A/N: I decided to start yet another new fic. It will be comprised of parts that are deliberately short. It addresses a subject that i'm passionate about.I was thinking of it today and this story came to me.
No slash intended. Will be House&Wilson friendship. Please read and review.
(OT: iwant to change the world. but i feel like that's impossible. it sucks.)
The Victim
i.
Day by day, his secret grew harder to keep. It had been easy the last six months. The outbursts had been far apart and mild, but she had steadily worsened over the past few weeks. He had hoped she would change, that it was only temporary. He had tried to be a better husband, tried to give her more attention and help out around the house and go quietly about his business. He had driven himself to achieve more patience, doubling his search for self-perfection. He had tried so hard not to provoke her, but despite his efforts, she fell into a swing. She sunk deeper and deeper into a comfort, a belief that he deserved this, that she was justified. And what could he do? She was his wife. And he was the man.
When he came home that night, she confronted him, crazed with anger.
"What the hell is this?"
"What's what, Mandy?"
"Don't you be condescending, you bastard. Tell me who she is. Tell me who you're fucking."
The crumpled shirt she grasped in one hand barely registered. A shirt? So what?
"I can smell the perfume, James. I swear to god, I'll kill her."
"Perfume? But Mandy, there is no perfume. I'm not seeing anyone."
"Don't lie to me!" She had slapped him. "I'm not stupid."
He hesitated, knowing he might be in for it. A slap. That was always the beginning.
"I know you're not stupid, honey," he started, trying to keep an even tone. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm not cheating on you."
That gleam slithered through her eyes. His sense of hope plummeted fast.
She slapped him again, not another word. She switched hands, swiping at him with the shirt bunched up in her fist. He flinched, shutting his eyes, slowly backing up.
"You son of a bitch! You good for nothing, piece of shit! I hate you!"
Her shrieking intensified, until finally, she pinned him against the wall and dropped the shirt. He stood, hands held up uselessly, eyes squeezed shut as usual. He stayed as still as he could while she hit him, barely moving when she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him, kneeing him in his side. She slapped him over and over again in the face, once he was on his knees, and he hung his head anyway, just waiting for it to stop. He knew she would be satisfied eventually. He just had to wait. He just had to be patient.
"You fucking bastard! You motherfucking bastard! You're so fucking worthless! All you're good for is fucking around! What's her name, damn it? What's her God damn name?"
Each cheek stung a little sharper every time her hand made contact. He was flushed, whether with shame or her handprints made no difference. He waited and waited, her words singing away at his insides. If only he had done his own laundry. He should have. He shouldn't make her do it. This was his fault, the result of his own stupidity. Fuck.
With the last strike, she sent him tumbling back a little and stepped away. Her face was twisted into an ugly frown, and he opened his eyes tentatively, only glancing up at her for a second. She stood stiff and huffing, fists clenched, even more angered that he just sat there on the floor and kept his eyes downcast.
"Now you fucking pick up that shirt and wash it until it's so fucking clean that it looks brand new," she ordered, voice toned down to low and threatening. She paused for a moment before storming away, and he slowly moved to pick up his shirt, eyes never leaving the ground as he heard her slam their bedroom door shut. He looked at the shirt silently, brought it to his nose. All he could smell was his own cologne.