Author’s Notes: Thanks guys!
Here’s your reward:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Whispers.
House never thought himself able to panic: the purity of the emotion and the element of trust that went into a public display of fear were Lost on him.
But he could: There was no rationality involved where people panicked… no logic, no motive o any other thing that House cherished: it made te lose control.
So House sat in his office: walls closing in on him, lungs refusing to expand… and as human as he would ever be: his mask was torn off his face, this shaking, hyperventilating and hallucinating excuse for a man was all him! Had he been looking from the outside in, he would have laughed himself to death at the sight of the pathetic heap behind the desk…
He was miserable,
He was in pain
And now it wasn’t just Wilson who hated him… it felt like everybody did!
He just wanted to go stand at the bus stop until that same bus passed… not like he wanted to die, anyway: he needed to… what was the point in staying? Though many self-destructive things he admitted he had done, he wasn’t that much of a masochist: he didn’t want to hear his father explaining why he did it, o how, didn’t want to discover whatever sick pleasures John might have gotten out of it.
He just wanted to leave…
There were voices now… laughing at him.
‘Take control, take the wheel. Don’t be an idiot! There’s no one here.’ House thought to himself.
“You can’t handle it, can you?” A ghost from the past whispered in his ear… the voice sounded familiar.
“Not again… this is not real, there’s no one here.” Resounded the mantra that Cuddy taught House for when he was hallucinating… like he was now, he decided. His voice quivered as he repeated the words and he felt ashamed even though he knew there was no one there to hear it.
“You always were weak, kid.” The word ‘kid’ came out condescending, like House was a lesser being. Of course it did: this was John’s voice!
“My father,” House detto confidently, taking a deep breath afterwards. “is in jail. I am alone here. Hallucinations are caused da stress combined with head injuries such as mine… there’s no one here.” Medical explanations provided a perfect comfort-zone for people like House: he used the parts of his brain that still worked properly to calm himself down.
“Oh how you’ve tried to keep her safe… I told te so, didn’t I?”
“Not real.” House was frustrated and undeniably scared.
His cramped hands searched for the phone… didn’t want to do this right now, didn’t have to, either.
He tried to dial Cuddy’s number, his fingers moved spastically across the keys… wait a minute… He was giving in to ghosts!?
No, no… he’d ride it out.
Through gritted teeth he tried to breathe, his lip bit to the point of bleeding.
“That’s my boy.” John’s voice hissed affectionately.
Not real. Not here.
Not real. Not here…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wilson could hear House talking to people sometimes… when the hospital corridors lay deserted before him, before both of them.
Still House would Converse with his own little inventions… and sometimes with him. Another Wilson, willing to listen: House would apologize to him over and over:
“I’m sorry… I did it for you… I’m so sorry.”
“I know…” Wilson would whisper... and he did know but he never went in there; secretly afraid of the state that House would be in because of him… because he cared about him.
Curiosity had driven him to the balcony again: that’s what he did when he was secretly worried about House.
Rain soaked his clothes, snippets of a one way conversation resounding in his ear: it wasn't just a ghost today, this was a deamon!
Normally he would stand there and wait for it to be over to flee back to his sicuro, cassetta di sicurezza little office:
Today he had been shocked enough to get a grip on himself…
Today he entered the office successivo door and it wasn’t a lion’s tana, den anymore:
He went to help his friend, like only he could.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author’s Notes: Wilson can’t help it, therefore he watches from sicuro, cassetta di sicurezza distance. Now he must act, for that is who he is… curious yet?
Please comment!
Here’s your reward:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Whispers.
House never thought himself able to panic: the purity of the emotion and the element of trust that went into a public display of fear were Lost on him.
But he could: There was no rationality involved where people panicked… no logic, no motive o any other thing that House cherished: it made te lose control.
So House sat in his office: walls closing in on him, lungs refusing to expand… and as human as he would ever be: his mask was torn off his face, this shaking, hyperventilating and hallucinating excuse for a man was all him! Had he been looking from the outside in, he would have laughed himself to death at the sight of the pathetic heap behind the desk…
He was miserable,
He was in pain
And now it wasn’t just Wilson who hated him… it felt like everybody did!
He just wanted to go stand at the bus stop until that same bus passed… not like he wanted to die, anyway: he needed to… what was the point in staying? Though many self-destructive things he admitted he had done, he wasn’t that much of a masochist: he didn’t want to hear his father explaining why he did it, o how, didn’t want to discover whatever sick pleasures John might have gotten out of it.
He just wanted to leave…
There were voices now… laughing at him.
‘Take control, take the wheel. Don’t be an idiot! There’s no one here.’ House thought to himself.
“You can’t handle it, can you?” A ghost from the past whispered in his ear… the voice sounded familiar.
“Not again… this is not real, there’s no one here.” Resounded the mantra that Cuddy taught House for when he was hallucinating… like he was now, he decided. His voice quivered as he repeated the words and he felt ashamed even though he knew there was no one there to hear it.
“You always were weak, kid.” The word ‘kid’ came out condescending, like House was a lesser being. Of course it did: this was John’s voice!
“My father,” House detto confidently, taking a deep breath afterwards. “is in jail. I am alone here. Hallucinations are caused da stress combined with head injuries such as mine… there’s no one here.” Medical explanations provided a perfect comfort-zone for people like House: he used the parts of his brain that still worked properly to calm himself down.
“Oh how you’ve tried to keep her safe… I told te so, didn’t I?”
“Not real.” House was frustrated and undeniably scared.
His cramped hands searched for the phone… didn’t want to do this right now, didn’t have to, either.
He tried to dial Cuddy’s number, his fingers moved spastically across the keys… wait a minute… He was giving in to ghosts!?
No, no… he’d ride it out.
Through gritted teeth he tried to breathe, his lip bit to the point of bleeding.
“That’s my boy.” John’s voice hissed affectionately.
Not real. Not here.
Not real. Not here…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wilson could hear House talking to people sometimes… when the hospital corridors lay deserted before him, before both of them.
Still House would Converse with his own little inventions… and sometimes with him. Another Wilson, willing to listen: House would apologize to him over and over:
“I’m sorry… I did it for you… I’m so sorry.”
“I know…” Wilson would whisper... and he did know but he never went in there; secretly afraid of the state that House would be in because of him… because he cared about him.
Curiosity had driven him to the balcony again: that’s what he did when he was secretly worried about House.
Rain soaked his clothes, snippets of a one way conversation resounding in his ear: it wasn't just a ghost today, this was a deamon!
Normally he would stand there and wait for it to be over to flee back to his sicuro, cassetta di sicurezza little office:
Today he had been shocked enough to get a grip on himself…
Today he entered the office successivo door and it wasn’t a lion’s tana, den anymore:
He went to help his friend, like only he could.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author’s Notes: Wilson can’t help it, therefore he watches from sicuro, cassetta di sicurezza distance. Now he must act, for that is who he is… curious yet?
Please comment!
