New Fic: Blythe's Story Chapter 23
Jan. 29th, 2009 08:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteTitle: Blythe's Story, Chapter 23
Author: Namaste
Summary: "The truth would tear down everything, like waves beating against a rocky shore, one after another until the rocks themselves wore down to sand."
PG, 955 words.
Author’s Note: A look at House's early life, based on the new background we received in the fifth season episode "Birthmarks," using chapters of about 1,000 words.
To start at the beginning: Chapter One
Greg would never tell her what he'd said, or what he'd told John that day.
"That's because you never asked." The voice deep inside Blythe pointed out.
Blythe turned up the radio and tried to ignore the voice. It was getting harder. Call it her conscience, call it a voice of reason, call it her better nature, but it was always there now. It seemed to taunt her, to point out everything she did wrong, from not putting enough vanilla extract in the butter cream frosting to avoiding John's eyes at the breakfast table.
She'd heard it before, back when she'd first met Phil, but it had seemed to go silent after Greg was born, and she saw how happy John was.
This time it wouldn't shut up.
"I asked," Blythe whispered.
"No you didn't," the voice said. "Not really. You could have made him tell you, if you tried."
She sat at the edge of Greg's bed that first night, and waited for him to speak first, to ask ask the question that would expose everything. Greg was always asking questions. This time, he didn't. He shook his head when she finally asked him if he'd tell her what was wrong.
The next morning, she took him his breakfast – "Confined to quarters, until further notice," John had typed out on a blank sheet of paper before he headed out – and she almost stammered out something about what had happened, back then, but she didn't. She told herself that she didn't want to give Greg any clues if she was wrong. Maybe he didn't know anything.
"Of course he knows. You're only making things worse."
Greg watched her closely as she put the plate down on his dresser: pancakes already coated with maple syrup alongside two slices of bacon. She placed a glass of milk next to them.
She turned to him, finally. "Is there anything you need?"
He only stared at her, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he turned away.
She paused at his door, her hand on the knob, hoped that he'd say something if she waited long enough, but he didn't.
John wouldn't let him come out of his room except to use the bathroom for the first week, then told him he couldn't leave the house for another two weeks.
"House arrest," he typed out.
"This is ridiculous," Blythe told him as he folded the paper in half, creasing the line of it between his thumbnail and the thick skin of his index finger. "Talk to him."
"I'm not in the mood to listen to any more of his lies," John said.
"You should tell him too," the voice said. "Greg wasn't lying. You're the only one who lies."
Blythe didn't say anything, just watched as John slid the note under Greg's door.
"Coward."
Yes, she thought. She was. She was afraid of losing everything she'd had, everything they'd all had.
"If everything you've had can't survive the truth, maybe it's not worth holding onto."
Blythe wiped away a tear. Maybe, she thought, that was true. Maybe that's why she couldn't risk exposing it – exposing herself. The truth would tear down everything, like waves beating against a rocky shore, one after another until the rocks themselves wore down to sand. If solid rock wouldn't last, what hope did they have?
"You'll never know, will you?"
She tried to tell John once.
"I'm sorry," she whispered on a hot summer night when she couldn't fall asleep.
"For what?" he asked.
"For -- " she tried to think of the right words, tried to arrange them into something he could understand, but the words jumbled together, froze up in her mind unspoken. He drifted off to sleep before she found the right answer.
The summer passed in near silence, the TV banned in one of John's written punishments. Blythe turned on the radio some days, just to try and drown out the voice in her head, but then she'd hear some song filled with empty promises of everlasting love and she switched it off again.
After the first month, Greg filled his days cleaning out the garage, or washing the car, or polishing John's shoes – whatever chore the note told him to do each morning. Blythe took him shopping with her one day to the NEX, hoping to see him smile again, but his silence only seemed to burrow deep into her soul.
"He needs you to make this right."
Blythe agreed with the voice, but could never figure out how to do it. She promised herself that she'd try. She asked John again and again to speak to Greg, to end the punishment.
"It's been long enough," she told him on an August night with the sound of cicadas echoing through the bedroom. "He doesn't deserve this. Nobody does."
"You don't know what he said."
Blythe paused, saw her opening. "So tell me."
It was the first time the voice in her head was silent in weeks.
The white of his eyes were bright in the darkness. He placed his hand against her cheek. He sighed. "No," he said. "It was a lie."
"What if it wasn't?"
John looked at her for a moment longer. She couldn't read the thoughts in his head, couldn't make out his expression. Finally he shook his head. "It was," he said, then rolled over and turned his back to her.
Blythe stared at the outline of his body under the sheets, watched as his breaths deepened into sleep.
"Coward," the voice said.
