I wake up disoriented. The room I'm in is too bright and smells strange. I move and feel something pulling at my arm and a thick pad between my legs. I groan and open my eyes. The hospital. It all comes flooding back to me like scenes from a bad movie. I lost a baby I didn't know I had and lost the man I love.
Shit, I said it to him, too. I said exactly what he never wanted to hear. I just wanted to make him stop, make him believe I would never keep something like that from him. I look down and see the stitches in my wrist; eight of them. I must have come down rather hard on those plates for a cut this deep. I'm not sure what to think about the situation. What should I be more upset about, the loss of something I never knew I had or the loss of something I knew I had, but also knew it would fall apart eventually?
I'm contemplating these things when someone enters the room. I look up; it's Cuddy. In silence, she comes to the bed and starts taking out the IV line. I suppose I'm being discharged now, but I don't know why Cuddy could be bothered to do this; there were nurses crawling all over the place. We're both trying to ignore the elephant in the room, but in the end she breaks the silence. She asks me how I feel.
I want to know how I should feel about it. Am I really supposed to be all bent out of shape about my miscarriage? What would have happened if I found out before this? Aren't I better off now? It's not like he would have taken any sort of responsibility.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. And all of a sudden the tears come flooding out. Im embarrassed to do this in front of her, someone I barely know. I sob and out of nowhere I feel her arms around me. She strokes my hair and lets me cry, and I know it's because she feels compassion for me and no one else will. Most would say I brought it on myself, being with him in the first place; I know House will feel that way, I'm sure Foreman will assure him of it.
She feels compassion for me because she knows what it is to try and care for House. She feels compassion for me because all of a sudden, I've gone from House's slutty young mistress to a young girl who's in love with the most difficult, stubborn, unsympathetic man anyone has ever known.
xXxXx
I'm in my office, squeezing a stress ball and staring hard at my desk. I'm not happy about the situation. I haven't gone to see her, won't go to see her. I'll let her walk right out of my life so I can resume my miserable, lonely existence. I pop a Vicodin and wash it down with some lukewarm coffee. Wilson is sitting across from me, looking at me with that fucking look of his that tells me I'm an idiot and bringing this upon myself.
She said those things to me, the things I never wanted to hear from her. I know she wanted me to see her side, believe her story. I never thought she'd keep something like that from me, but I think about it and there is so much I don't know about her. Where does she go when she's not working and she's not with me? To her apartment? To do what? It frustrates me that I still haven't perfected my mind-reading powers.
I'm still not sure what to think. What should I be more upset about, the loss of something I never knew I had or the loss of something I knew I had, but also knew it would fall apart eventually?
Wilson tries to get me to go down to talk to her. She's being discharged and he has to take her back to my place to pick up her car. He tells me he can delay taking her back if I want to go down and talk. I don't want to talk to her. If I talk to her, I have to confront these feelings I have that I don't want to name. I don't say that last part, but Wilson knows that's why I won't talk to her.
He asks me what I think about it. I want to know what I should think about it. Am I really supposed to be all bent out of shape that she had a miscarriage? What would have happened if she hadn't miscarried and we were confronted with this issue? Aren't I better off now? It's not like I would have wanted to take any sort of responsibility.
He reminds me that Henri is the only light in my life and he's right. He reminds me that I'm not in pain when she's around and that if I am, she can make it go away. He reminds me that she cooks, she cleans and never asks for a single thing in return from me. I'm getting angry with him and tell him to shut the fuck up. He reminds me that she loves me and is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I stand and throw the stress ball. It makes contact with something and I hear glass shattering. I tell Wilson to keep his fucking mouth shut if he doesn't want my cane connecting with his pretty face. I don't want to hear a damn thing from him. I want to forget about it all, I want to forget about her. I had the glass and the blood cleaned from my floor, had her scent washed from my sheets, I threw away the rest of the pasta she'd made and the apple tarts. I wiped my apartment clean of her.
Wilson lets me go on my tirade, yelling and pointing and pushing things off my desk and I know it's because he feels compassion for me and no one else will. Most would say I brought it on myself, being with her inthe first place; I know I feel that way, and I'm sure Foreman will reassure me of this.
He feels compassion for me because he knows I tried to care for Henri. He feels compassion for me because all of a sudden, we all see that in that hospital room is someone who's gone from my little nymphet mistress half my age to a young girl who's in love with the most difficult, stubborn, unsympathetic man anyone has ever known.