Nobody's Girl

She softened the hard line of her lips with the tip of a makeup pen; carefully, trying to emphasis the youth still hiding within her.

Leaning against the makeup table, she watched light refract from her shiny face, white-banked bosom, modest hair.

Man; six years in the business and they still didn't respect her.

Maybe it was the breast augmentation; should she have splurged for a bigger set? A smaller one? Keenly, she knew that almost everything in this business depends on the width of your chest and the length of your hair. Wondering was her business, furthering these silly little notions that didn't help her state of mind.

Still, she stood at profile, staring. That was how William found her a few moments later.

"Excuse me," He apologized, British to the core, "but there wasn't a door to knock on," He smiled warmly at her, "You look smashing."

William Regal; the only man she'd ever met who became more British when he left Britan. Eternally a gentleman, he held out a hand to her and gently pulled her along and out into the harsh lights, where he could see her better, then guided her form around the makeup bench.

"Thanks, Willy," She said, without it really meaning anything to her. Her physical status, in regard to her looks, had never meant much.

"Did you get the finish for the match tonight? You're putting Trish over again."

They strolled down one of the fifty million corridors she'd seen in her lifetime. At William's revelation, she wasn't surprised, wasn't flattered, but had expected this "Yeah, I read the sheet an hour ago. We already worked out the finish."

She felt no resentment toward Trish, a woman who, at least, worked hard at her craft. Her beef was with management, always with management.

At least until the poster royalties started pouring in.

"Good; well, Buh-Buh and I will improvise something for you on the outside, then, since it's clean." He said, trying to sound comforting, "If it makes you feel any better, I've put over Jeff Hardy for the fiftieth time as of Sunday. The curse of being a hard worker, you understand." He winked.

"Hard work's what we do," She smiled, "We should start up a club...." She trailed off fondly, feeling silly.

William was a sweet guy; most of the guys backstage were similarly sweet in behavior; well, at least most of them weren't cruel. A miracle, considering how things had ended...

With him.

"Hello, John," She uttered quietly

Bradshaw's lids lowered as he moved out of the hallway, closer to the gorilla position, "Ma'am," He returned curtly, then continued on his way without sparing her a glance.

Emotionally scorched, she watched him leave in silence. Only the sensation of William's hand on her shoulder broke through the pain, "Poor dear. He's such a bitch..."

"No, Willie," She sighed, "He's been upset with me since the breakup." But he'll be standing on my doorstep when I get home tonight. She squared her shoulders, suddenly once more the little blond country girl from Alabama, "Don't worry about it. I'm OK."

Proudly, she strode past the gorilla position, right to the curtain. With two fingers parted the black curtain that separated the staging area from the entrance ramp and ring. Around her, Trish's theme music blared; the little blond bounced in the ring, anxiously awaiting her match with the similarly-tiny brunette who stood waiting for her own signal. She would push her way through the darkness enshrouding her to become a willing object of derision.

And she loved it all.

Performing proved, after all of this time, to be the heart of her existence; her reason for being;

When Bruce Prichard's finger came down, when the curtains came up, Molly Holly entered the arena without hesitation. When her music hit, she filled with a true sense of pride. All of the questions were answered; in the end, she was herself; flawed, womanly, loving.

She felt William's hand on her shoulder and, instantaneously, an egotistical smile plastered itself across her face. If no one else in this whole entire world loved her, that would be just fine; she loved herself.

I belong to no one. She thought happily.

And her feet found the right rhythm.

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