Mr. Vicodin, Chapter 4
There is a knock on the door. The knot in my stomach that never seems to go away these days tightens painfully. I get up and open the door.
"Hi Greg, mind if we come in?"
I keep my head bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor, and step aside. I don't want them to come in, but there's nothing I can do. My apartment used to be my sanctuary, but they've taken that away from me. Like so many other things they have taken away from me in the past months.
The lawyer walks over to my CD rack. Don't you dare touch my music! I want to shout the words, but I don't. I just lower my eyes again, because I can't bear to see this.
"Mmmhhh, what shall we hear today? Any preferences, Greg? Ah, I think we'll go with this one today."
The lawyer takes a CD and put it in the stereo. For a second I wish I could go temporarily deaf. And blind, so I don't have to see them either. Deaf and Blind. For all I know that's exactly how I might end up one day.
The lawyer presses the play-button and the music starts. My stomach clenches. The Who. He picked The Who. The first song is my favourite 'Behind Blue Eyes'.
"Well, ain't that nice. I think we can get started now."
And so they do.
And the music plays.
And then they come again.
And the music plays again.
And again.
I hate The Who.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
House looked down at the CD in his hands. 'The Who – Who's Next'. He stood there, not moving, just staring at the small object. Cuddy started to wonder if if maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to give him a present.
Then, suddenly, House raised his arm and threw the CD against the wall. It clattered to the floor, the case breaking open. House limped over to where it had fallen and started attacking it with his crutches and feet until there was nothing left but broken pieces.
Cuddy had jumped at the sudden movement and opened her mouth to say or ask something. Realizing that she had no idea what to say, she closed her mouth again, instead watching the scene with alarm. House's expression showed nothing but pure hatred.
Wilson, on hearing the noise, came rushing into the living room. He had been in the kitchen, preparing dinner for the three of them. A week ago Cuddy had asked Wilson if she could come and visit House. Wilson had had a tough couple of days talking House into it, but eventually with a lot of grumbling House had agreed. He knew that Cuddy had seen him while he'd been catatonic and maybe he thought it wasn't such a bad idea to show her that he was back in his right mind.
Wilson had decided that a small dinner party would be the perfect setting. If the conversation was awkward, at least they had food to coat it over. Secretly Wilson felt like this was a celebration of House's return to the world of the living. But he made sure not to tell House this, or he would have locked himself in his room and refused to come back out.
"What happened?" Wilson asked into the room, surveying the scene.
Cuddy shrugged helplessly. She was obviously at a loss.
"House?" Wilson's voice was low, questioning.
House's response was barely more than a growl. „Leave me alone." Without looking at any of them he stalked out of the room. They could hear House's bedroom door close with a snap.
Wilson turned towards Cuddy. "What happened?" he repeated his question.
She raised her hands in a gesture of puzzlement. "I didn't do anything. I just gave him a CD. It was a gift. He stared at it for a minute and then he started smashing it."
Wilson felt the tension in his shoulders rise. He absentmindedly massaged the back of his neck. "What kind of CD?"
"The Who. It used to be one of his favourites. I thought he might like it."
Wilson sighed and shook his head sadly. He'd expected something like this. "He... doesn't like them any more. He won't say why, but I guess it brings up bad memories. Maybe they played it while..." He trailed off. They always referred to House's torturers as 'they'. The only name they had ever used was that of Thompson. The otheres were, to Wilson, a faceless group of non-humans. In his mind they didn't even look human.
Cuddy looked sad and curious at the same time. "How do you know?"
Wilson realized he needed to explain further. "You know, House has these... triggers. Certain things can provoke a memory or an emotion that catapults him right back to the time when the bad stuff happened. They are random things. It took me months to figure most of them out. The Who is one of them."
Wilson thought back to the day when he'd found out about The Who. It had been during House's catatonia. During the first weeks after House had come to live with Wilson everything had been a 'trial and error' thing. The simplest things could trigger episodes of either uncontrollable rage, in which House would thrash anything within reach. Other times he would crawl into a corner, shaking and crying while trying to ward of his imaginary attackers with mortal fear etched into his face.
It had been a hard time for both of them. Wilson had been constantly on the edge of a nervous breakdown, always watching House for signs of another episode. Anything could be a trigger. Noises. Objects. Smells. People.
Wilson had been determined to find and eliminate everything that could upset House. Finally it had seemed like he had figured out most of the triggers. They'd had a pretty good week. House hadn't had an episode in two days and seemed much calmer than before.
That particular morning Wilson had felt as happy as their current situation would allow. He'd felt like singing. Knowing that his voice sounded horrible when he sang, he'd opted for putting on some music instead. He'd chosen The Who, because it remembered him of happier days, when House would sit in his office, listening to 'Baba O'Reily' on full blast. Wilson had made sure the stereo was on low and started the CD.
