Here are the next two pages. The prologue is coming to a close. It will probably be over in the next two or three pages. Please comment =). Thank you.
Pushing one of them towards her he asked the one question that had been bothering him since this whole mess had started, “Are you going to get through this?”
Cuddys’ gaze met his.
“I don’t think so.”
The next day…
“Walk in a straight line,” House ordered standing about twenty feet away from Cuddy. They were in the hall of the courthouse waiting for the trial to start and House had insisted on running some crude tests to make sure she was over her concussion and that she did not appear hung over. If she was going to be humiliated she was at least going to do it right. He would make sure of it.
“I’m fine House,” Cuddy insisted.
“Shut up and walk in a straight line.”
“All right all right. Can you tone it down?”
“Suck it up. You’re not going to be able to ask the defense attorney to tone it down because you decided to down twelve glasses of scotch.”
“Good point,” Cuddy replied walking towards him in a perfectly straight line, “See? I’m fine.”
“I won’t know for sure that you’re fine until you shut up,” House said pointedly as he raised his index finger to her eye level, “Focus on my finger without moving your head.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes.
Her gray-blue eyes followed his finger as he trailed it across her visual field. He watched them intently for signs of concussion. There were none, but her eyes were very pretty…oh my God what am I doing, he thought to himself.
“You’re fine. Go.”
“I told you so.”
“Shut up, Cuddy.”
Cuddy sauntered off to the coffee machine appearing to be as confident as ever. Looking at her now, you could not tell that she had been raped, you could not tell that she had not gotten more than two hours of sleep a night for the past two weeks, and you could not tell that she was hung over. She looked just as perfect and beautiful as ever. Her jet black hair framed her fair face. Her gray-blue eyes were contrasted by thick, black lashes. A manicured finger pushed the button for a black coffee. It was hard to believe that Cuddy had spent the last night, sobbing, puking, and trying to keep down enough coffee to jump start a car. Between the two of them they had finished off six pots, just like in college when they had pulled all-nighters to study.
“Want to buy me one of those,” House asked.
“Don’t you have your own money,” Cuddy replied.
“I left my wallet at your house.”
Cuddy rolled her eyes and inserted another dollar bill. She pressed the button for black coffee.
“You’re wallet is in your coat pocket,” she said folding her arms across her chest.
“If you knew that why did you __”
“Because it costs a dollar and God knows you have given me a lot more money than that.”
“Those anonymous envelopes full of money that I would find shoved under my door in the middle of the night four years ago, you think I’m an idiot?”
“How do you know they were from me?”
“I know your moms’ handwriting.”
“Maybe they were from my mom.”
“You can deny it if you want. Just know that I know.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t anything stronger than alcohol in any of your twelve glasses of scotch?”
“Yes, I tested them.”
“You ran tox-screens on twelve glasses of scotch while at a bar?”
“You’re seriously paranoid.”
“I was doing what had to be done,” Cuddy replied handing him the coffee she had paid for.
“I said you were paranoid; I didn’t say it wasn’t justified.”
Cuddy sipped her coffee and said nothing, back to her old ways. That didn’t bother House. He preferred her obstinate behind her walls. When she had admitted her helplessness the day before it had scared him. He knew that she still felt that way, but at least she didn’t feel hopeless enough to drop the front again.
“Thank you,” she said after a while.
“For driving me home yesterday in my own car, staying with me all night, and most importantly not telling anyone.”
For a second House didn’t reply. Several smart-ass comments ran through his head, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself so say any of them. Jesus, what was wrong with him?
“You’re welcome,” he finally mumbled.
With a single nod she sauntered off to the courtroom in her usual confident manner, the scent of citrus wafting behind her. The next fifteen minutes dragged by agonizingly slow. Cuddy just wanted this arraignment to be over, to go on with her life, to forget what had been done to her. The latter was definitely not going to happen, but over time perhaps the vivid memory would fade. Time heals all……………..Then Cuddy remembered a patient she had come across in the clinic on her first day. The patient had been a woman who had been raped like Cuddy, young like Cuddy, successful like Cuddy, hell, she had even looked like Cuddy. She had had the same black hair and gray-blue eyes and fair complexion. She was now in a coffin under a headstone engraved Elisa McGillicuddy. Yes, even her name was similar to Cuddy’s. If Cuddy was superstitious that probably would have done her in, not that it didn’t concern her. After Elisa McGillicuddy had been raped she had come to the clinic for an STD panel. Being a good Samaritan, Cuddy had talked to her for hours, run the test, and persuaded her to go to the police. Unfortunately the judge had decided that there was not enough physical evidence. Elisa turned to a bottle of over-the-counter of acetaminophen. Cuddy was beginning to think of this as a cautionary tale. Before she knew it she was on the stand with her hand on a bible swearing to tell the truth, swearing to screw herself over. The truth was that just like Elisa, Cuddy did not have enough physical evidence. She had been too proud to subject herself to a rape-kit, too afraid of ruining her image, too afraid of admitting what had happened to her.