A/N: So after posting "Reversal" on LJ, I got some requests to expand on the basic concept. I tried it out here, and I suppose I'll be continuing it, I don't know.
I decided to do something interesting. I wrote this first part in poem format. I don't know if I'll keep it up beyond this, but we'll see. I used a whole bunch of dividers because it's the only way I can separate the stanzas. Sorry for any inconvenience.
No slash intended! Please read and review.
Listen to: "Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee.
Heal
I.
He's waited long enough. Three days. Horrific imagination.
It's 1 o'clock in the morning, and he doesn't care. He can't sleep
Without knowing what the hell is going on. He finds 32B, pounds on the door,
Beats the handle and lock with his cane. Heads poke out of other doors,
Grumbling about the noise, one man calling him an
Asshole. "Open the God damn door,"
He demands. He's seen Wilson's car in the parking lot. Finally, he throws his shoulder
Into the wood and wins. He throws it shut before the landlord reaches him, already bitching
About the time and property damage.
"Wilson! Why the fuck won't you answer my phone calls? I know you're in here!"
He hobbles around the unpacked boxes, struggling in the dark. He finds no lamp
Silhouettes, not one. Fuck.
Kitchen, living room, guest bathroom. He stops to travel there,
Unsettled by the white tiles, hungry mirror, and plastic shower curtain. "Wilson!
You're being an idiot! I know you're in here, you can't hide from me!" No,
neither of them
Could ever hide. He hobbles down the hall, back toward the front door, and faces the stairs.
Pain or Wilson. Thoughtless choice.
"I'm going to kick your ass! You know stairs are a bitch. God damn it," he says the last words
To himself. His leg sears with pain, no matter how slow or careful he is. He stops twice,
His breathing heavier
And heavier with each step. He throws his cane up onto the landing. Why is Wilson hiding from him? Isn't that his job?
He has to stop once he reaches the second floor, and he calls out for the oncologist
Again. No answer. In and out of the second bathroom and spare room, he weaves.
He doesn't overlook the closet. At the end, shrouded in blackness, is the bedroom –
The door cracked open just enough
To breathe. He waits
To hear something, almost afraid. "Why the hell do you have to be so
Aggravating?"
He flings it open, triumph swelling in his chest,
But it plummets as the sounds of choking
Register, the shaking outline
Of loafers and slack-covered ankles
Too far above the floor.
"Fuck!"
And he throws the cane aside, hurrying,
Hurrying, stripped of the apathy he lives in
And compelled
Not by interest
But fear. (And it reminds him why he resists
Love in the first place).
The gentle hands grab at the rope frantically, wedding ring
Gone, and House recognizes even the gurgle.
He digs into his pocket for the knife
His father sent him last Christmas,
And for once, he's grateful his father is that sort of man. Still in the dark,
He reaches up and swipes at the rope,
As Wilson swings himself back and forth,
His legs slowing down and his face deepening
In the blue tinge.
"Fuck! Come on!" House cries,
Working the knife desperately,
As Wilson grows quieter
And quieter. "Please," House says,
Losing more and more of himself. "Please, please,
Shit."
The knife side-fucks the last bit of rope with an alien sound,
And House's leg threatens
To snap, fold, forsake
Him. He doesn't know if he's pleading for more time
From the muscles
Or Wilson. It
Severs, and Wilson's motionless body
Thumps onto the carpet. House collapses,
His leg burning
To make him hiss.
"Wilson."
He drags himself to the floppy hair, pulling the rope away from that innocent
Neck and pushing the other man onto his back. "Wilson! God damn it!
Wake the fuck up!"
He folds his good leg underneath himself, sitting up to shake those
Beaten shoulders that could no longer bear
The world's weight alone. Even in the dim window light,
House can see the death marks. "Wilson! Wilson!"
Don't tell me I'm late. Don't you fucking do this to me.
His bitter fingertips embrace one wrist,
Searching for a pulse as if it were love
Or relief. The absence
Stings of betrayal more than Stacy ever had.
"Damn it! Fuck!" he tilts Wilson's head, flips out his phone.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"I've got a 36-year-old male, no pulse, asphyxiation.'
He doesn't hear himself blurt the street
Or apartment number. His brain shut down on the five
Beats of asphyxiation,
And it may be the only word he remembers
For years.
The phone glows only for a moment,
Where it lands on the floor. He breathes into Wilson
Alone
And counts to three, assaulting the belly that just might be
Draining of warmth
From the inside out, a bleed that House
Can't stop, no matter how brilliant
He is.
"Wilson,"
He says,
Softly now. Breath,
One
Two
Three.
Breath.
One
Two
Three.
"Please."
And for the first time
In five years,
His eyes leak
Their immunity to pain
Away.
He feels this fear like frozen needles
In every nerve – losing the only person
Who has stood to love him this long,
Even though everyone has always known
He never deserved it. He can't accept
The loss of company in walking,
Eating, working, saving,
And suffering. They were just watching movies
And drinking beer last week.
They were just arguing a few days
Before. The ties, the Tupperware,
The post-its, the first number on speed dial,
The pictures stored away in his computer
Next to the folders that read "Stacy" and "Porn" –
Just a chunk of all the reminders. He didn't want
To start saving mugs and garbage
Yet. He's not ready.
He's not ready to be alone.
He picks up his pace,
Trying to resist
The despair
Like the damn good addict
He is, cursing
And cursing as if it will do him good.
He grips the limp hair
A little too hard
On purpose. And he pushes
Down on the belly
Too desperately
For someone who doesn't need
Anyone. He refuses
To surrender
His last hope, here
On the crushed carpet.
The sirens enter his earshot and grow louder,
Making him shudder, as Wilson refuses to give him
A second chance –
Until his friend splits the dark
With a gasp, a coughing fit that restores
House's stability. "Jesus."
And he's not even a Christian.
"House?"
It's a high he's never experienced, the fastest rush.
He sighs and trembles, finally feeling like God.
Thank God.
Wilson lies back, coughing –
Weak voice and fading brain. House looks toward the door, hearing the paramedics
Approaching. He waits until he knows he has three seconds
Left, and pulls Wilson into a hug, whispering
"How the fuck could do you this?"
Strangers pull them apart,
And House attempts to rise,
While they strap Wilson onto a gurney
And give him oxygen.
House leans heavily
On the bed, almost doubting
His ability to walk. He grabs his cane from the covers
And gains his footing, watching the faceless men
Take Wilson away.
"Princeton Plainsboro,"
He calls out, not knowing if they'll listen.
He's still burning,
And he smirks
With the tracks in his face,
Cane-arm quaking. He'll sleep with the dangling image
In his mind
Forever.