The moment the first chords drifted through the room House tensed. Next his face became contorted with fear. He basically jumped from the sofa and bolted into the far corner of the room. In his hurry he stumbled over his own feet, still shackled with imaginary chains and crashed to the floor. He didn't even try to get up again, but crawled the rest of the way. He pressed himself into the corner, curling into a fetal position and putting his arms over his head protectively.
The moment Wilson saw House's panic stricken face Wilson turned off the music. "Shit!" He muttered to himself. Fucking shit!" Absentmindedly he realized that he had never sworn like that before all this had started. How was he supposed to know that music was a trigger too.
Wilson hadn't played any music before, simply because House wasn't used to noise anymore. House used to love music. Wilson would never have guessed that this could have changed too. They really were bastards.
He went over into the corner and started his routine of calming House down. It had taken House over an hour until he had calmed down enough for Wilson to lead him back to the sofa.
Wilson quickly told Cuddy about the incident and told her that she shouldn't feel guilty, because she couldn't have known. Then he excused himself to look after House.
He gently knocked on the bedroom door and entered without waiting for a response.
"Hey. You alright?"
"Leave me alone," came the muffled answer from beneath the mountain of pillows. House still slept in the crib Wilson had gotten for him, although he now left the railing down on one side.
"Sorry, can't. Need to know if you're alright first," Wilson said in the tone he knew made House understand that he was serious.
The pillow-mountain moved a bit. House's head appeared from beneath it, but he had turned his face away from Wilson. "I won't throw a tantrum or have a nervous breakdown, if that's what you're afraid of," he said in a tight voice.
"That's good, although it's not exactly what I meant." Wilson put his hands on his hips. When House didn't answer he sighed. Maybe a different strategy then. "How does Mr. Vicodin feel?"
Wilson could see the little white toy peeking out from beneath the pillows. At Wilson's question he moved a bit and Wilson knew that House had his hand wrapped tightly around him. House turned his head, so Wilson could see his profile. Dr. Simpson had told Wilson that House, if he wanted to share an emotion or a wish, would always use Mr. Vicodin to articulate it. It made him less uncomfortable to share such personal information when he could pretend to be talking about a third person. Wilson didn't quite understand how House's mind worked in this matter, but he accepted the possibility gladly.
"He feels stupid," House said after a while, frowning.
"There's no reason why he should feel stupid." Wilson said quietly. The last thing he wanted was to upset House even more, but they needed to talk about this.
"I smashed a CD!" House sounded angry.
Wilson knew this was only half the story. House was angry and upset, because Cuddy had seen his reaction. He tried to turn the situation into a joke. "Cuddy doesn't mind. She said it wasn't that expensive anyway. And she wants to know if it helps with anger-management, 'cause if it does she has a bunch of crappy CD's she'd like to try it out on herself."
"She should've taken up kick-boxing ages ago," House said, but there was no real fire in his voice.
There was a long pause. Wilson waited for whatever House might say next.
Finally the whole truth burst out of House. "I hate them! They ruined everything. Everything. They took my job, my friends, my life. And they took my music too. I can't even play an instrument anymore." He stared at his deformed hands.
Wilson swallowed the lump that was rising in his throat. "They have taken a lot from you, but not everthing. You still have friends. I'm your friend. Cuddy is your friend. You're still alive. You survived, despite of everything they did to you. You're still in your right mind and maybe one day, you may even work again." There was a hopeful note in that last sentence.
House snorted. But after a moment he looked up at Wilson and said in a whisper. "Mr. Vicodin is glad that you're my friend."
Wilson blinked against the burning he could feel in his eyes. "And you can tell him that this will never change." He took a deep breath. "Now, are you gonna come back out, so we can have dinner? I slaved in the kitchen for three hours to make your favourite food." Wilson knew that the only way to get House to come out again was to make his mouth water.
And sure enough. "What's for desert?"
"Macadamia nut pancakes with maple syrup."
House looked as if he was weighing the fact of having to deal with Cuddy against the benefit of having Wilson's roast chicken and pancakes. Finally he pulled himself out of bed. Wilson was actually a little surprised. Only a few weeks ago House would have stayed in his room knowing for sure that Wilson would save him his food for later.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was a warm summer evening. Wilson had come home from work late and found that House had actually prepared dinner. It was nothing special, just a few slices of toast and scrambled eggs, but the fact alone that House had made it told Wilson that his friend was feeling as well as it was possible for him.
They were sitting on the sofa. Wilson was reading a magazine. House was watching mindless soaps, his fingers twisting and untwisting Mr. Vicodins legs. It was in the middle of 'Days of our Lives' when a sudden thunder broke the monotony of the TV babble. They both looked out the window. The obligatory lightning followed almost immediately. Wilson had counted the seconds in between, so he knew that the thunderstorm was basically on top of them. He quickly looked over to House to see if the sudden change of weather had made the pain worse. But House seemed as calm as before. Wilson was glad that thunderstorms weren't a trigger for House's panic attacks.
