Not Just A Game

Chapter 1

(TW: Active scene of physical abuse)

"Maybe if you were more like your father you wouldn't be such a failure!" The words left her mouth like venom, heading straight for the bloodstream of her betrothed partner. Her right hand was balled so tightly into a fist, her perfectly manicured nails left new wounds into her delicate skin. The tremendous eye contact left tension so thick in the air it could be cut like butter. 

Afraid to move, to breathe, even in the worst of arguments she knew better than to bring up his father. She absolutely knew, but in the heat of the moment she could not control herself. The words had to leave her system like an unwanted virus. Unable to stop herself, she knew quite well what would happen next. 

The hand she had so promptly pointed towards the previously beating heart of her husband began to shake, the weight of her words, of her stance, beginning to feel like gravity was tugging, pulling her into the grave she just dug herself. 

With dark eyes he watched, waited for her to subcome to her own nerves. With flairing nostrils, the rage boiled his blood, the skin in his face turning red as tedious seconds turned to minutes. It felt more like hours. 

Finally, as smoothly as she could she tried to lower her hand without notice. But that movement itself was enough to signal her defeat. As if attached by pulleys, as her hand lowered his raised, pulling back before slamming straight forward, right into the rose colored cheek of his wife. 

Her body was thrown down onto the floor, instinctively placing her arms over her head to protect it from further damage, as she knew one hit would not suffice the demon in his soul. His large body towering over her, limbs pulling back and pushing foward, blow after blow on his regretful wife. 

"When, will, you, learn, your, lesson, Catherine!" He shouted between labored breaths, the physical exertion of beating his wife bloody troublesome in his older age. Being closer to 50 than to 40 came with its struggles, and for Oliver it was his ticketing heart. However if you were to ask the maids waiting below with bated breaths, prepared to either scrub up the blood on their hands and knees, or to report a body to the local doctor miles away, it was for his heart lacked humanity. 

Catherine sobbed quietly, knowing sound would agitate the aggressive man once more. Oliver, with his knuckles thoroughly bruised and his heart racing, walked to his night stand where he picked up a tobacco stuffed pipe, placed it between his lips and lot a fire to the plant. Taking a deep breath in, inhaling the toxins, was enough to settle his nerves. At least to the point where he turned, leaving the room which hosted his broken and bleeding "lover". 

Not one soul in the house moved, nor breathed, until his departure was sounded by the large walnut door of the manor slamming shut behind him. The unfortunate servant who would be called to fetch his coat from the room was an argument among those safe inside. It was the older, more experienced footman who decided to take the role, knowing very well even one small word wrong would cause his own demise. 

Maids rushed to work, the protocols established years ago for this unfortunate event. It would be Housemaster Evelyn who would be the first contact for Marchioness Catherine Griffiths of Ormonde, who would assist her in gathering herself prior to allowing the eagerly awaiting housemaids to help with her wounds. It was collectively decided to keep Lady's Maid Agatha far away during these times, for she is most likely to spread this unfortunate information to other Lady's maids when out. However, the sheer volume is enough to cause a small stir in the womans slumber. 

A gentle knock was sweet to the bloodied ears of Catherine, moving out of her fetal position to attempt to sit up. The pain in her abdomen was strong, but the fear of appearing weak was stronger. "Enter!" She called out, that breath alone enough to knock the wind back out of her. Deep breaths, she told herself, this isnt even the worst this has happened.