"Father, please help me. I didn't mean to – I don't want to –" He lapsed into silence, trembling in the hushed chapel. He bit back the alien salty tang pricking at his eyelids, and took a deep breath.
He held it for a moment, gazing around at the pretentious grandeur of the place. The windows glared out with their staunch stains of blood red and yawning blue, but they seemed out of place - too big, somehow, for the dingy, chilly room he found himself in. If God was willing to show his face here, He'd be more than happy to show it back in the office. So what the fuck was he doing here?
Filled with numb energy all of a sudden, he leapt to his feet, drew another deep breath, and launched himself into a shattering scream.
No sound came out, and he closed his mouth, glancing about himself guiltily. All this time – hell, he wasn't sure is he even believed in God any more – but still, he felt compelled to regard the dusty atmosphere with a kind of reverence.
Defeated, he wearily trudged back out into the neon corridor. Shrieking sound and vision threatened to overwhelm him, but he shrugged them off in the way only those who no longer care can manage.
So this was how religion beat people. He allowed himself to whisper into the encroaching solidity.
"God, you're an asshole." The words sounded so good; so delicious.
"You hear that?" He spoke louder. A porter glanced at him nervously. He chuckled.
"You hear that, God? You're an asshole. A complete bastard" In glaring up at the ceiling, he lost his balance and fell heavily against the wall. He didn't move; his cheek rested against the smooth plastic veneer. To his horror, racking sobs began to burst out of him. He sank to the floor, and pounded the wall with the heel of his hand. He could no longer get any words out.
He pounded; people gathered. There were electric mumblings, growing in the background.
"Can we get him a sedative?" someone called out. He couldn't be bothered to resist.
When he came to, the deafening lights were gone, replaced with a muted glow. House's Nintendo was bleeping persistently.
"Turn the damn thing off, would you?" House looked up, shrugged, and pocketed the offending article.
"D'you know how much effort it took to keep Cameron away? Y'know..." he parodied a whisper, "I think she's getting fed up with a boring old intensivist. A rock'n'roll neurologist may well be on the cards now…"
"Piss off." There was a scathing silence - a moment of peace before House began again."
"I hear you were cussing God. Daddy Forman won't be happy."
"I don't give a shit about Daddy Forman."
"Ok." House clambered to his feet, "I'll let him know…"
"Screw you, House."
"What?"
"You heard it." House shrugged.
"Well, I'll be seeing you later. Au revoir" He waved, and left. The glass door hissed shut behind him, and Forman was left in his inescapable silence once more.