I don't care
No I wouldn't dare
To fix the twist in you
-Sick Puppies
Most People
It's funny how people are.
Most people have enlightened self interest. They do what they have to do to get ahead; they do what is best for them. They build themselves up. They strive for happiness
and contentment; never being satisfied.
He is not like this.
He is never content except in that he is satisfied with his discontentment.
Though his actions may seem self centered there is always an ulterior motive. He is never without reason. Most people want to be happy, something he seems to be
incapable of.
Then, she considers, he is not most people.
She has changed.
Recently she has become bolder, more cynical. She thinks it has to be him.
His doing.
Alone he is narcissistic and self-absorbed. Alone she is benevolent and self-effacing.
Together they are self-destructive.
Of the dozen or so times they have slept together, it is always the same; rough, emotionally-fueled, mind-gutting, sex.
She knows it is not healthy to be so invested in this man and so disconnected at the same time. Most people have internal instincts for self preservation; apparently hers are
weak. Most people don't like getting hurt.
It's almost like he wants to be in pain
He is an addict.
Maybe she is too.
She thought that after awhile the awkwardness would dissipate, but even now as he gathers his things to leave, she still feels the cold distance between them. She
wonders how it is possible to have such deep, passionate sex with this man and still be unable to converse naturally with him.
He shrugs on his motorcycle jacket as she sits in her bed, holding the white sheet around herself. She looks down at the fresh bite mark on her shoulder and fingers the
edges of the imprint his teeth made. He sees her looking at it,
"Sorry about you shoulder."
He says it in a way so that he doesn't sound sorry at all. In fact, she thinks he is rather proud of it, the way he stares at the indentation in her flesh.
"Sorry about your leg."
She deadpans at him. He smiles but only for a brief second. She thinks that because he is so unhappy, the rarity of his smiles and laughs make them all the more grand.
"Ha, I knew these were just pity fucks."
It's his attempt at a joke and she smiles faintly at him.
She wants him to stay. She wants him to hold her and kiss again. While rough, mind-gutting, sex satisfies her libido, it doesn't satisfy her neediness. She wants him to
display some of the tenderness and gentleness she knows he is capable of.
He won't let me in again
With the sheet still wrapped around her, she stands from the bed and goes over to the window in her bedroom and looks out onto the street.
Today the sky is a dull gray. No rain, but the pressing gray clouds look threatening. She fingers the almost sheer, white, lace of her curtains. They are light and delicate,
something like herself. She thought she would never be the one to end it, she loves him too much, but her masochism is an overwhelming burden.
He is draining her in every sense.
The pressures of trying to impress him at work, and appease him in bed have taken over every other avenue of her life.
She has alienated all her friends for him.
She has forfeited any chance of a normal relationship with another man because her thoughts will always be tainted by the way he feels.
She has even considered sacrificing her career to stay under his employ, to be near to him.
It has to end.
It has to end because she knows she will do anything for this man.
Even if it means losing herself.
Her back is to him but she can hear him fiddling with the cumbersome zipper of his jacket.
"We can't do this anymore."
The zipper stops.
Part of her wants to grab the words and shove them back down her throat, but the other part of her lets them hang in the air like moisture on a muggy, humid, summer
afternoon. She can hear him shuffling towards her. The sheet is draped low on her back so that her shoulder blades and the curve of her spine are exposed. She can feel
when he is only inches away. She cannot decipher what his reaction will be. He scoops the loose curls of her hair aside, and when the pads of his fingertips run between her
shoulders and over her skin, following the path of her vertebrae, she feels goose bumps spread over her body as if she had opened her bedroom window and let in the cool
night air. He leans over and kisses the bite mark on her bare shoulder. After a moment or two, he still doesn't pull away. She turns towards him with a look on her face that
reads a mixture of sadness, annoyance, arousal, and pain. There is no need for words, they would just get lost in translation. He stares at her; she can tell he knows why
she thinks she needs to end it. He kisses her. Hand on her chin, he kisses her softly. There is no fervent lust behind this kiss; the blatant eroticism that usually occurs when
they kiss is absent now. When he breaks away from her he lets his finger trail down her throat, across her chest, and then it comes to rest on her hand that is holding the
sheet to her body. His fingers wrap around her smaller ones, and when he pulls slightly, she sheet falls to the floor. She is exposed to him, the gray light from outside
creating an eerie glow around her profile. He touches her. He touches her like he has never seen her before, like he hasn't had her a dozen times. She trembles under his
touch. She thinks it is one of the most intimate experiences of her life. He pushes her towards the bed and her feet follow his direction of their own volition.
She lies flat on her back while he looms above her. She watches as he takes off his jacket, then his shirt, then his pants, and she is powerless to stop him. She thinks this
may be a prelude to sex, but as he lies on top of her he just looks down at her with his sad eyes, lowers his head to the crook of her neck, and breathes. His body is heavy
and warm. She has always loved the way his heated skin warms hers. He holds her. He holds her so completely. She holds the back of his neck, keeping him there. She
knows exactly what he is doing. He is an exceptionally smart man. He knew she was probably starving for intimacy and is giving her just enough now to keep her hanging on.
It's working.
He is manipulating her and she is giving in like she always does because she cannot deny him.
But this feels real. It feels too good, too right, to not be real.
She considers for a moment that he might need the comfort of another human being just as much as she does. This feels so good. She would be willing to put up with all his
faults for moments like this.
