Well I'm not paralyzed
But, I seem to be struck by you
I want to make you move
Because you're standing still
Paralyzer by Finger Eleven
Chapter 3 – Lies
Your fingers stutter over the keyboard. You stop typing, not for the first time, and lay your hands in your lap. You flex your fingers on your bouncing knees to steady them. If you can't even type out the letter, you will never manage to present it to him.
You can't keep letting him get to you this way. The news is a shock, you tell yourself. You weren't expecting it and that's why you're reacting this way. You just need time to adjust yourself to this new reality.
A reality with no House in it.
He is dying.
He pushes you all away, of course. Even Wilson, the one person you would have sworn he would have gone to with this, knew nothing about it. It is only by random chance that you all found out. You wonder how long he would have gone on without telling you (the team). Until his symptoms manifested in ways that he could no longer hide? Would he have let it progress that far? Or would he, as usual, take the coward's way out and simply disappear? Stop showing up for work altogether…slink away into the great unknown to die alone?
The idea of him stealing away in the night to some anonymous place to spend his last days, weeks or months utterly alone to await death is almost more upsetting than the prospect of your life once he is gone.
You shake your head and begin typing again. You focus on your anger, because it is all that fuels you to get through this without breaking down. You don't care that anger isn't yours to feel. You need the anger, because the alternative is loss and you aren't ready to acknowledge that yet.
Yes, you're angry. You're angry that he lied and kept this from you (all of you). You're angry that even now he is so tyrannical as to think he can actually stop you from caring that he is sick. You're angry that he has every intention of shunning anyone who might want to help him through this.
You don't think about the anger you feel that cancer is taking another man you love.
You don't love him. You loved the idea of him, the idea that underneath his gruff exterior was a man who longed to be loved and feared love above all else. That man isn't real. Underneath his gruff exterior is nothing but a gruff interior and you aren't interested in loving an unlovable man.
You finish typing your letter and tap your fingers impatiently as you wait for it to print out. You snatch it from the machine and fold it with shaky hands.
You stand outside his door fully five minutes and rehearse what you are about to do. You are not going to stand by and let him brush off all your attempts to help him. Foreman, Chase, Wilson and Cuddy are all just as anxious as you to make sure there is nothing else. No other option, no second chance. You don't have to let him dictate your actions. You are your own person, not an appendage of him. You will get what you want for once.
You push open the door and walk into his office, running your hand over your pocket one last time.
"You faked cancer…to get high?" you croak. You can feel the tears threatening and the bile rising in your throat.
How dare he?! How dare he?! Never mind the audacity of commandeering another patient's file to use as his own. Never mind the person who actually has cancer who was rejected for the trial because he took their place.
How could he let you (them) go on thinking he was dying? How could he lie so completely, so unfeelingly, to the only people in his life that cared about him at all?
How could he kiss you like that and not mean it?
How could you have ever thought you loved him?
You walk out of his apartment with Foreman and Chase in a daze. You are so overwhelmed you can't even decide what to feel first. Your emotions are all so enormous you can't feel them all at once or you will explode. Each of them is clamoring for your attention and you can't hear a thing. You know Chase is saying something to you, but your head is such a jumble of noise that you can't make it out. You just shake your head at him and walk off toward home.
By the time you've reached your apartment, some semblance of order has been restored in your world. House is House. What he has done this time is not any worse or any more shocking than anything else he has done in the past.
You chalk it up to so many years of his infinite selfishness and astounding defiance of any social norm that you are able to so quickly temper your rage, grief and dismay. You congratulate yourself on your progress in preventing him from unnerving you.
You collapse onto your sofa exhausted, wishing you had let Chase drive you home. You fall to sleep almost immediately.
You awake on the couch and he is there. You know immediately this is a dream. He has never been inside your apartment; you have been wise enough to prevent his complete invasion of your life by barring him access here. He stares at you, silent and unmoving. Without any words spoken, you know that he is trying to tell you something. You shake your head at him to indicate you don't understand.
He sighs, although you cannot hear him, and makes known his frustration, annoyed that he will have to explain. It is an all too familiar gesture. Without warning, his right leg combusts into white-hot flames. He mimes taking a pill and the flames subside to little more than a weak splutter. Sparks fly from his leg occasionally and he winces as they do. The flames flicker for only a moment before they erupt again in a violent blaze. Once more, he mimes taking his pill and the flames splutter. You nod at him that you understand.
Now you are in a hospital recovery room. It is not PPTH; you understand instinctively this is the hospital in Boston. House is in the patient's bed. He is dressed, and reclining atop the covers. You furrow your brow at him and he inclines his head toward his leg. The flames have gone; his thigh has taken on the appearance of a bed of embers. It looks like the morning remnants of the campfires you and your brother huddled around on fall nights when you would escape your mother's cries of pain as she lay dying. You catch your breath because you understand.
You are back on the couch with him. He isn't angry; in fact, you think he is the saddest thing you have ever seen. He picks up your remote control and flicks on the TV. As the pale blue light flickers across his rapidly aging features, he takes the small orange vial from his pocket and takes a pill.
You wake with tears on your cheeks for him again. He is looking for escape. What he has done is wrong in more ways than you can count, but you understand. He doesn't want to live his life this way anymore, trapped by a burden of pain he cannot relieve. You understand.