Disclaimer: I do not own House…yet.
To the Reviewers: You guys make my day. My friends, Bre and Caitlin, have to hear all the time about my need for the replied feedback you guys send me. Thanks. It's what powered me to write this chapter so fast. Peace out. May your trails be envied, and your horse noble.
House left. He just walked out of the store, paper bag in hand. It took so much of her willpower not to run after him-to not clutch him in dire exhaustion and feel the safety of another's support. Even though her old self has vanished, ripped to shreds and is now unrecognizable, her old obsession for him is still detectable. The feelings themselves are changed, however. In the past, they affected her in ways that made her appear juvenile. Now dead, these childish tendencies have left a yearning to share her most guarded secret; why she left.
She knew House wouldn't stop pestering her. He always loved a good mystery. That's why, when her shift finally ended, she left out of the back exit of the store. Pulling her collar up, she decided to circle back around on Delaney's street, where the endless construction process barred the road of any traffic. She felt like a criminal, running away from her past, in attempt to secure peace. This peace she hoped for was the assurance that the same forces that plagued her night and day, whether it be physically or mentally, would pursue no one else. House, she knew, would never understand this. His curiously stubborn attitude would surely get him killed if he decided to drill into her dilemma.
Delaney's street stretched before her, and the dump trucks and cranes took on a monstrous appearance as the night erased their detail. The moon and stars were hidden behind the clouded sky and the only sources of light down the long path of pavement were two dim light posts at the end. The scene reminded her of a song by Metallica, a band she rarely listened to until only a few months ago, "It seems to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel, is just a freight train coming you way." It fit everything.
Softly and suddenly, as she trudged down the path, a mesmerizing song filled the street. It's notes etched toward the sky and echoed from the tall buildings. She scanned the area to find the source, and came upon a silhouette of a woman playing a violin on a third story balcony. Her movements seemed to sway grievingly as the song, with no words to complicate the purity, told of heartache and sadness. The melancholy mood of the scene brought her to tears. At first, it came slowly, painfully, but soon it rushed from her, desperately escaping her tired eyes.
After what seemed like eternity, she forced herself to move after the effect of the music paralyzed her and forced her to come to terms with the similarities between the music and her. She walked lifelessly on, and when she finally came to her apartment, it had turned a new day. After dragging herself up the steep stairs, she at last comes to her room. She bends over to pick up the seven that fell off from her door number. Yes, 777. It was ironically funny for a while, but now it was just mean.
She went straight for the shower. Ignoring the fact that she hadn't checked the mail, which she justifiably assumed contained nothing she shed her clothes. The city made her feel encrusted with grime, like everything effected by the fast-pace environment. The hard warm water was comforting. It made her feel in control. If she wanted cold water, she'll get cold water, and hell if she wanted hot, she'd get it. It's small, but with everything crumbling around her, she'd grab anything she could. Soaking her body in all the lavender she could, she forced herself to think of nothing but the present-the water draining under her feet, the hum of the showerhead as it sprinkled her, and the steam rolling up her back. It worked; she was actually relaxing for the first time since House made his appearance.
This relaxed period only lasted about thirty-second. As fast as you can say poor water maintenance, the water shot to almost freezing quality. She let out a high-pitched squeal and threw herself out of the tub. The green shower curtain lay torn on the wet, tiled floor. Hurriedly, she grabbed a towel, and covered her shivering frame. This day just wasn't going well. She started to brush her chattering teeth as she gazed into the mirror. What looked back was a ghostly version of what was.
She looked worn, thinner, and older. She stopped brushing when her gaze caught her scar. The scar that was a bullet wound just four months ago. It's purple coloration made it look like a crater on the moon's surface. It gazed up at her with a reminder of just how real the situation is for her. Thankfully, it only caught her on the shoulder. She treated it herself in the bathroom of her old apartment. It took her more time just to clean it up than to perform the surgery. Of course, the excessive crying over the shock of it all didn't help her precision. It was then that she realized she could no longer stay. It had taken her only an hour to pack.
She turned to go into her room to get her pajamas, and as she was turning the door, her ears caught a sound. Not just any sound but ones made by feet. Awkward, but they were footsteps. They were getting louder as her heart caught in her throat. How could she miss someone opening her door? It was secured with three locks. It was impossible to get in without her knowing. She stepped back, with no plan of escape. With all the windows in this horrible excuse of an apartment, the only place without any was here. Luck, she hated the word.
She frantically searched for a weapon, anything. She came across her hair curler. It'll do. The steps were almost to the door. She raised the weapon as the doorknob turned. It's rusted quality allowed it to creek, like a casket being lowered into the ground. It was like when an explosion happens on TV and everything slows to a point where you'd think it would never end. The door opened and she swung with all her strength. The curler was knocked out of her hand at a speed greater than her's. It collided with a vase and shattered it, leaving the pieces scattered lifelessly on the ground. She started to use her hands, when she realized, when the first hit came to her intruder's chest, that it was a cane that intersected the blow. She stopped, relieved and devastatingly angry at the same time.
"House! What the Hell are you doing here?" she screeched as her breath came back into her lungs.
"I didn't know you were expecting me." He replied, motioning to her attire.
She was too horrified to care.
"Get out. Leave!" she demanded as tears started to build in her eyes.
"I'll leave. Once you tell me why the hell you took off. Leaving a cripple without his eye candy." He said, as the attempt to bring light into the situation failed.
She wanted to hurt him, make him feel what she has felt these past few months. She came at him with tears streaming. She tried, oh tried to physically push him away. She was no match, even if he was a cripple. He grabbed her arms, meanwhile steadying himself with the coffee table behind him. She wouldn't look at him. She couldn't for fear, fear of loosing herself in the situation. All the stress, all the emotion could put her in a place where she wouldn't care of the repercussions of her actions. Then, he caught her gaze, as he cupped her chip with his hands, directing her to his mystifyingly blue eyes. That was it, she clutched him in an embrace. Her arms encircled his frame beneath his arms. She didn't care what his reaction would be. She just needed to feel his presence. She needed him to hold her. She didn't know when he did it, but his arms were soon holding her tight to him, as she fell into a fit of tears on his shoulder.