happen again - now there's your cue. Get out there."
Closing her eyes, Molly took a deep breath and then opened them again, marching out from behind the curtain and down the ramp in her black pants and white top; her head held high and her wrists firmly shrouded in thick black tape.
*****
- 4
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- 6
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Tourniquet