Night of the Dripping Tap, Chapter 2
The day had been oppressively hot and humid. Rain had been hitting the window panes like nails dropping into a toolbox since the last of the guests had left. Wind howled under the sash frames, puffing the curtains out and sucking them in again as though the house itself were breathing.
The storm had raged violently and House had had visions of the whole place being lifted up and swept away by an enthusiastic gust. He hadn't been able to think of anything else here in this strange place. The angry sounds and brilliant flashes had consumed him and filled him with an exhilarating rush.
Once he'd realised that the worst of it was over, he'd been left super-charged and wide awake.
The insistent drip of a faulty tap somewhere down the hall had been the only excuse he'd needed. House fumbled in the dark for his cane and cautiously raised himself up off the lumpy mattress he hadn't been sleeping on.
The cool night air prickled over his sweaty skin as he felt along the wall for a way out of the unfamiliar room. Paying testimony to his heightened pilomotor reflex, hundreds of tiny bumps broke out across his body making hairs both downy and course stand up accusingly. Clad only in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, House opened the suitably creaky door and peaked guiltily around the edge.
Hesitant for only a minute, he let his cane make the first move following it as it led into the hallway. Stumbling blindly through the darkness, he let his left arm brush the wall to counter the feeling that he would fall off the end of the world if he put a foot down wrong.
Drawn by the impossibly loud sound of the tap in question, House found himself edging deeper and deeper into darkness. The sound of gentle murmuring formed a syncopated rhythm with the drops of water which House found curiously appealing.
Cast afloat with only this siren-like calling, House picked up his pace.
In direct relation to distance travelled, the dripping turned to a definite splashing as he neared the source of his night-time torment.
Just as he was about to push open the door to what he remembered as being the bathroom, a light snapped on and he froze mid-step, stunned and blinking.
'Little night-time trip to the head huh, Gregs?!'
'Uh, yeah, I uh…' gesturing weakly toward the door with his cane, House summoned up all of his willpower in an effort to be polite.
'Well, g'night then. See you in the mornin'!'
A sturdy slap to his upper arm forced House to grip the cane just that bit tighter but still his effort held up in the face of extreme provocation.
Just a few more hours and he would be home and free. In his own apartment, sitting on his own couch back in the land of the living with its civilised climate and no Uncle Bob.
Until it was time for him to take his flight he was determined to get at least some rest. Between the weird psycho dreams that had haunted him every time he had dropped off, the thunder bolts and the itch in his belly that was fast becoming quite the ache, House was as tired as they came.
He stepped into the bathroom and the sound of the tap disappeared behind the sudden pounding of blood House felt rush through his veins and arteries. His heart was doing its best to keep up with his body's demand and he could hear that too echoing round the tiled walls.
Black snow started to fog up his peripheral vision and House quickly grabbed onto the door frame to steady himself. His limbs filled with lead and jelly all at the same time and he dropped like a dead weight onto his knees. Thankfully, his position meant that when his head did hit the cool, tiled floor, the sound wasn't quite as sickening as it might have been.
He didn't have any space in his head to think this out. He couldn't move, he couldn't feel.
House was aware of the door hitting him in the ribs as he lay motionless on the floor. He was aware of his uncle shouting his name trying to get him to roll over, to wake up and then he wasn't aware anymore.
He came too as his uncle pulled up one of his eyelids for some purpose he wasn't sure of; he'd seen it done on the T.V. he suspected. The very second Bob had managed to pry his eyes open, House lurched further over onto his side and the contents of his stomach spilled in spectacular techni-colour glory all over the bath mat.
'Sorry about that…' he groaned as he spat out the last few pieces of chewed carrots from the back of his throat.
'Greg, are you alright? Can you tell me what happened?' Bob asked in a ridiculously sombre manner.
House wriggled free of the fat and hairy hand clamped around his arm and slowly sat himself up. He pushed the sweaty hair back off his forehead and pulled at his leg to get it to move to a less crappy position.
'I'm fine… decided on the cheap caterers huh?'
House managed to pull himself up to a weird half-standing half-lying position and shrugged. The ache in his belly was feeling a little sharp but he was still sure whatever it was, was nothing more than a bad prawn – or carrot.
'I think we better take you in to the hospital, get you checked over-'
'No! I'm fine and I'm even qualified to say that and everything, just give me a hand here will you?'
Somehow, with House using his uncle as a make-shift crutch, he made it back to his room without disturbing the rest of the overnight guests – including his mother. He plonked unceremoniously onto his bed and fought back a grievous insult about his uncle's lack of self control (he could never renege on a debt owed). All he wanted in the whole entire world at that moment was to be left alone to lie, to breathe, to sleep.
Even if it was hotter than all hell.