The faces all around me they don't smile,
they just crack
Waiting for our ship to come, but
our ship's not coming back
We do our time like pennies in a jar
What are we saving for?
The Bravery- Believe
Wilson would've probed for more, but the world began to fade as the woman- no older than 29- sighed inconsolably and stared after the birds, a wistful gleam alight in her eyes.
Dreams weren't an escape from reality, but reality served in a dash of different colors and flavors. If he had been forced to describe waking up from his dreams, Wilson would say that he was falling up – through the cracks in reality and out of the world that he had slipped into by mistake, like Alice down the rabbit hole, and back into the familiar and rather stale air of everyday life. The world lost its molding when he slept – up could only be identified as blue, green became down, and love shape-shifted into death.
Wilson awoke on his over-used couch, hair mussed and clothing askew. He could not shake the woman from his mind. Who was she? How did she die?
Why had he made her up?
Wilson's whole weekend had been marred by the girl. She had not returned to his dreams, that was for sure, but he had not had enough sleep to illicit any dreams. He got dressed, floated to his near-dilapidated car and drove to work as if he were a ghost. Wilson was returning to work after 2 months of grievance time, half-spent with his family, half-spent with Frist, and completely spent with himself as he sobbed quietly in his mind.
He had become a hermit during his grievance time, ignoring phone calls and kind gestures like they were made of acid. He straightened his tie – had to keep up some form of appearance for his coworkers – and walked into the hospital.
Cuddy greeted him first; a plastic grin adhered to her face. She had dressed immaculately for his return. Wilson glanced down at his own clothes and nearly frowned. He should have picked a nicer outfit. He flashed Cuddy a smile, hoping to imitate hers to the best of his abilities.
"How are you?" she asked, her face and voice guarded, as if he might snap in half at the question.
"Fine. Nice to be back. You?" Wilson rambled in clipped sentences, so he didn't have to strain to keep a smile in his voice. A smile sat on his face, but in reality, he was frowning; people could see not his mind, but his mask of skin and muscle. He was smiling somewhere.
Why did that not matter?
**
Wilson managed to hide in his office before more empty apologies and greetings drifted his way, and it wasn't until mid-afternoon that House came in.
He decided to take a quick nap on the couch around ten (he hardly got any sleep last night). He drifted into a quiet slumber at ten-o'-seven… He saw nothing but black until ten-thirty…
Then he saw the woman's face until he woke up.
She leaned over him, exuding a scent that was vaguely reminiscent of coffin liner and very nice perfume. She did not blink, or even move, but she stared. She stared the same way the sun stared until it made you blind, the same way shadows stared in the darkest part of the night, the same way strangers stared when they wanted nothing to do with you. Her stare hurt, like long spokes of fire drilled into his brain, like she had made his eyes freeze and she had no intentions of ever clearing away the ice.
It wasn't the fact that a dead woman was staring at him; it wasn't the fact that her eyes seemed numb; it wasn't her cold demeanor that made her that much more out of the ordinary and terrifying. It was all of the life vying for attention behind the hooded lids of her eyes and the films of her corneas that made her so surreal. She died young, she stayed young, and she left far too early. There wasn't a hint of tragedy about her face – but unreal optimism coiled behind her long lashes like a snake coiled in the grass – unseen, unheard, unnoticed, dangerous.
She did not inhale or exhale, but stood motionless, and he almost felt that he could blow her away, with the tiniest whiff or snuffle of a nostril, like a particle of dust. She seemed almost insignificant. He wanted to look away, tried to look away, but every time he made the attempt, her vivacious eyes stirred and the optimism uncoiled and her eyes seemed to die however much a dead person's eyes could die. He couldn't look away; it almost hurt to. He wanted to stare into her face forever and gaze at the constellations of her being like she was the night sky.
But dawn would some soon, so he could not waste his time.
GAH. Too much time not writing. Sorry. I fail EPICALLY. : (
Whoops. R&R, if you're not SUPER MAD AT ME LIKE I AM.
LEPERSON