A Broken Star : The Demise of Trish Stratus

The edges of the poster were torn and bent, and the bottom left hand corner was missing. A brooding signature over a smiling face was smudged as though it had gotten wet, and the name, `The Final Dance,' had begun to fade.

She stirred in her bed, bringing her hand to her mouth before slapping it against the richly colored wall of the Beverly Hills apartment. The diamond ring on her wedding finger chipped the paint. She swung her arm around, a moan escaping her cracked lips and parched throat. The ring chipped the paint a second time. Flakes of paint floated softly through the air, landing with precision among the paint she had stripped from the wall in the nights before. It was the empty side of the bed that her body never rolled onto. Only her arm, swinging deliriously, ever touched it anymore.

White satin sheets touched the Indian rug by the bed, a pillow was crammed between her head and the antique drawers that had once graced a hotel in Paris. There was a slight chip in the workmanship, the after effect of the bottle she had smashed accidentally on its edge months ago. A tiny canister lay open on the scratched drawer top, it's contents, small beads of color, spilling across it. A cracked whisky glass stood beside it, half-empty and watered down from the ice cubes that had once floated within it.

Across the room, photo's sat neatly upon a grand piano. There were faces she only ever saw once, sometimes twice, in most of them. Two or three she knew like the back of her hand, but even they didn't visit anymore. Gowns of glittering slivers and gold's and black tuxedos were once part of her everyday life. Her only remaining gown, scattered on the floor just below the piano, wasn't as shiny as it was before and it didn't sit the way it used to on a body that had been voluptuous and curvaceous. It was now frail and thin, easily broken.

A gentle breeze pushed through the window in the bathroom that she had forgotten to close again, despite the chill of the air that pushed into the apartment. It swept past embroidered towels and golden toothbrushes and swirled around her disgruntled haven, turning the pages of a tattered script with invisible hands. It rested open on the page with the cast listing. Harrison Ford's name was at the top, hers was just behind it in slightly smaller print. After all, no one had ever had their name higher, or bigger, than Harrison's. He was the best. She'd been honoured all those years ago just to share the billing with him, let alone the screen.

On a shelf in the corner were strings of videotapes, impeccably lined in order of the date they had been recorded. `Oscars 2003' and `Golden Globes 2005' were their typical titles. Above the shelf was a poster from her biggest blockbuster, `Magik,' and sitting on their own tiny shelf in front of it was the small collection of People`s Choice and MTV awards she had won over the years. The only rewards she'd ever received in her life, and even then, many felt she was undeserving of them.

Next to the bed, the telephone rang. She did not wake. Did not even move. The answering machine kick started to life. A tired voice stumbled through the air, "You know what to do." There was an ignorant beep and a man's voice mumbled a quick message in a sad and regretful tone. "Sorry, Darlin'. I tried, but Leno really isn't interested in having you on the show." He sighed, "And I talked to Shane... He says that the Women's Division is pretty full up right now, and he has all the Managers he really needs." The man sighed again, "Maybe you should take a break for a while anyway. Just chill. Look Trish, you know better than anyone how hard it is to cut a break once the world knows you as a Wrestler. And you left that behind a long, long time ago. Everyone wants fresh faces, current stars. I'm sorry." The phone clicked and a long, high-pitched ring filled the room... She still did not stir.

Across the other side of the apartment, a key slid into the door from outside. The voice of a man, agitated and upset, cursed beneath his breath when the key did not turn. His fist slammed into the door. He began to call out, "Trish? TRISH? I know you're home. You're BMW is in the drive. Come and open the door." When there was no reply, he muttered to himself, "I can't believe she changed the damn locks." He began to thud nonchalantly on the door again.

On the bed, she rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up further around her. Her eyes twittered in deep sleep. Her ears heard the sweet music of her dream. She was unaware she had a visitor.

Outside, he plummeted his fist to the door one last time. When again there was no reply, he allowed his clenched fists to fall by his side. He pushed his keys back into the pocket of his Levi 501's and for want of better weather, tugged on his leather jacket momentarily, before zipping it up.