She nodded, and turned away from John. "Yes," she whispered. "I am."
Chapter 24
Author: Namaste
Summary: "The truth would tear down everything, like waves beating against a rocky shore, one after another until the rocks themselves wore down to sand."
PG, 955 words.
Author’s Note: A look at House's early life, based on the new background we received in the fifth season episode "Birthmarks," using chapters of about 1,000 words.
To start at the beginning: Chapter One
Greg would never tell her what he'd said, or what he'd told John that day.
"That's because you never asked." The voice deep inside Blythe pointed out.
Blythe turned up the radio and tried to ignore the voice. It was getting harder. Call it her conscience, call it a voice of reason, call it her better nature, but it was always there now. It seemed to taunt her, to point out everything she did wrong, from not putting enough vanilla extract in the butter cream frosting to avoiding John's eyes at the breakfast table.
She'd heard it before, back when she'd first met Phil, but it had seemed to go silent after Greg was born, and she saw how happy John was.
This time it wouldn't shut up.
"I asked," Blythe whispered.
"No you didn't," the voice said. "Not really. You could have made him tell you, if you tried."
She sat at the edge of Greg's bed that first night, and waited for him to speak first, to ask ask the question that would expose everything. Greg was always asking questions. This time, he didn't. He shook his head when she finally asked him if he'd tell her what was wrong.
The next morning, she took him his breakfast – "Confined to quarters, until further notice," John had typed out on a blank sheet of paper before he headed out – and she almost stammered out something about what had happened, back then, but she didn't. She told herself that she didn't want to give Greg any clues if she was wrong. Maybe he didn't know anything.
"Of course he knows. You're only making things worse."
Greg watched her closely as she put the plate down on his dresser: pancakes already coated with maple syrup alongside two slices of bacon. She placed a glass of milk next to them.
She turned to him, finally. "Is there anything you need?"
He only stared at her, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he turned away.
She paused at his door, her hand on the knob, hoped that he'd say something if she waited long enough, but he didn't.
John wouldn't let him come out of his room except to use the bathroom for the first week, then told him he couldn't leave the house for another two weeks.
"House arrest," he typed out.
"This is ridiculous," Blythe told him as he folded the paper in half, creasing the line of it between his thumbnail and the thick skin of his index finger. "Talk to him."
"I'm not in the mood to listen to any more of his lies," John said.
"You should tell him too," the voice said. "Greg wasn't lying. You're the only one who lies."
Blythe didn't say anything, just watched as John slid the note under Greg's door.
"Coward."
Yes, she thought. She was. She was afraid of losing everything she'd had, everything they'd all had.
"If everything you've had can't survive the truth, maybe it's not worth holding onto."
Blythe wiped away a tear. Maybe, she thought, that was true. Maybe that's why she couldn't risk exposing it – exposing herself. The truth would tear down everything, like waves beating against a rocky shore, one after another until the rocks themselves wore down to sand. If solid rock wouldn't last, what hope did they have?
"You'll never know, will you?"
She tried to tell John once.
"I'm sorry," she whispered on a hot summer night when she couldn't fall asleep.
"For what?" he asked.
"For -- " she tried to think of the right words, tried to arrange them into something he could understand, but the words jumbled together, froze up in her mind unspoken. He drifted off to sleep before she found the right answer.
The summer passed in near silence, the TV banned in one of John's written punishments. Blythe turned on the radio some days, just to try and drown out the voice in her head, but then she'd hear some song filled with empty promises of everlasting love and she switched it off again.
After the first month, Greg filled his days cleaning out the garage, or washing the car, or polishing John's shoes – whatever chore the note told him to do each morning. Blythe took him shopping with her one day to the NEX, hoping to see him smile again, but his silence only seemed to burrow deep into her soul.
"He needs you to make this right."
Blythe agreed with the voice, but could never figure out how to do it. She promised herself that she'd try. She asked John again and again to speak to Greg, to end the punishment.
"It's been long enough," she told him on an August night with the sound of cicadas echoing through the bedroom. "He doesn't deserve this. Nobody does."
"You don't know what he said."
Blythe paused, saw her opening. "So tell me."
It was the first time the voice in her head was silent in weeks.
The white of his eyes were bright in the darkness. He placed his hand against her cheek. He sighed. "No," he said. "It was a lie."
"What if it wasn't?"
John looked at her for a moment longer. She couldn't read the thoughts in his head, couldn't make out his expression. Finally he shook his head. "It was," he said, then rolled over and turned his back to her.
Blythe stared at the outline of his body under the sheets, watched as his breaths deepened into sleep.
"Coward," the voice said.
She nodded, and turned away from John. "Yes," she whispered. "I am."
Chapter 24