It's ten years to the day since her husband died.
It was cold then, though it's colder now. She wakes up with a grieving hangover to stare at a dull ceiling, wondering if she dare get up.
Though she doesn't dare stay in bed.
Its raining outside, and the floor's cold; chills sink into the soles of her feet till she shivers. As they numb she wonders if her whole body will follow, if she stays long enough.
She knows it won't. But she doesn't move.
She comes in late, but says not a word. She's afraid she'll crack if she speaks, crumbling into a thousand pieces. House spits sarcastic venom at her, but she's too tired to flinch. He hates the cold as much as her, because it gives him pain too. He limps more today.
Another patient, another life. Another forgotten face spouting thanks for something she's not sure she cares about anymore.
Foreman is watching her out of the corner of his eye; worried perhaps? Oblivious Chase argues with House for the sake of it, and Wilson casts her a glance. She lost weight, and he knows it.
She stares back with eyes of stone, and he looks away.
She rubs at her cold hands, and her thumb finds a long blemish on her wrist. It was nine years ago to the day that she got this scar. When she thought she'd never make it to an anniversary with double digits.
Back when she didn't want to.
House asks her something, and she gives a tired reply. He is watching her with blue steel eyes. He wonders about the dark shadows under her eyes, the way her head is bowed. The way she looks like she's barely holding on.
Somehow, she wants him to say something.
But he doesn't say a word.
The patient is dying.
And she doesn't care.
To care would mean to show emotion; she's keeping hers locked away. Everything is held close and tight, for she daren't loose anymore of herself with pointless sympathy. Another crack would break her.
She is alone with him, giving him something to ease the pain. It's not helping.
He is begging her, crying to make the pain stop. She looks at him, and for a second it's not an old man, its her husband who's dying. Both beg at the end.
She looks at the needle of morphine in her hand.
And wonders.
No. No! She drops it, sick with horror. Not again, never again. There's a roaring in her ears, and for a second she feels she's drowning. She backs away, then flees. She would have been sick if she'd eaten lately.
Someone calls after her, but she keeps running.
She's outside. The hospital grounds are empty. Nobody else has a death wish. She's sitting under a tree, rain drooling down her neck and into her clothes. She's cold, but not cold enough.
Head bowed, she wonders if she's crying. The pain runs too deep for her to weep, but that never mattered before. Her nails are scratching at the itching blemish, and there is blood on her fingers.
Blood on her hands.
They were bloody the night her husband died. He was so sick he was coughing up blood, so much she was scared he'd bleed to death. A stupid fear, considering he was dying anyway. She was crying then too, because he was in so much pain.
He asked her. She refused, sickened. How could she kill the one she loved?
But the pain grew until he was screaming, screaming that reached inside and strangled her heart.
Even now she's not sure if she did it for him or for her. But it doesn't change what she did.
She's cracking, fragmenting till she breaks into a thousand weeping pieces.
And you can't fix what's broken. You can't glue a shattered soul back together.
The hand smears and swims, as tears or rain dribble across her eyes. But it doesn't matter, because they're both the same.
The patient is dead.
Does she care? She's doesn't know.
House is angry; she's left a man to die. She shivers in the office dripping with rain and tears and blood. He is snarling, but she can't hear the words through the rage. Wilson protests because he sees her pain, and because he's as soft as her.
House sees it, but pain is a weakness. His weakness.
Through the numbness she feels the sting of his words. She forces her head up.
"He wanted to die." She whispers it more to herself than to him.
There is a harsh silence, with just the melancholy patter of rain. Only then does House see her weeping wrist. Shocked eyes snap to her face, but its too late for sympathy. She turns her back on him, the pain, everything.
She leaves.
It's dark outside, and the sky's still crying.
She is cutting up vegetables, so she can pretend that maybe later she is going to eat. She's hollow inside, and the food won't help.
The knife cuts her finger. She blinks at the bright red life oozing from under a hat of skin.
She looks at the knife.
And wonders.
The phone is ringing. She hears her own voice, mechanical and dead as the answering machine reply's. There is a harsh beep, then silence.
Maybe she's dreaming, but she thinks she can hear the tap of a cane on wooden floor.
"Pick up the phone, Cameron."
It's ten years to the day since her husband died.
But there are some scars that time won't heal.