He crept through the thick shrub that had grown around her apartment. The Gardner had stopped coming months before when she had stopped paying him. She had tried her best to keep the garden up, but eventually she gave it away. It was too much trouble, that was what she had told him. Now the lawn was overgrown and most of the exotic plants she had imported from distant countries were dead. The apartment was a mess. It was the only one on the boulevard in such terrible condition. Most of the neighbours were disgusted by it, many hoped that soon she would move away.

Smirking to himself when he got to the bathroom window, he begun to climb in. Days before when she had thrown him out, the window had been open. Despite the cold, he knew it was another of the small things she continually overlooked these days.

He carefully lowered himself until his feet touched the toilet. He balanced on it briefly, then leapt to the floor filled with a feeling of purpose. He had grown tired of her. She wasn't who she used to be. He hurriedly whirled, anger pumping through him. When his eyes fell on the sink, he stopped mid-step. Needles, some new, some used, cluttered the space that had once been covered by her bright lipsticks and hairpins. Back in the days when she used to care about how she looked. It had been so long since his eyes had looked at her in lust. Now he looked at her in regret.

He moved miserably out of the bathroom, then silently across the room and stood by her bed, hovering over her, a look of contempt stretching across his face. He stepped to move closer when something cracked beneath his foot. He stooped to pick it up. A broken frame clung with little charisma to a photograph. It was taken nine years earlier, he remembered it well. His first movie, her last. Harrison Ford had been the star, but a spotlight fell on him that no one could have anticipated. He had since achieved top billing on eleven films and was living the good life in all ways but one. He knew now she was bringing him down. This realization reminded him of the tabloid headline he'd seen a month earlier: `40 & Fading Fast.' In the accompanying photographs, she was bent over in the gutter shuddering as she vomited, he was standing by her worriedly.

Her hand flew up and hit the wall again. Another chip of paint was disembodied from the wall. He shook his head and sat upon the bed's edge. "Trish?" The gentleness of his voice surprised him. His hands clasped her shoulders and shook her. There was no response from her. He had not expected one. In a way she had stopped responding years ago.

Her breath was shallow, as it had been many of the nights they had spent together. He plucked her hand away from the wall, his finger rubbing the top of diamond that glistened on her finger. Tears formed in his eyes as he carefully removed it from her hand. He thrust it into the pocket that housed his keys. His eyes rest upon her torso, scantly covered by a silk slip. Her bare arms spread about her awkwardly. He ran the tips of his fingers across the hollow in her arm, then down to the collection of small dots that formed in an oddly-shaped circle, patterned in a shade of black bruising. Her other arm was the same. He sighed, disheartened. Her ticklish frame had not responded as it usually would.

She wrenched her hand away from him and slapped the wall again. He looked away in loathing. His eyes fell on the canister beside the bed. A blank look crossed his face and he sat, suspended in time as the darkness of the apartment consumed him.

Time, a great amount of it, had passed he realized. He looked back at her, leant down and kissed her face, once beautiful and radiant, now revolting and haggard. He stretched his arm and pulled the soft pillow from between the bed and the drawer and clutched it to him. Tears fell from his eyes again. He pushed it to her face. Beneath the feathered pillow his head had rested on for many a night, he thought he heard her gasp. One hand tugged at the bed sheets reflexively, the other fell gently into his lap. Her touch stabbed at him, and he began to sob. Her hand slid away from him, and then she did not move again.

He used the front door to leave. It was not quite dawn yet, he was in no danger of being seen, and he could not be bothered to climb out the window he had used to come in. His fingers lurked in his pocket in search of his keys as he started down the path toward the black Porsche he adored. He tugged on the keys until they came loose from his pocket. The diamond ring slid away from his keys and bounced onto the concrete. As the Porsche drove away, it rolled down into the gutter. Running water carried it down the street, and then escorted it down into the sewers of Los Angeles. It sunk slowly, desolately surging towards its doom. Eventually it touched ground, moving slightly to and fro with the current. The murky water hid its shine as above it, rats and rubbish floated on.