It won't be enough
These moments would be too few and fleeting. She would be in a constant state of dejection, and just when she is about to break, he would draw her back in. It is his way,
but she knows she can't live her life like that. She plays with the hair at the base of his head while her other hand rubs soothing circles on his back. She whispers in his ear.
"It has to end."
She kisses the shell of his ear, in an attempt to dull her words.
"Why?"
He asks against her neck.
"It's not healthy."
He lifts his head from her neck and squints at her accusingly.
"It wasn't healthy the first 10 times either. What changed?"
She is starting to lose her resolve. She averts his gaze, not wanting to tell him anything.
"You still treat me like-" she stops. She shakes her head. It's not coming out how she wants it to.
"Even after all this; you're still so indifferent towards me."
He is on top of her; holding her, but he is no longer looking at her. Instead, he is staring intently at the dark bruise-like mark he left on her neck a few nights ago.
He responds bitterly,
"What were you expecting?"
He withdraws his arms from around her and leaves their embrace, so that she falls an inch or two and bounces slightly on the mattress. The instant loss of warmth is
astounding to her.
"You know that I can't… you knew."
He is dressing quickly. She gets up, wraps the blanket around herself, walks into her bathroom, and quietly closes the door. She slides down until she is on the floor with her
knees against her chest. When she hears her front door slam she begins to cry.
Now she is free from him. She feels that all the cords that had bound her to him have been cut. But instead of feeling like a weight has been lifted from her, she feels like
another burden has taken its place: loneliness, emptiness.
She should have never said a word. She shouldn't have ruined everything.
At work the only difference he displays is a heavier limp.
Foreman has resigned.
House has been more miserable than usual and Chase has been toeing the boundary of how much House can take.
She thinks that House's frustrations have manifested as leg pain because his vicodin intake has increased and he can barely walk.
Then he fired Chase. It was inevitable, Chase was being an asshole and House was already on edge.
Oddly, Chase doesn't seem too upset, and Foreman wanted to leave, it seems everyone is moving on.
Why can't she?
Ever since she ended their affair he has treated her no differently. It troubled her; surely something had to have changed. Then, she considers she is probably just another
item on his long list of disappointments. She sees Foreman gathering up his things and House in the next room gritting his teeth and rubbing his leg. She lets worry rest on
her brow for a moment, but then Foreman is hugging her and saying goodbye and she can't see House behind Foreman's big shoulder. When Foreman finally releases her
and she can peer into the adjoined office, House is gone. She was going to give him her resignation letter. She can't take his aloofness any longer. She wishes he would yell
at her, fire her, kiss her, or something. But the slow burn of pent-up emotions and sexual frustration is a painful daily reminder of what happened.
She can't take it anymore.
She decides to go to his home and tell him.
Just like the time before.
When she approaches she hears music.
Slow, sad, melancholy piano.
She thinks for a moment that it might be him playing, but then she hears the static of an old recording and realizes it's an LP.
She knocks on the door but he doesn't answer. This does not surprise her. What does surprise her though, is when she finds the door unlocked. With a cautious hand, she
pushes the door open.
"House?"
No answer.
She peers over the back of the couch and sees him lying there, long limbs hanging over the edge of the sofa. She breathes a sigh of relief.
Then she sees the syringe.
She rushes around the couch to read the vial on the coffee table.
Morphine.
Oh god
"House!"
She yells his name, and slaps his face, trying to wake him up, hoping he wasn't blinded by too much pain when administering the dosage. His eyes flutter open.
"House, what did you do? How much did you take?"
She asks, while frantically checking his pulse. His reply is quiet and his voice is raspy,
"Enough to forget for a little while."
She thinks he must be coming out of it because his eyes are completely open now and trying to focus on her face.
"Why morphine? What happened to your vicodin?"
She holds his chin in her hand to make him understand what she is saying.
"It's not enough."
"Then you need to find another way!"
She is so angry.
She is angry at him and at herself.
She was so worried he was dead.
Most people wouldn't put up with a narcissistic drug attic.
Most people wouldn't keep caring after he has given no reason to.
But she is not most people.
She hears him moan in pain, the effects of the drug slowly waning out of his system. She brings him a glass of water and helps him drink it. She goes to his bedroom and
finds a blanket to drape over him. As she stands to leave he grabs her hand.
"Why did you come here?" He asks.
"It's not important now."
Which is true. She bends down so that she is kneeling on the floor with him again. She runs her hand through his hair and she can't help but feel sorry for him.
"I wasn't trying to kill myself if that's what you think."
"I don't think that." He moves over a little bit so that she can sit on the edge of the sofa next to him. She waits for him to talk because she can feel the words coming.
"I don't want to be in pain anymore."
What does she say to that?
You can't always get what you want
She doesn't know what to say, so she reverts back to what they do best, physicality.
She runs her hands up and down his chest. She rubs his neck in what she hopes are soothing touches. When he lets out a little groan, she smiles.
"You know what would make me feel better?"
Anything…
She inclines her head in an inquisitive manner.
"Sex."
She laughs and he smiles faintly, his eyes closed. Somehow the awkwardness is minimal. There is a comfort here, with him in his home.
"I'm serious. The endorphins from an orgasm would do wonders for my leg."
Against her better judgment she leans forward and kisses him. When she breaks away she smirks at him.
He scrunches his face up as if he is calculating something in his head and says,
"That'll do."
She laughs again
"For now."
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