It was dark when Cameron left the hospital and as she stepped outside she was reminded what it was like to breathe fresh air. So much of her time was spent either in her apartment or in the hospital that she was surprised to feel a breeze on her cheeks and the scent of freshly cut grass winding its way through her system. Shutting her eyes she let it drift over her, filling her senses with memories of being a child watching her father cut the lawn as she sat with a book. No cares in the world beyond her life as it was at that moment in time.
When I was a child, I spake as a child…
She stopped at the store on the way home and picked up the essentials, milk…crackers…Red Bull… Vodka. Cameron had never been a big drinker until recently- her college days had made her hypersensitive to alcohol and until now she had forgotten the benefits of a few drinks. It makes the pain go away. She shook her head in disgust at the thought, thinking like that would get her in more trouble than she needed right now. Shaking her head was a bad idea, everything suddenly spun sideways and she had to grip the display unit to balance herself. Luckily no one was around to see and look with disgust at her basket, and for this she was truly grateful. Luck is all it is. Luck.
She approached the checkout with her pathetic load and paid with shaking hands, the banknote fluttering like a butterfly caught in a porcelain statue. Entranced she stared at it seemingly move of its on volition between her fingers; she let it fall, and watched it weave its way past the open hand of the checkout girl down to the polished metal counter where it lay still, moved only by the breeze generated by the movement of people passing by. The butterfly is dead.
The checkout girl looks at her as if she dropped the note deliberately and snatches it up causing Cameron to wince slightly. She hands Cameron the change without a smile
"Next please."
She moves away carrying her bag of supplies to her car, placing it in the front seat where she can easily see what the butterfly gave her. Laughing at her questionable state of mind she pulls out and heads home to another night of repeats on TV in an empty apartment with an empty fridge belonging to an empty person with an empty heart.
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"She isn't well" Wilson's voice is clear amongst the soft murmurings of the hospital.
"I know." That is all House needs to say and Wilson knows it. If anyone can see self destruction it is House, that wonderfully damaged man. He can see Cameron is hurting, and he can feel it, yet he has no idea how to deal with her pain when he is still fighting his own.
He leaves House brooding in his office, spinning his cane in time with his thoughts. Forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards. As he steps outside he feels a shadow of a thought come over him. A breeze on his cheeks and the scent of freshly cut grass winding its way through his system. Shutting his eyes he let it drift over him, filling his senses with memories of being a child watching his father cut the lawn as he sat with a book. No cares in the world beyond his life as it was at that moment in time.
A shake of his head dispels the thought, the scent of grass is replaced by the scent of the city restaurants pervading his thoughts and the wind is still.
No breeze.
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It is early morning before he leaves his office, having succumbed to the enticing comfort of his couch. His office is really his second home, and the more stuff he moves in the more he feels safe. Really all it needs now is a piano and he would be sorted. Could I get a piano brought in under hospital expenses? Cuddy would have a fit…He mentally files it under 'boredom' for use another day, when he is stuck for things to do and his leg doesn't feel like it is being chewed on by a hungry alligator. He reaches for his vicodin and pops it dry savouring the bitter taste that spreads round his mouth; he needs some sort of punishment for taking so much.
He limps down the corridors he treads everyday, his sneakers squeaking against the all purpose flooring. He walks past the lifts to the stairwell and on a whim he throws his cane down, hearing it ricochet and tumble two flights at least.
Bracing himself on the handrail he begins his torturous descent, each step sending shockwaves through his system. He puts a little more pressure on his bad leg, feeling the burning of the muscle as it struggles to cope with this new action. His thigh complains with every tiny transference of weight from one leg to the other but he makes it down the first flight. Popping another pill he steels himself for another attack, slowly, surely.
All at once the pain has consumed him, out of reach of his cane and alone. He sinks to the steps biting back a cry of pain that is clawing his way up his throat. He cannot cry out, but his body compensates by forcing the bile to rise and the great Gregory House to throw up the contents of his stomach all over the nice shiny floor. He feels what suspiciously seem like tears pricking at his eyes and he punches his good leg trying to distract his brain from the pain in the other. Not succeeding he punches his stomach, the wall, anything to distract himself from the utter feeling of helplessness that he is surrounded by. He knows what he must do.
Using his hands he shuffles himself down on his behind, like a child who has not yet learnt how to walk, and each step fills him with a deeper humiliation than he has ever known. As he reaches his cane he holds it tighter than ever before as he pulls himself up with the handrail in one hand and his cane in the other. He feels numb inside as he walks out of the hospital into the parking lot, and he is suddenly glad he brought the car today.
Pausing he feels a shadow of a thought come over him. A breeze on his cheeks and the scent of freshly cut grass winding its way through his system. Shutting his eyes he let it drift over him, filling his senses with memories of being a child watching his father cut the lawn as he sat with a book. No cares in the world beyond his life as it was at that moment in time.
The moment passes and he smells nothing but the lingering hint of vomit pervading his nostrils and the wind is still.
No breeze.