They resumed their former activities, while the downpour soon drowned all noises. Quite suddenly House pulled himself to his feet. For a second Wilson was startled, thinking that another painful memory had resurfaced, but House's calm profile told him that everthing was alright. He watched House hobble towards the front door.
That was strange. House never left the house, if he didn't absolutely have to. Wilson pondered if he should follow his friend, but decided against it. After all, House was an adult and didn't need constant supervision. At least not anymore.
House went outside leaving the door open. Time passed. After five minutes Wilson got a little nervous. He tried to peer outside and see what House was doing, but the angle was impossible. Throwing his former resolve overboard, Wilson got up and followed House outside.
House was standing on the deserted sidewalk, his face lifted upwards into the torrential rain. His clothes were already soaked, clinging to his body and revealing his gaunt frame. Wilson was glad that it was a warm evening.
He stayed in the doorway and spoke loud enough to be heard through the rain. "House?"
House turned his head and looked at him. There was a strange expression on his face. It took Wilson a few seconds to realize that it was joy. He wasn't actually smiling or laughing, but there was a sort of calm happiness in his features and his eyes that Wilson hadn't seen in years. It made Wilson's heart jump.
He stepped out into the rain. "House, what are you doing out here?"
"Rain." House said simply as if this answered all questions. He lifted his head towards the falling drops again.
Wilson, who was by now dripping wet, too, just stared at his friend. House must have noticed it, because after a while he looked at Wilson again. "I haven't done this for years."
Suddenly Wilson understood. House had been locked away for so long, not being able to see or experience the natural events that most people took for granted every day.
Wilson breathed in deeply. It had been a long time since he had consciously smelled a summer rain. It smelled fresh and clean and the heavy heat of the day was gone. It reminded him of his childhood, when during the summer he and his brothers had spent their time at his grandparents place and had played outside almost every day. They had been surprised by summer storms quite often. Usually they had fled into the shelter of the porch and watched the changes the sudden moisture was making to the world with fascination. He wondered if House had happy memories like this.
Only when the rain had died down to a dribble did House move again.
"I guess I'll take my shower now. I'm ready for bed." he said quietly once they were inside.
"Alright. Need any help?" House still had problems getting undressed sometimes. Considering that House was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, Wilson thought he should be okay on his own, but he asked anyway. He was so used to taking care of House, it came naturally.
"Nah, I'll be fine."
Wilson settled back into the sofa. He saw Mr. Vicodin lying in the corner and took him. He studied the small toy, remembering the day when House had gotten him. Even during his salad-days House had somehow managed to get what he wanted. Mr. Vicodin didn't look the way he had when he'd been new. First of all, his eyes were now purple buttons, which, Wilson had to admit, made him look much nicer.
The toy showed obvious signs of use. The white fabric looked a bit worn and the big V on his chest was peeling at the edges. There were also a few faint stains that even Wilson's continued attempts couldn't remove. Well, it was a wonder that he was still in such a good shape considering that House took him everywhere he went.
Wilson smiled to himself, silently thanking Dr. Simpson for suggesting a 'security blanket'. Mr. Vicodin was helping House's recovery in a way that nothing else could. Functioning as an 'extended psyche', he had made conversations about House's feelings a lot easier.
The shower was turned off in the bathroom and about ten minutes later Wilson could hear House shuffling into his bedroom. He stayed on the sofa enjoying the silence. He expected House to return any minute to retrieve Mr. Vicodin. House never went to bed without him.
But House didn't reappear. Wilson got up and went to House's bedroom. He knocked on the door gently. "House?"
"C'me in."
"Hey, I just wanted to bring you Mr. Vicodin. You left him in the living room." Wilson stepped into the semi-dark bedroom. House's room was never really dark these days. House was afraid of the darkness, so he'd made Wilson buy him the ugliest night-light he could find.
"Did I? I didn't realize." House sounded as surprised as Wilson felt.
"Do you want him?" Wilson asked cautiously.
"Yeah, give him here." House stuck out a gnarled hand. Wilson handed him the toy. House put Mr. Vicodin on the pillow next to him instead of pressing him to his chest like he usually did.
Wilson watched attentively. This was new. And he'd learned the hard way that with House 'new' didn't necessarily mean 'good'. But House seemed calm and... almost normal. Wilson decided that, until he had evidence to the contrary, he would see this new development as a positive step.
"You alright?" he asked, stepping back towards the door.
"Yeah. I'm fine." And Wilson could tell that this time it was the truth. "G'night Wilson."
"Good night, House."
TBC - yes there is more to come. I'm working on it:-)
