Categories > TV > House > Detox[ification]
Naltrexone.
0 reviewsSpontaneous addition of a chapter. "---laughing carelessly as if I am nothing more then a crude punch line to a very unfunny joke. The kind of joke so unfunny that only Wilson could tell it, a...
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Detox[ification]
2. Naltrexone.
It had been eight days. I've been here for eight days. I'll be here for eight more days, then a month, and then I will finally go insane.
The room offered no empathy, no sympathy, no comforting; only four white walls and a white ceiling and a white carpet with the dingy afterglow of eons of carefully scrubbed out stains.
If I see anymore white, I will go insane.
There was a small cot, with a starchy pillow and a stingy blanket that lay in disarray against one wall. Other then that, the room was completely empty -save for its single occupant who lay on the floor, withering.
It hurts, it hurts, it huRTS MAKE IT STOP.
It had been eight days since he had seen the outside world. Eight days since he had seen his office and eight days since he had been to work. It was eight days of food pushed into his room through a cat-flap in the door, eight days of nothing but walls and the serial institutional smell mingled with the stench of his own salty sweat.
It had been eight days since someone made the call. It had been eight days since Cuddy made another call and it had been eight days since someone suspended his medical license.
House had been in detox for eight days.
Give it to me, I need it I need it I NEED IT NOW GIVE IT TO ME---
Had he cooperated, House could have had a relatively pain-free experience. They put you to sleep, pump you full of Naltrexone, and in three hours (give or take) you wake up relaxed and refreshed and vicodin free. But the basic fee for that was $5,900 more then he was unable to pay, having spent all his money on, well;
Hookers
Morphine
Vicodin
Scotch
Vicodin
Vicodin
Vicodin
I NEED VICODIN
Who made the call?
Who made the call to Cuddy who made the call to the review board who made the call to whoever the prestigious son of a bitch is who suspended my medical license?
Was it you, Cameron, my sweet girl Cameron?
Were you mad because I didn't want to jump aboard that train wreck? Were you mad because I was too old too smart too cynical to fall for your pathetic excuse for love?
You needed me because you wanted someone to need you, you needed someone to need you so badly and I don't need to need anybody but myself and I defiantly don't need vicodin.
I don't need vicodin.
Don't need it...
Don't need it...
Don't need it...
Don't need it but godfuckingdammit I want it.
I always get what I want, even if they say you can't always get what you want I ALWAYS get what I want and what I want is /not love or affection or Cameron or my job or this leg or anything else but/ vicodin.
What I want is vicodin.
Now I realize she had never cried for me, why would she cry for me? Why would she? No she didn't, she wouldn't, she couldn't, she wasn't because I can see her now and she's not crying she's laughing.
I can see her now, and she is most defiantly laughing at me. Her cherry-red lips curl up in a malevolent smile as she chuckles with boundless glee, laughing carelessly as if I am nothing more then a crude punch line to a very unfunny joke. The kind of joke so unfunny that only Wilson could tell it, and laugh whole-heartedly even if nobody else was laughing with him.
And of course nobody else is laughing with him, because everybody is too busy laughing at me and wont you all just shut up and-
Hallucinations.
I'm hallucinating. I'm on the floor again, alone again, alone and sweating out all of the drugs. No, don't sweat them out, keep them in dammit, I want them in here where they can save me. Cameron is not here, nobody is laughing, nobody is crying, nobody gives a shit. I don't need someone to cry for me, to empathize with me, to care about me and I most certainty do not need Chase sitting on the stupid metal little toilet in this stupid godforsaken white room laughing at me.
Get off my toilet, Chase.
Go back to the zoo; they seem to be short one stupid, grinning, bleach-blond wombat.
Chase was singing on my toilet, and let me tell you he was a horrible singer.
"If you try sometimes, you just might find; you get what you need. "
I need you to get off my toilet, Chase.
I need...
I need...
I need to wake up from [this dream] now...
I need to wake up because my leg hurts and I need some--
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The sunlight softly filtered in through cracks in the blinds, bathing the cozy bedroom in shades of pastel pinks and yellows. Somewhere in the next room coffee was percolating, and the rich, roasted aroma filtered through the house and rouses a tyrant out of his deep yet troubled slumber.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
CRASH.
House's rough and calloused right hand slammed down on the snooze button, but this time he was not angrily attempting to coax the clock in allowing him five more minutes of slumber, he was simply just really pissy and needed to take out his aggression on something. (The alarm clock never knew what hit it.) He groaned exasperatedly, and attempted to ponder the strange occurrences in his dream before it danced back into his subconsciousness where it belonged. House couldn't help but feel that it was an ominous warning of some kind, but nevertheless the dream was already forgotten; and the pain in his leg was not.
