Descent

(Author's Note: Just a short drabble I thought up while being sick. Wanted to get my creative juices flowing again.)

They say the descent is different for everyone.

Sometimes it hits you immediately, and you're itching for another hit within seconds. Other times, it's slow… painless, a gradual submergence into oblivion in which you don't even realize you're drowning.

Mine is the latter, just like his.

I'm gazing up at him, wondering why the hell he looks so ashamed of me. He doesn't have any room to talk. He's popping pills all the time, shooting morphine into his tired veins. Does he have the right to be angry at me? I don't think so. He doesn't know me that well. He never made the effort.

His thumb brushes the top of his cane, and he appears to contemplate coming closer, but he doesn't.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks, his gravel-laced voice carries to my ears and it hurts my head.

I don't respond. He hasn't earned the right to hear a response from me, because somewhere in this fucked up logic of mine, there's still a little voice telling me that I'm better than him. Even though I'm not. And I know that.

I take a long swig of the bottle and let the burning liquid slither down my throat. This is my bliss. This is my addiction.

"You know, it wasn't too difficult to figure out. You've been extending your sick days, vacation days…. Cameron starts asking you questions, Foreman starts silently judging you." He shrugs. "You were making it too easy. You come to work smelling like it, if you come to work at all."

I choke on a laugh. "You… you son of a bitch."

His eyebrows rise. I've never been very audacious, especially with my boss. I continue, nonetheless, this sweet, sweet liquor giving me strength and confidence. "You've written false scripts, you have multiple stashes, you're constantly popping pills. You've OD-ed on Vicodin and alcohol. You've even had Cuddy fucking lie to people to keep you out of jail. You've lost everyone you've cared about and you're mad at me?" I laugh, a scathing, reprimanding laugh. "Get the fuck out of here."

His cane slams against my face, and I can feel the bruise forming as I lie there on the floor.

"I'm in pain."

"Your usual excuse," I bite back. "You expect us to believe you? We all know you're addicted."

"Maybe I am, but I'm functioning."

"Why do you even care?" I groan.

He's standing over me, as if he's God, pondering what punishment he can give me. I gaze up at him, somehow completely helpless to him. His clear blue eyes aren't angry at all. I thinks that's what surprises me t he most. He shoves the cane into my ribs, rolling me over onto my back painfully, and he shakes his head.

"Because you're better than this."

You glare up at him. "Don't lie. I'm… no better than you."

"I didn't say that," he replies rather callously. "Get off your ass. Quit acting like your mother."

It feels like the cold blade of a knife going right through my stomach. I visibly wince.

House turns and makes his way out of the apartment.

"You've got a choice," he says. "If you don't come in tomorrow, sober, you're fired. Get your priorities straight, Chase. You've got work to do."

The door slams shut behind him, leaving me to myself. I lie there, staring at the blank spot where he was. I'm no better than he is. I'm not better than this… am I?

I'll be damned, but the man always makes me question myself.

I don't feel like I've hit rock bottom yet, and I wonder if I should keep digging, just to spite House. But I can't do it.

I'll show up to work tomorrow, but I'm kidding myself if everything's fine. That's the life of an addict. He knows; I know. Things don't change that easily.

They say the ascent is different for everyone.