House of Pain
He was married to pain, and had misery for a mistress. Can there be any room for anyone else?
"You faked cancer to get high?"
An invisible slap to the face, but a slap to the face nonetheless. A slightly jarring but highly effective wake-up call.
He opens his mouth slightly, both to sigh and to feel his jaw. He sets his eyes on the floor, closes them briefly, his mind willing the intruders to disappear.
When he looks up, they are still there. Only this time, all that warm, fuzzy sympathy has transformed into accusation. Worst, he spies in her eyes something like disappointment. Dang it, he forgot to say "Abracadabra".
Whatever, this is still his territory.
"I'm going back to bed."
And the white flag has been raised. The great master strategist's plan of attack is…retreat? Yes, retreat. Distance is key. With distance, there can be no confrontation. No exchange of verbal bullets. No great explosions of feelings. No casualties of guilt.
Of course, if it were any other person, any normal person, one might be inclined to explain his side, you know, just to clear the air or for other reasonable, mature reasons.
He could try; the thought does actually occur in his mind, albeit in the most fleeting of moments. He is, after all, more than capable to make the argument, justify his means to his ends. If he was inclined to, had been a tad more insecure of his reasons, he could make a case as to why he wanted, no, needed the treatment.
Pain and Pleasure run in the same circuits, he would say, indulging in one of his metaphors. They hang around in this exclusive bar called Hypothalamus. Now Pain is really a good fellow, and he can hold his own around the drinks. Most of the time, anyway. But when he does get drunk he's capable of really nasty things, instigate enough ruckus to get the bar shut down. Pleasure is his friend; he's the morally and physically sober one, kind of like Wilson but without the persuasive brawn to keep Pain in line. One time, Pain was so out of it, and out of control that he ended trashing up the place, scaring all the patrons away. So before things got any more out of hand, Pleasure did what any well-meaning friend would do, he called Treatment for backup…
He would probably end it there, trail off into thoughtful silence and let their imagination fill in the ellipses. Besides, describing Treatment as a really long, thick needle that'll be poked at his brain will just ruin the whole metaphor. And you know that he's all about the metaphor.
"You were right: I don't like you."
AAaaaah, he just had to go and ruin it with his resentment and dramatic pause. And just for that, no metaphors!
He's never been one for drama. That's something he'll only willingly sit through for his soaps. And even then, the only real reaction you can get from him is a laugh. Or maybe a sneer.
"Sure, now that I'm not dying," he hollers back.
Sarcasm is almost enough to rinse down the glob of drama stuck in his throat. Well, almost.
He hobbles to his room, slams the door shut with more force than he'd intended and throws himself on his bed, temporarily irreverent of the shot of pain that punctures another hole through his leg.
If appeal to reason doesn't work, even as it is cleverly guised in a metaphor, appeal to pity might, he contemplates. Why the hell not? Isn't that what they've been waiting for all this time: for the high and mighty House to show some inkling of humility, share his life's pains and frailties, shed a tear or two in the process; all in the attempt to prove that he is, in fact, only human.
It puzzles him really, their maniacal impulse to make him cry, make him feel more, make him human. Because when did he ever give them the impression that he wasn't? He's an ass. God has a number of nicknames but he's sure He's never been called that.
Another label God has not been called, at least as far as he knows, is a cripple. He hasn't had the opportunity to experience muscle death. God couldn't describe the pain, the searing, flesh-eating pain that's gnawing and munching greedily at his leg; how it's particularly hungry in the morning, snacking in the afternoon, and then insatiable in the evening.
House could describe all that in vivid, non-primary colors. Well, as colorful as the English lexicon (and maybe, Spanish, Japanese, and Portuguese) would allow him. He could exaggerate, use up every word ever created to signify pain in its highest, most unbearable degree and that still might not be enough.
How do you even rate pain? That's the thing - you don't. You can't.
Oh you can put into a scale of 1 to 10, sure. You can use the generic bad-worse-worst-barely conscious description. But that doesn't really cut it, does it? Doesn't really give the experience the dimensions; its texture, its depth. Doesn't really give the pain the respect it duly deserves.
People ask him (with only the best of intentions, of course): "How's the leg?"
"Are you okay?"
"How's the pain?"
He answers (with only the best sarcastic quip he can come up with in view of the pain): "The last time I looked, it was still attached to my hip bone. Can you check?"
"Do I look okay?" To which, the brave, kind-hearted but naive interlocutor could only respond with a puzzled or worried look. He will then ask, "Are you okay?"
"Oh, the pain? Well, we're getting along just fine. In fact, I'm going to ask it to marry me. And you're invited to the wedding."
He can't really be bothered to explain to them how bad the pain is, good intentions or not. Not while he still has pain to deal with. He doesn't have the energy to multi-task. Sarcasm has been a good friend. It has been fending off or at least, cutting short such encounters.
But for the sake of fallacious argument, he will forego sarcasm and will proceed to use plain, unexciting words.
This is what pain does: He wakes up in the morning and the first thing he notices is not the sunshine filtering into his room through his window. It's not the comfy bed and the soft sheets. It's not the earthly whiff of the dew-watered ground. It's not the birds chirping happily outside. No, the first thing he notices is pain; a bug, with long, sharp scythes for limbs, that crawls up and down his leg, sinking its feet into his flesh every centimeter of the way.
When it's lunch, he has to debate whether to go to the cafeteria or just sit it out in his office. Luckily, Wilson has taken to bringing his lunch to work.
The same goes when he has to pee. Or go to the clinic. Or to Cuddy's office. Or pretty much anywhere.
And even if he doesn't complain, share his agonies, it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt just the same. The sea might be calm, but the current underneath is just as strong. It takes just one moment of weakness, of self pity, to be pulled undertow.
Pain occupies every of inch of his consciousness. Vicodin affords him a small window of time to see through the pain, to joke, to play PSP, to diagnose a patient or two, to pretend that the limp is not so bad, that he can live his life like this for another year or two. The treatment just might convince him that he can see this kind of life through.
The inference is easy: life minus chronic pain equals zero. They cancel themselves out. It can't get any simpler than that.
He could try to explain. For the moment, he just might let it slip that he wants to. He wants for them to understand and for him to be understood.
He just might have reached for his cane.
He just might have propped himself up on the bed and made a move to stand up.
He just might have heard the front door click shut.
What he will admit to doing is cursing. And sighing, a rather audible and drawn-out one. Whether it's from relief, frustration or guilt, you can never quite tell. And who's to say it's not from all three.
And that's all you'll ever get out of Doctor Gregory House. A vague admission or a weak denial that something is wrong. Or at the very least, that something's not right.
He closes his eyes, rubs his temples slowly. He should have never let them in. He's always had problems making them stay.