Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1

Thanks for the reviews. I'm glad the perspective works. 'It' in the beginning of this chapter is House's cane.

Wilson's Ghost

I know he's been near when I wake up again, the same way I know what woke me and why. The second I know because it's become a pattern. The first because in a pre-waking moment, I could smell him. I know it as well as I know I must get up immediately.

There. Proof. As I force myself up and my legs over the side of the bed, I see it. He's left it for me. Always considerate.

I'm grateful to have it for the few strides to the bathroom, and equally grateful he's disappeared. This is disgusting. I don't want him to see me like this. No matter how many times he's seen me like this before, I never want him to see me like this again.

Like this morning. Who can't pee in a sink? A sink's a sink. Which room it's in doesn't matter. And then he sits down to stay a while. Just what I want: someone to watch while my guts fills up with water. I've had enough of that. The first days after the infarction, so much morphine, I couldn't do anything, no food in my gut to begin with, and they wouldn't let me do it by myself, no listening to the fact I know how—I don't want to remember.

I need a Vicodin. Never to think about that time again.

Why can't this come in larger amounts at longer intervals? I need to sleep. The sink wavers like a mirage. I blink. It slides back into place.

Still stinks. Still consistent. More than half of this roll is gone. I'm careful not to use too much. A clog would hurt me bad right now.

I wash up. My hands are raw. Accustomed as they are to being washed again and again at work, they're dry from the soap he put in the dispenser. Whatever it is. Smells like apples. Artificial green apples. Artificial Granny Smith apples.

I avoid my face in the mirror. I know what I look like. I have the cane for support now. Less sleepy but I don't want to walk further than the bed.

Peripherally I see him sitting on the couch as I cross the hall into the bedroom. I don't want him to come with his questions and his caring expression. But I do. I want him. I know it. Just not like that.

That plastic yellow cup, the same one all day, now it's on his table beside the bed. Full of vile green Gatorade. I asked for it.

I sip first. Slowly. It's cold down the esophagus, coating the stomach wall. I shiver. I know why. Need to push a few ounces now before I sleep again. Probably will need another shot soon. Vicodin on an empty stomach, like an unbalanced washing machine.

A belch creeps up unstoppably. Finally something that isn't vomit. I feel better. A larger sip this time.

I don't hear him coming. I don't think he'll come.

He wants to go fishing because he likes to fish. I fished some. First in Japan. John stole his father's tackle and fished after we stopped for lunch. Just hiking that time. He couldn't climb with the tackle. He fished not to eat but because he liked it and he missed it, he said. He was a better fisherman than a rock climber. No instinct for finding holds. Even after his dad found out and punished him, he still snuck the tackle out.

So he wants to go fishing because he misses it. He wants to do more together. Probably thinks if I get outside more often I'll be cured. But he wants it and when do I ever give him what he wants? I'll take a game along. Maybe a fishing game.

This stuff really is disgusting. Can't stand it since I drank too much for a hangover years ago. That was worse than this is. More violent.

Should have let him get the red flavor. Or any other flavor.

I force a burp this time. Clear the air out. About three ounces of the green nasty. That's enough.

I lie back down, smelling him and me both on the pillow. Need a shower. I can still smell latex. The subtle reek of blood. Not my blood. Maybe in a few hours. Get some fluids first, some rest. Sure to do nothing that would alarm him.

He hasn't come. He won't come.

I can sleep now. Two Vicodin on top of the fluid loss and yes, there, in the moment I surrender it comes.