His hand hovered past the alarm clock and fumbled around on the nightstand for a moment, until he acquired his target and swiftly uncapped it.
"Cheers." He said to no one in particular, while dry swallowing two little pills.
2. Naltrexone.
It had been eight days. I've been here for eight days. I'll be here for eight more days, then a month, and then I will finally go insane.
The room offered no empathy, no sympathy, no comforting; only four white walls and a white ceiling and a white carpet with the dingy afterglow of eons of carefully scrubbed out stains.
If I see anymore white, I will go insane.
There was a small cot, with a starchy pillow and a stingy blanket that lay in disarray against one wall. Other then that, the room was completely empty -save for its single occupant who lay on the floor, withering.
It hurts, it hurts, it huRTS MAKE IT STOP.
It had been eight days since he had seen the outside world. Eight days since he had seen his office and eight days since he had been to work. It was eight days of food pushed into his room through a cat-flap in the door, eight days of nothing but walls and the serial institutional smell mingled with the stench of his own salty sweat.
It had been eight days since someone made the call. It had been eight days since Cuddy made another call and it had been eight days since someone suspended his medical license.
House had been in detox for eight days.
Give it to me, I need it I need it I NEED IT NOW GIVE IT TO ME---
Had he cooperated, House could have had a relatively pain-free experience. They put you to sleep, pump you full of Naltrexone, and in three hours (give or take) you wake up relaxed and refreshed and vicodin free. But the basic fee for that was $5,900 more then he was unable to pay, having spent all his money on, well;
Hookers
Morphine
Vicodin
Scotch
Vicodin
Vicodin
Vicodin
I NEED VICODIN
Who made the call?
Who made the call to Cuddy who made the call to the review board who made the call to whoever the prestigious son of a bitch is who suspended my medical license?
Was it you, Cameron, my sweet girl Cameron?
Were you mad because I didn't want to jump aboard that train wreck? Were you mad because I was too old too smart too cynical to fall for your pathetic excuse for love?
You needed me because you wanted someone to need you, you needed someone to need you so badly and I don't need to need anybody but myself and I defiantly don't need vicodin.
I don't need vicodin.
Don't need it...
Don't need it...
Don't need it...
Don't need it but godfuckingdammit I want it.
I always get what I want, even if they say you can't always get what you want I ALWAYS get what I want and what I want is /not love or affection or Cameron or my job or this leg or anything else but/ vicodin.
What I want is vicodin.
Now I realize she had never cried for me, why would she cry for me? Why would she? No she didn't, she wouldn't, she couldn't, she wasn't because I can see her now and she's not crying she's laughing.
I can see her now, and she is most defiantly laughing at me. Her cherry-red lips curl up in a malevolent smile as she chuckles with boundless glee, laughing carelessly as if I am nothing more then a crude punch line to a very unfunny joke. The kind of joke so unfunny that only Wilson could tell it, and laugh whole-heartedly even if nobody else was laughing with him.
And of course nobody else is laughing with him, because everybody is too busy laughing at me and wont you all just shut up and-
Hallucinations.
I'm hallucinating. I'm on the floor again, alone again, alone and sweating out all of the drugs. No, don't sweat them out, keep them in dammit, I want them in here where they can save me. Cameron is not here, nobody is laughing, nobody is crying, nobody gives a shit. I don't need someone to cry for me, to empathize with me, to care about me and I most certainty do not need Chase sitting on the stupid metal little toilet in this stupid godforsaken white room laughing at me.
Get off my toilet, Chase.
Go back to the zoo; they seem to be short one stupid, grinning, bleach-blond wombat.
Chase was singing on my toilet, and let me tell you he was a horrible singer.
"If you try sometimes, you just might find; you get what you need. "
I need you to get off my toilet, Chase.
I need...
I need...
I need to wake up from [this dream] now...
I need to wake up because my leg hurts and I need some--
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
The sunlight softly filtered in through cracks in the blinds, bathing the cozy bedroom in shades of pastel pinks and yellows. Somewhere in the next room coffee was percolating, and the rich, roasted aroma filtered through the house and rouses a tyrant out of his deep yet troubled slumber.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
BEEP.
CRASH.
House's rough and calloused right hand slammed down on the snooze button, but this time he was not angrily attempting to coax the clock in allowing him five more minutes of slumber, he was simply just really pissy and needed to take out his aggression on something. (The alarm clock never knew what hit it.) He groaned exasperatedly, and attempted to ponder the strange occurrences in his dream before it danced back into his subconsciousness where it belonged. House couldn't help but feel that it was an ominous warning of some kind, but nevertheless the dream was already forgotten; and the pain in his leg was not.
His hand hovered past the alarm clock and fumbled around on the nightstand for a moment, until he acquired his target and swiftly uncapped it.
"Cheers." He said to no one in particular, while dry swallowing two little pills.
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