these characters don't belong to me, please don't sue!
The first day it was red and pounded out its pain. Everyone noticed it, not just Wilson. But Chase found he didn't even care. His jaw was swollen and red and throbbing and all he could think about were the What Ifs. What if he hadn't gotten House to cancel the surgery? What if he'd been wrong? What if he hadn't had his epiphany? Every time he felt the pain in his jaw, he thought of that little girl, and how scared she must have been. He couldn't help but feel like he deserved it. They had caused her fear. It was because of them that she had been told at the age of six that she was going to die. House was tortured by his lack of Vicodin, Cameron was hurt emotionally, because of her unstoppable caring, Cuddy's pain was emotional too, as she worried about her abilities as a mother, and Foreman's ego was probably aching, because he hated not knowing things. Chase had to hurt physically. That was the only way to punish him. It was simply a fact; he was numb, so he rarely hurt emotionally, he didn't expect anything of himself, so his ego wasn't bruised, and he wasn't an addict, so there was no substance you could deny him that would make him want to shrivel up and die. On the first day, his jaw was red, and it screamed its pain, impossible to ignore.
The second day, it had mellowed a little. It was kind of reddish purple, and the pain was more of a constant ache. Always there, but no longer very severe. Nobody asked about it. They'd either heard through the grapevine, or they didn't care. What had happened had happened. It didn't really matter in the big scheme of things and it would be over with soon. It ached when he opened his mouth too wide, but as long as it didn't affect anyone but him, it was unimportant. He was nothing but a bug on the windshield of the world. Unnoticeable, but simply there. The second day, its occasional scream had been quieted to a constant murmur.
The third day, it was rather blue looking. He didn't notice it as much. It was still tender when he opened his mouth too wide, to yawn or take a bite of his lunch, so he didn't talk much. He was quietly there, unable to look anyone in the eyes. Cuddy had told him not to bother with clinic duty that day, because he was just too silent. If House hadn't been kicked off their new case, he probably would have laughed at Chase's sulking. Chase couldn't argue with that; he had woken up just as blue as the bruise and it wouldn't shake. He was loathsome for letting this affect him so much. An absolute worm. He felt like such a goddamned idiot… This whole thing was his own fault. It was blue and quiet, a latent self-hatred.
The fourth day, his bruise was bluish-blackish, almost green. They'd solved their case, the one with the dwarf. It didn't hurt anymore, unless you touched it. He was running on empty. He did his job, some time in both the clinic and the ICU, but he felt like he was barely there. Cameron was worried about him. But he didn't care; He was miles and miles away. Three people died in the ICU, from a car crash, and he was wishing his jaw still hurt, because he still needed the pain, the punishment. There was nothing he could do about anything. There was nothing anyone could do. They could save people, but they'd still die eventually. They could save people, but they couldn't fix them. They'd return to the world, just as screwed up as they had been when they came here. He was floating, just barely floating, but he could feel the current pulling him under. The bruise had become as black as the abyss that was sucking him in.
The last day, it was yellow and green and brown. Hideous to look at and still a little painful to the touch. He spent the whole day hiding out in the clinic. Every patient he was given had looked at him like they didn't trust him. Like they were about to go and ask Nurse Brenda for a different doctor. He did what he could to help, but it was rather annoying. Finally, a twenty-something girl had come in for a tetanus shot. She'd looked apprehensively at the needle, and asked him what had happened as he rubbed an antiseptic on her arm. Chase smiled at her, because she was pretty, but he couldn't get the grin to spread anywhere beyond his mouth. He told her an easily concocted lie, about sleeping in and running around like a maniac trying to get to work, until he tripped and hit his chin on the corner of the bedside table. By the time he finished his story, he was sticking a band-aid on the puncture, and she was getting up to leave. She turned around at the door and thanked him for making the injection so easy. He could tell she didn't believe his story. But she'd asked, she'd cared enough to ask, and she knew not to push it when he didn't want to tell. The look on her face, disbelieving, sympathetic, and understanding, meant more to him that he could even comprehend. She left exam room three, and he sat there, alone, breathing as though he'd run a marathon, emotions flooding his body. He was trapped. He was lost. He was worthless scum. Chase rubbed his jaw, felt the healing bruise and felt like he could finally move on. There, as he put the syringe in the disposal box, and cleaned up the area for the next patient, he resolved that he ran his own life. What House did or didn't do was of no importance to him. On the last day, the bruise was the color of vomit, or an equally disgusting substance and its shackles were finally broken.
fin