A/N: Absolutely no reason I'm writing this other than the fact I felt it ought to be written. Although, this story may have been spawned by my countless algebra problems (pun intended!)...
By: Hadley, of the Bloody Koalas.
Disclaimer: I am not the Prophet of the Sea (Get it? David the prophet, and Shore for sea…?)
It's not fair. Life's not fair. But it didn't have to happen.
It wasn't all my fault. Cuddy shares the blame, too. Without her I never would've done it. Heartless as I seem, I would never wish that on him. Not on Wilson.
Cuddy thought she was doing good, just another good deed for the super-woman. She wasn't. No one ever does. When are they going to get it? When will they ever get it? I may enjoy the usage of a particular narcotic. But it just so happens that I also have a medically justified reason. I'm not addicted, I'm in pain.
Wilson is the weird grey area that doesn't really exist. Right after he stands up for me in front of Cuddy, pointing out every little truthful detail, he retracts into his own little cycle of self-denial. The I-need-to-stop-him-while-I-can phase. In other words, pity for me, not denial. I don't like pity. I appreciate his lunches, I trust him a good part of the time, but he doesn't need to fight my battles. Just look at him! Torn and bitten by his ex's. Jimmy, I can fight my own battles.
When she finally banned the Vicodin, I knew I could make it. It was just a week, and I needed to prove my worth.
I was wrong.
Cameron found me. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want her to see me that way. She couldn't handle her picture-perfect world being ripped apart. I had hoped that my visitor would be Cuddy, come to bring me Vicodin. It wasn't.
I never hesitated to resort to cutting, regardless of the cliché. The endorphins would reduce pain, and I needed my pain lessened. Cuddy wouldn't have listened anyway, not until something 'bad' happened. Until Cameron went crying to her, anyway. The ability that girl possesses to manipulate others is impressive. Frightfully impressive.
Cameron's blubbering was nothing compared to this.
Wilson had found me. He creaked open the door, in that ever-so-annoying manner. Hoping to catch me before bed. I can't seem to instill in him the simple facts, one of them being that adulthood contains no bedtime. Didn't matter to him, the wimp. But he knew that I was usually up through the odd hours of the night, anyway.
When he saw me on the floor, he jumped.
Adrenaline.
And he rushed over. But rushed is a terrible, such an underestimated way to describe it. He flew over to me. Fighter-plane style. And when I turned, I was met with disgust. That simply patented horrified, repulsed look on his face. And all this because I had stolen his patient's pills. Hey, I needed them. Didn't faze Wilson. That night he was one of them. Just like Cuddy. Didn't believe me. I'm not sure if he ever will again. He's stopped trusting me.
I got tears for Christmas.