A/N: Hello Hearties, this is my first fanfiction and I'm a math person not a writer, so please try not to be too harsh. However, CONSTRUCTIVE criticism is greatly appreciated because I aim to please. The reason I'm (attempting) to write fanfiction is because I LOVE LOVE LOVE this show more than anything in the whole world and there isn't nearly enough fanfiction for this fandon on the internet. And (not to call anyone out but) the stories that get all the reviews and favorites never get updated. I know people are busy with real life so I figured I'd try to write a little something in the meantime. So please enjoy…
"Charles, please!" Elizabeth screamed right before she felt the back of his hand strike her left cheek again.
This had been going on for almost ten minutes. In reality, it had been going on for a year and a half. Charles had been one of her best friends from her youth. They, along with Jack and Fiath, had been inseparable. She had been a bit of tomboy, growing up in a city where football was everything. By age ten, she could run as fast as any boy in elementary school. By thirteen, she could outsmart anyone on the field. By seventeen, she was her upper school's equivalent of David Beckham. By twenty, she had been offered three different contracts to play professionally, all of which she declined. Football was not her passion, it was just one of the many things she happened to be good at. No, her passion was children. Teaching them. Molding their minds. She had always had a way with kids, even when she was one. Now, at age 24, her world was crashing down.
"Shutup! This is your fault!" Charles was intoxicated and very, very unhappy.
When they first started dating about two years ago, things were perfect. Charles was playing for Manchester United and Elizabeth was teaching at the local Nursery School near the practice field. They were very happy and very much in love. That was until a knee injury ended his career and his love for Elizabeth. At the beginning of his long road to recovery, he tried to stay positive. But once it was clear that he would never score another professional goal in his life, his heart turned to stone and his hand turned to alcohol. The first time he hit Elizabeth was on his 25th birthday. She had tried to bake him a cake and turned out looking like a brick and tasting like one too. The old Charles, the one whose knee wasn't permanently damaged, the one whose lips were always curled in a smile, would have simply laughed the whole thing off and thanked her for the sentiment. But this Charles was cold and cruel and felt that he deserved better than a bum leg and a rock cake. So, without saying a word, he stood, walked over to Elizabeth, who sat across from him, set his plate in front of her, and slapped her across her beautiful face. Afterward, he left and didn't return until the next morning. He never brought it up and Elizabeth, still dazed from being hit in the face by a man she loved didn't dare to mention it either. The next time he hit her was at Christmas of that year. She had given him a framed picture of the two them after they had won their last game at upper school. He had given her a black eye and a split lip. She figured it was the football uniform that had set him off. This continued for the better part of a year, with his beatings becoming more and more frequent.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted-" she started.
"I haven't a single care in this world what you want." He bellowed, cutting her off mid-plea.
Before she could fix her mouth to apologize for the umpteenth time, his connected with the back of her head and she was out like a light.
When she did come around again some time later, Charles was gone. She quietly searched the house for any sign of him until she found him his study. His back was to her. She snuck into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of his favorite beer, tiptoed back, walked up behind him, and swung.