Tritter was found dead in his cell yesterday. He'd hung himself with his shirt and slashed his wrists on the jagged edge of a spring on the bed frame. I suppose the idea of an ex-cop who went psycho going to jail where he could meet some people he'd put away wasn't a savory idea. At least now we don't have to worry about going through a lengthy trial; I have no interest in reliving what happened.
Ella is practically screaming at the top of her lungs and nothing I do can help her. I've fed her, changed her diaper, given her a bath and now I'm holding her close, bouncing her up and down to try and ease her out of her hysterical state. I've got the dishwasher going because she tends to like the noise, but it doesn't help. This has been going on for three months now.
I can't stand the screaming and crying, I can't stand being with my own child. I want to run far, far away from here and not look back. I want things to be the way they used to be, when House and I would go anywhere we wanted whenever we wanted, when we would get drunk at noon and have sex all day. I miss those days more than anyone could ever imagine. I feel like I'm stuck in hell.
After a while, after I've taken her for a drive and a walk and put her in the swing, she's still crying. Nothing I can think of is stopping the crying and I start to cry, too. I can't stand it any longer and I put her in her crib to cry it out and I'm shaking I'm so upset. I need to calm down and my eyes rest on a bottle of House's Vicodin.
Like a thief, I grab the bottle and close myself in the bathroom. I take one out and crush it on the counter until it's a fine white powder. I make neat little lines and I take a dollar bill out of my pocket and start snorting the lines one by one. To add to my high, I grab House's scotch and take a swig.
Vicodin has a burn with it that almost makes it not worth it, but I need some sort of chemical intervention. My stress level is through the roof. I'm just about to finish up the last line when the door swings open.
House is standing there and he sees what I'm doing and immediately gets a look of anger on his face. He asks me how I could be blowing Vicodin on the bathroom counter when our daughter is screaming in her crib. I burst into tears and tell him I can't deal with the stress. I've tried everything to stop her from crying, but nothing works and I'm at the end of my rope. I can't deal with any of this anymore. He tells me I have to deal with it, I have to suck it up and be a mother to my child. I sit on the edge of the bathtub and cry into my hands. What the hell am I doing?
He says he came to grab some lunch and is glad he came home; I shouldn't be drunk and stoned taking care of the baby. He goes into the bedroom and picks her up and after a while, she stops screaming. My own baby doesn't like me.
He walks back to the bathroom door and he has Ella in the carrier strapped across his chest and says he'll be back when I've got a head on my shoulders. He slams the door as he goes out.
In the quiet emptiness of the apartment, I take another swig of scotch and snort the last line of Vicodin and I cry. I can't handle any of this. I'm just not fit to be a mother. I consider leaving, to make it easier, but I've never been one to take the easy road. And what would I think of myself if I abandoned everything I love? I would be relieved for a second and then the guilt would kill me.
When he doesn't come home, I know he's really pissed. He's at Wilson and Cuddy's, I'm sure, bitching about me and shocking them with my behavior. I don't get a phone call from any of them and I guess I don't deserve one. I know where he is and that's enough for now.
xXxXx
That piece of shit Tritter offed himself. He was too much of a coward to face the consequences of his actions and so he killed himself in his cell yesterday. I'm relieved to not have to deal with the burden of a trial and having to sit in the same room with him without killing him. After what he did to Henri, he deserves exactly what he got and worse. It's times like these I wish there was an afterlife so I knew he was rotting in hell.
Things at home are still tense. Ella is three months old and her colic hasn't slowed down a bit. Henri is probably going to tear all her hair out one day. I try my best to ease tension at home by going home two or three times a week for lunch and I take the baby the second I get home.
For an unknown reason that boggles both my mind and Henri's mind, Ella tends to be calmer with me. After a couple hours, I can usually hush her enough so I can relax a bit. Henri feels like a failure, feels like the baby hates her and nothing I do or say changes her feelings.
I head home to get some lunch and when I arrive, I hear Ella screaming at the top of her lungs. I don't see Henri anywhere and so I open the bathroom door. The sight I'm confronted with stops me in my tracks.
Henri is bent over the bathroom counter, a rolled up dollar bill in her hand and my pills next to a bottle of scotch. She's getting fucked up when she's supposed to be watching our child and it makes my blood boil. It's one thing for me to use; I'm controlling my pain. Henri gets sloppy when she's messed up and that's not the Henri I want taking care of our kid.
I lay into her, asking her how she could leave our screaming baby in her crib while I blow lines and get drunk in the bathroom. I tell her she might as well be in the trailer park with a cigarette and some Cheetos and a meth lab in the back. She tries to justify it by telling me she can't deal with the stress. I'm so angry, I don't even want to look at her. I'm stressed, too. I blow up at her and at the people at work on a daily basis because I have a screaming baby waking me up ten times a night, too. She isn't the only one in this situation. As pissed off as I get, as much as I hate this colic bullshit, I don't go off the deep end. I don't stoop to that level, as much as I'd love to. For once, I'm the responsible adult.
I go into the bedroom and pick up Ella and I kiss her soft cheek and hold her close to my chest. After a while her cries turn into little sniffles and she calms down. I'm taking Ella with me; I won't leave her when Henri's in this state. I pack her bag and I realize I don't have enough hands for this venture.
Although I know I'll look ridiculous, I grab that baby fanny pack Wilson and Cuddy got us and I strap Ella to my chest. I take the bag and I walk past the bathroom. Henri is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, crying. I tell her I'll be back when she has a head on her shoulders and I leave.
I get back to the hospital and I have a baby and people are giving me confused stares. I walk into my office and Thirteen asks why I have an infant and I ignore her and we start going over our case. I come to realize that I love this baby carrier. I keep Ella close and I have the use of my hands. I might look like an idiot, but it might be my new favorite baby accessory.
Cuddy comes in, flustered, and asks what the hell happened. I tell her it's none of her damn business and she points out that it becomes her business when I bring my baby into her hospital. I take Ella out of the pouch and hand her to the nearest person, who happens to be Foreman, and Cuddy and I step out into the hallway. I tell her an abbreviated version of what happened and tell her we'll be crashing at her place tonight. She rolls her eyes and asks if she should even try to say no.
I shrug and get a bag of chips out of the vending machine and go back into my office. Foreman tries to hand Ella back but I tell him to keep her for a second; I'm eating and don't want to get crumbs on her head. He sighs and Ella looks up at him and smiles and reaches her hand out and grabs at his nose. Damn, she's cute.
When I'm at Wilson and Cuddy's later, we sit in the living room drinking bourbon. Cuddy is getting Ella and Aaron ready for bed and Wilson is trying to have a heart to heart with me. I tell him exactly what happened and he's surprised, but he says that Henri is under a lot of stress.
I know she's stressed. I know her life has changed abruptly, I know she has to be locked in the apartment with a screaming baby all day, I know she's unhappy. None of these things are a reason to get fucked up while you're supposed to be responsible. I'm in this, too, and she doesn't see me completely losing it. I don't know where to go from here.
xXxXx
A/N: Hey all... on one note, Happy Thanksgiving; hope it's a good one. On another note, this may be it for a while. Up until now, I've had my chapters written very far in advance so I didn't write every day. Unfortunately, I have no more chapters written right now. It's the end of my semester at school and I have quite a few projects to worry about. I'm going to try to get some FF writing in if I can, but it'll be a while before the next chapter is up. Thanks for being loyal and please be patient; I'm going to try as best as I can to get more up soon. Cheers.
