So, this is my very first fanfiction. Written on zero sleep, and enough painmeds to kill a horse.

There are some graphic dream death-scenes in this, So if you do not like blood and ripped out tongues, do avoid.

Dreams from beyond the wall

Chapter I
The dreams of life not lived well

The bathroom tiles seemed crispy white, against the stream of blood. The liquid of life running down the pale arm of a lifeless form, and further downward to the indistinguishable picture, that was grasped in a grip of death. Her head leaned against the white porcelain of the bathtub, and her open eyes were like a dark hole of emptiness and hopelessness. Dirty blond hair with bloody marks, from where her already cold hand had removed it from her eyes, to see more clearly, when she wrote her last message. And on the wall above her head, were written three words by shaky fingers, the blood running thick, and it looked like they were taken directly from a bad horror flick.
She left me.

Still spinning in his daughters scotch rope, his tongue stuck, halfway bitten of, between his chalk white teeth. The eyes bulging out, despair and anger shining out like a still photograph of his last seconds. Blood was running down the pale face, from the words etched into his forehead with a stale penknife, No God.

The human lay stretched out on the ground, next to its disfigured hand. The axe, with which the human had performed its own ruthless amputation, was held in the right fist, with a grip that never wanted to let go. Blood everywhere, like a fountain of red, it had sprayed the snow-covered ground, and the snow seemed more innocent then ever, against the red marks from a lost life. One word was hastily written, with a bloody tongue ripped out of its owner's mouth: Madness.

The empty stare from the girl's head should have looked sparkling and curious to the new world. The head is rested in the mothers lap, and the child's nails are stuck in the cold floor, scratched down hard and surprised, when the unexpected blow fell. The mother, even in death her eyes fixed upon her daughters face, is grasping a note in her left hand. If we can't escape a world of darkness, I choose a world without knowledge, despair and hate, only safety in eternal slumber.

These were the dreams that every single night awoke Greg House, from sleep never deep and always painful. These were the dreams that every night turned the usually stoic and untouchable doctor into a shivering wreck. These were the dreams that represented the worst of his not so joyful and depressing life.

Once he had told his best, and only friend, Doctor James Wilson, about the dreams. They were already more than a little tipsy, but it was only in this state Greg House felt vaguely comfortable sharing even a little of his complex inner life. It was in a state like this he had told the oncologist about his grief about Stacy leaving, how vulnerable and useless he felt with the pain never leaving and even some parts of his not so happy relationship with his demanding father.

Wilson, for once drunker than his friend, took on his best psychology look, and said way to slowly, and with to much thought:

"The white obviously represents the innocence of your childhood, destroyed with every whip of the belt, and every night sleeping alone and cold, and every drop of blood spilt by the hand of the man that should have loved you the most." Then he fell asleep, his head leaning against the back of the sofa, one hand in his lap, and the other, strangely enough, on his best buddy's knee. House placed chips in each of Jimmy's nostrils, and went to bed, with a feeling of dread, and unease, in his stomach.

He awoke, as always a shivering mess, way to early the next morning. A short burst of joy entered his mind as he realized he, strangely enough, were hangover free. He dry swallowed two vicodin, and waited for the pain to stop. And a thought came to him. He diagnosed people, cured them. So, if he could diagnose his drams, maybe he could cure his sleep. But only in his head should these "symptoms of a wrecked soul" come forth. He chuckled shortly at the thought of his duckling's faces, as he wrote those symptoms on the white board, baring himself to the world.

He tried to recount the dreams in his mind, starting with the one in the bathroom. He had always had a great imagination, and every single vivid detail appeared in his mind. Drops of blood slipping slowly from a finger, the finger marked by a wedding band used for a long time, but no more. Moist, red lips, once so kissable, though no more, the thought of her lips pressed against his own disgusted him, but he couldn't stop other macabre notions from invading his mind. His long piano fingers cradling her white breasts, the pink nipples, with dark veins all to petruding, unresponding to the gentle caress. Palm of his hand gently stroking, gliding down her stomach, till it rested just below her bellybutton, under the line of water. He turned his gaze at the lifeless face, staring deeply into the dead and empty eyes. And her face started shifting, Stacy, Cuddy, Ellen, his mother, Cameron, Lizzy, Katy, Amanda, his father, Chase, Foreman, Betty, stopping suddenly at Wilson's face, but without his deep brown eyes, the dark dead orbs remained unchanged from face to face. Staring lifeless, empty like there were no one there. And in death, you truly are alone.

Than he felt the skin under his hands dissolving, the body turning into red mush beneath his agile fingertips. Red flooded everywhere, the white tiles turning to a dark, moist red, the words she left me on the bathroom wall melting, expanding, filling the room with blood. The room quickly filled with the foul-smelling mass of human remains. Increasingly, over his knees, his hips, elbow deep, shoulders, neck, the slimy substance filling his mouth, nose, eyes. He felt a hand grip his, a paper pressed into the palm of his hand. The room suddenly empty, pure white light threatening to blind him. He turns his attention to the paper in his hand, a photograph showing him the image of long repressed memories.

And he could help himself no more. Death he could take, the human matter filling him, drowning him he could handle, but this! He filled his lungs with air in a frightful gasp, and released all anger, all tension, all sorrow from a soul crushed by a life of mental and physical pain, in a scream that shattered every wall in his mind.

So, thats it for now folks. Please let me know if you would like me to continue. Constructive criticism is very welcome. And now, to sleep.