Chapter 12: Rock Bottom

A/N: Trigger warning for self-harm and contemplation of suicide.


"You almost killed a patient this morning, Dr. Hadley," Cuddy deadpanned, fixing Thirteen with a stern gaze. "When Dr. Cameron left, I promoted you to Head of the ER, because I thought you could handle it. Was I wrong?"

"No," Thirteen answered, her tone mechanical.

The Dean of Medicine leaned forward on her desk. Voice glazed with disappointment, she replied, "The past month you've had this job is leading me to believe otherwise."

Standing erect, Thirteen set her jaw rigidly and matched Cuddy's gaze. For a long moment, the women stared at each other in silence.

"If you don't clean up your act, I won't just demote you," Cuddy snapped suddenly, "I will fire you." She stood slowly, holding Thirteen's steely gaze the entire time. "Do you understand?" she asked, harshly articulating each word.

Thirteen simply nodded. Internally, Cuddy screamed in frustration. She wondered if she had any hope of reaching this woman; she also wondered if the bright doctor who shrouded herself with a number was no longer reachable.

"I can't tell you how to live your life," Cuddy started.

Eyebrows creasing together, Thirteen obviously thought, Then don't.

"However," Cuddy continued, "your substance abuse has carried over into the work place."

"Hardly abuse," Thirteen scoffed. She couldn't help herself.

"Excuse me?" Cuddy asked, eyes alight with fire. Arms crossed, voice sharpened, she continued, "Dr. Hadley, if you cannot recognize that your personal choices are affecting your work, affecting other people, then we have a serious problem."

Thirteen pursed her lips.

"Last year when I caught you in exam room two, hung over with an IV in your arm, I thought that was the last of your high living," Cuddy sighed, sitting down in her chair again. "Whatever triggered a resurgence of this… self-destructive streak," she said, circling her hands in the air aimlessly, "is so potent that you almost killed a patient. You used to give a damn about people," Cuddy lamented. "You used to give a damn about yourself."

Thirteen's eyes widened slightly at Cuddy's words. Now Cuddy can figure me out, too? Either House told her, she's gotten better at Sherlocking, or I'm in a shitty place, she thought.

"Dr. Hadley, for the sake of your patients, for the reputation of this hospital, and for your own good," Cuddy said, "you need to get your life together."

Thirteen stared at the Dean of Medicine, who matched her gaze with equal force.

"Now get out of my office," Cuddy sighed, gesturing toward the door.

With a final glance at Cuddy, Thirteen turned on her heel and left.


Staring down at her half-laced Converse, Thirteen contemplated her conversation with Cuddy earlier that day. More like a lecture than a conversation, Thirteen thought, rolling her eyes. But she has a point.

Since Cameron left, Thirteen had buried herself in her work. Broken limbs, burns, false alarms, and the ungodly amount of paperwork that came with her new position as Head of the ER only distracted her for about a week.

Thirteen was through with one-night stands. In fact, since she broke up with Foreman, she had forced herself into a cruel celibacy. At first, she could bear the lack of human closeness, because she had tricked herself into believing that she had a chance with Cameron. Now, Thirteen's libido had flatlined. She couldn't bring herself to be physically intimate with anyone after the loss of emotional intimacy she had with Cameron. For the first time in her life, Thirteen was repulsed by sex.

In the time she didn't work, Thirteen started drinking. Excessively. Down at McNally's Bar, she became a staple at the end of the bar once her shift was over. The bartender could read her mood as she walked in the door and served her the appropriate drink. Sipping her alcohol alone, receding into herself, Thirteen emanated a harsh demeanor. She didn't talk to anyone, besides the necessary exchanges with the bartender. More than once, men had approached her; but with a cold stare and dismissive frown, they learned to no longer make advances.

Last night after a particularly trying day (she found a photo of Cameron and Chase that Cameron had forgotten in her old office, which was now Thirteen's office), she cracked open that bottle of 2002 Bordeaux she had shared with Cameron not too long ago and never went to sleep.

Thirteen arrived at work in a haze, like the alcohol had settled in her appendages and weighed her down. It wasn't until she was cutting open a thirty-one-year-old man with a bullet in his gut that she realized she couldn't handle being intoxicated while working. Thirteen had to hand it to House for solving cases while his mind hung in a perpetual cloud of vicodin, but she couldn't handle it. A nurse pulled her away from the patient as another doctor swooped in to operate on the man and correct her mistake.

I really screwed up today, Thirteen thought. Cuddy's right.

Kicking off her shoes, Thirteen paced around her living room. For twenty minutes she circled the couch, the table, the chairs, pondering how to replace her drinking with some other pain-numbing entity.

When Thirteen felt as though she had worn a hole through her floor, she decided to give it a rest. She walked to the kitchen and extracted a jar of peanut butter from the refrigerator. Reaching for two slices of bread, Thirteen's mind again wandered to alcohol. She knew she had a half empty bottle of vodka in the cabinet.

But if anything else happens, Cuddy will fire me, Thirteen thought in dismay. And then I would have no distractions at all.

Impatiently, she opened a drawer and grasped the first knife she wrapped her fingers around. As she pulled the knife out, it nicked her finger, drawing blood.

Thirteen set the knife on the counter and ran her finger under the faucet, grimacing as the cold droplets mixed with her cut. Although only a small and shallow wound, the throbbing emanating from her finger temporarily shrouded her in a fog of pain. Suddenly, all she could focus on was the ache in her finger. Nothing else could infiltrate her thoughts. And she liked that.

Thirteen again opened the drawer and withdrew a hefty kitchen knife. She turned it over in her hand, observing the light running along the blade.

Am I really going to do this? Thirteen thought, staring intently down at the knife. She immediately dismissed the idea, shoving the knife back in the drawer.

"Idiot," she muttered, squeezing her head with her hands. "What were you thinking?"

She returned to aimlessly wandering her living room. As Thirteen wore an invisible rut between her furniture, she grew increasingly more terrified. If she couldn't drink, or take any other drugs to numb the pain, what was left?

Is there any point in living? The thought zipped through her head like a flash of light. Although ephemeral, the thought did occur to her. She quickly shot it down. I help people, Thirteen thought. I save lives. I have a purpose.

"I have a purpose," Thirteen ground out. "I matter." As she forced these words out of her mouth, Thirteen realized that she was again standing in the kitchen before the knife drawer.

I have a purpose, she insisted. But this hurts too much. I'm out of distractions.

She flung open the drawer and curled her fingers around the knife handle. Pulse quickening, Thirteen lay the flat side of the knife along her wrist.

Wrists are no good, she mused. People will find out.

In one swift motion, Thirteen rid herself of her shirt, letting it pool on the floor beside her feet. As she stood alone in her kitchen, the brunette lightly prodded her stomach with the edge of the knife. She drew in a long breath, trying in vain to steady her trembling hands. Dragging the sharp edge across her stomach, Thirteen made up her mind. She pushed down and pulled the knife across her skin.

Immediately, Thirteen cried out. The knife, slick with blood, clattered to the floor. She grabbed a towel and ran it under the faucet. As she pressed the wet cloth into her wound, Thirteen had difficulty focusing on anything other than the searing pain emanating from her stomach. And that's exactly what she wanted.