A/N: Inspired and titled by Simple Plan's Untitled. Have fun deciphering this grim tale. Much love, Hadley
Disclaimer: I don't own Simple Plan or James Wilson.
James Wilson stood by the side of the road, staring emotionlessly into the oncoming traffic of Princeton, New Jersey. It was nearly three a.m., yet somehow the cold night's demeanor hadn't managed to rub off of the dozens of drivers streaming through the roads in varying styles of cars, many of them appearing to be teenagers' play toys. His fatigued features were shrouded in a fine shadow, courtesy of the curiously and dangerously unlit intersection he was standing at. But despite how dark the area around him was, everything on the slender strip of road in front of him was moving in a fast blur of color; of bright lights and different times; of the happiness he wished he could feel.
His eyelids fell and, just for a second, he faltered—maybe he should just forget. Just erase everything from his memory. Snapping his eyes open, Wilson almost felt like laughing for the first time in days at the tired absurdity of his thought. He couldn't. It wasn't a matter of will, it just wasn't possible for him to forget her.
I open my eyes
I try to see but I'm blinded by the white light.
I can't remember how
I can't remember why
I'm lying here tonight…
He hadn't slept. He knew it was bad, and he knew it was wrong. But he couldn't go to bed and allow himself to dream, because he knew his dreams would be about her. And he knew that if he went to bed, he wouldn't want to wake up, because he'd need to expend every last moment of sheer hope—that maybe she was going to be there, living, breathing, sleeping next to him. Maybe none of it happened. Maybe he still had a best friend. Maybe everything was okay.
Four days had passed. On the first day it was hard. Unbearable, to think of not seeing her. But this? This was hell. Insanity. Wilson felt as if his body would crumble if he moved, as if if he opened his mouth a torrent of tears would rush down his face. He couldn't communicate. He certainly could see patients, and he had virtually isolated everyone in his life. Even House.
Especially House.
And I can't stand the pain,
And I can't make it go away
No I can't stand the pain…
He wouldn't let himself think about it. At this point, his thoughts were all he had left, and he wasn't going to let them eat away his consciousness. He was barely alive as it was—how the oncologist managed to walk after four days of no sleep, no food, and a sip of water any time he came into view of narcotics was a miracle to him.
But don't believe that he was a drug addict. It was just a game, really. Seeing how far he could push himself. He knew he was smart enough to stop. He would never go too far. And he would continue to buy into his own lie, because he was far enough gone that he could fool himself.
But in truth? In truth, Wilson's everyday was the biggest struggle of his life. He could barely put one foot in front of the other anymore. He was loosing it; going insane. Had he really no friends? Did no one care?
How could this happen to me?
I've made my mistakes
got nowhere to run,
The night goes on as I'm fading away…
People did care. But not about her. Not about her. They wanted to give him their damning pity. Him! As if he could forget what a broken person he was after some tie-and-suit apologized for what he hadn't even been there to see.
It was all Wilson could do to keep from coming to House. But he knew he couldn't do that. Even House wasn't normal. He didn't know. He was one of them. And it was Wilson's fault.
I'm sick of this life
I just wanna scream!
How could this happen to me?
That first day was a complete, mathematical, symmetrical blur. He couldn't think right—it was like he was watching himself live. He processed data, and didn't do anything about it. If one of his patients had shot themselves dead he wouldn't have noticed. It was a fog, remarkably similar to the gloomy pallor of the current night air. A bright, eerily calm spookiness presided over the streets, and so did an air of repetitive cries erupt in the hospital. But he didn't care; or rather, he couldn't care. He couldn't feel. He didn't know what was happening. It was like he stopped functioning once he heard she was in the crash.
Everybody's screaming
I try to make a sound but no one hears me
I'm slipping off the edge
I'm hanging by a thread
I wanna start this over again...
Wilson jumped as a car passed too close to his shaded body; though, as he reminded himself, he wasn't exactly in the best position on a street that was notoriously infamous for underage drunk drivers. Despite this revelation, he did little more than shuffle backwards a few feet—what could possibly happen to him that hadn't already occurred? The shattering of his bones? That didn't matter. He had died the minute he was forced to flip the switch on Amber's life.
And for the first time since the accident was announced, James Wilson began to sob. Tears ran down his face, streaking lines of pain across the pale dim pallor of his face. He didn't bother hiding his shame, for he was no longer worth any dignity. And even if he had a life to salvage, no one could see his misery in the dark new lows that doubled both as his body and mind but also as the street corner he had spent the last 5 hours standing in.
Try as he might to stop, tears kept coming.
So I tried to hold on
To a time when
Nothing mattered,
He thought back to that night, when he'd found her note. Not only did the note suggest an air of innocence, but it further instilled Wilson's believe that she—Amber—was without a doubt the most beautiful, amazing human being to grace the earth. So when he discovered what had happened to Amber prior to the note, an undying hatred remained for House, who surely must've caused his angel to get hurt. He, of course, had no idea the extent of her injuries at the time, nor that House was entirely not to blame for her death.
But he sure 'got' it. Oh ho, Wilson made sure of that. Short of hitting him in his the thigh, Wilson had done every possible awful, horrible thing he could think of to House. It was his fault, he was sure of it. And House, despite uptightness and an ego bigger than North America, was starting to believe it too.
And I can't explain
What happened and I can't erase the things that I've done
No I can't…
And even though he knew now that it was in no way House's fault, Wilson knew he'd never stop blaming him. House never would, either. And that was why he couldn't ever have him as a friend. It just wouldn't work.
So he couldn't go anywhere. He couldn't stay with anyone he loved. And he was sure no one would love him after what he'd done to House. House wasn't the type of person that tattled, but surely someone would notice when House couldn't work because he was doubled over in pain. Even Wilson himself couldn't believe the bruises he'd instilled on his supposed best friend, but it was all too late now. Much too late.
How could this happen to me?
I've made my mistakes
got nowhere to run,
The night goes on as I'm fading away
I'm sick of this life
I just wanna scream!
How could this happen to me?
Did he really have anything left? Did he have anything to live for? Did anything count? Did anyone love him?
Wilson knew the answer already. No. None if it was true. He wasn't worth anything.
I've made my mistakes
got nowhere to run,
The night goes on as I'm fading away
I'm sick of this life
I just wanna scream…
How could this happen to me?
He whispered so quietly it was barely noticeable, "I love you, Amber." Then, white lights staring him in the face, he stepped into the road, directly in the path of the oncoming SUV. It was over. He had finished. He was dead.
And he was safe.