Series of unrelated House and Cameron one-shots.
Blues
Oh no, not this again.
You are such a masochist.
You know this will only cause a flood of unwelcome but equally as fond memories to infiltrate your mind, body, and living room.
Still you put the needle on the vinyl.
It's nearly instant.
The melancholy melody stays suspended in mid air. It reminds you of the way when she was with you, her smile never could quite reach her eyes.
You remember when she was at your place one night.
You remember her closing her eyes and swaying with the beat of the LP.
You wouldn't take her for a blues fan, but she just added another notch on your belt of Cameron surprises.
It's fitting you think.
The songs of the blues tell stories of wounds never healed, loves lost and never found, and lonely nights with only a piano and a bottle for company.
It's disgusting how cliche you are; sitting here alone in the dark, half drunk and half high, listening to a song that reminds you of the one girl you never could quite figure out.
The static on the record just reminds you how old it is, how old you are, and how youthful and refreshing she was before you got a hold of her.
Your depression seeped out of you and spread with sickening speed.
It's better this way, you think, that she got out before you could swallow her light completely.
Still, you think, just one more taste wouldn't hurt.
You swirl some bourbon around the bottom of a glass.
If you just had one more memory to hold on to.
You remember the way she trembled under your touch.
The patterns her goosebumps made.
You remember the number of times you made her laugh unguardedly, seventeen.
You hear the harmonica solo, the world's most morose instrument, and you think this music really isn't helping.
When she first asked you to play her some blues, you thought you would start her off with some newer, lighter, stuff. But as soon as you pushed play she told you it was all wrong.
She wanted the heavy stuff, deep south, delta blues.
You acquiesced and the result was an unlikely combination that was oddly suited.
You were sad, you made her sad, and the blues were sad.
With a loud fuzzy sound the needle rises, the record ends, but the memories stay.
They never really dissipate, you think.
You simply sit, silently hoping the record player will read your mind, and some unknown force will reset the needle and resume the playing. You just want to remember a little longer you tell yourself.