A/N: No disclaimer this chapter... hell you got the idea after the first 3 I'm sure. Snappy Martha for you this chapter. Don't worry I'll get Bloom in there helping her out soon enough. I have a feeling this will be my longest fanfic ever... so far anyway. I also really should have been doing homework instead of this... I get distracted so easily... Anyway, many thanks to all for reviews and faves etc - cyber cookies and cakes for all! Reviews and crits please - they feed my soul, creativity etc etc
PS. I rediscovered this song that I think really fits with Martha's situation (especially in this fanfic and Your Worst Nightmare-x-'s fanfic 'Mixed Messages' - which you should totally go read if you haven't already). It's called 'Painkillers' by Lauren Pritchard. Go listen to it, it's a beautiful song. Now, on with the fic...
As she walked back into the room Martha's eyes wandered from the cupboard she kept her iron in, to the cupboard she kept her medicine and pills in, to the empty bottles of whiskey on the workspace. All the little things she had used to try and stop the pain, to try and end the hopelessness. Things she knew could end her career if anyone found out, things she knew would be frowned upon. She snapped herself back into reality and picked up her wine glass, taking a big gulp before looking back at John. His eyes watched her, full of accusation,
"Martha, we need to talk." He told her. It was ironic that he was using the same words as Anthony had earlier, she thought,
"No, John. We don't." She replied bitterly, "I don't even know why I let you back in my house. We both know full well what happened last time."
"Martha, please..." he begged, "There's no way that's going to happen again – I left that behind."
"Don't 'please' me Bloom." She snapped fiercely, "Why should I believe you? How do you expect me to believe you when you lied to me!" He didn't have an answer to that.
He stood there dumbfounded as she glared him down, her eyes burning fiercely and her body trembling with anger. They were both lost for words, John because she had exploded like an aerosol can in a fire and Martha because of the rage rising in her gut. They stood staring at each other until finally two words made their way out of Martha's mouth,
"Get out." She hissed, her voice barely audible, "Get out." She repeated, more forcefully this time. But John refused to move,
"I can't do that Martha, you need help." She continued to glower at him, a flicker of fear and pain passing over her eyes before being replaced once again by hate and fury, "You're depressed." She froze. She could feel the cracks forming in her armour already,
"Bullshit." She replied, an undertone of hesitance in her voice, "Why would you care if I were anyway?" 'That's right Martha. He doesn't care.' The little voice was back, 'You're a thorn in the backside, remember? He couldn't care less what happens to you.' But why would he be back if he didn't care? 'To taunt you Martha. To show you what you could have had. So he can laugh at you when he goes back and tells his girlfriend that you're pining over him.'
"Because. Just because." He answered. 'What kind of sorry excuse for a reason is that?'
"Get out Bloom. I don't need your help and pity." She snapped,
"But-"
"Out."
