Categories > TV > House
There’s no real way to fight loneliness. It creeps quietly in the dark, moves subtly in the day. It’s an insubstantial haze that slips past your skin and settles inside of you, coiled, waiting to strike. Waiting for the opportune moment. And when it happens, by the time the feeling builds until it’s a tidal wave that sweeps you under with its current, you may never be able to break the surface; may never be able to breathe again.
Wilson sits in his home, rolling a half-empty water bottle between his hands. The humidity outside makes the bottle sweat; he holds his hands up straight and watches droplets of water make trails down his arms. They reach the cotton of his shirt and are absorbed; his skin does the same, but slower. Without wiping his wet hands he opens the bottle and finishes the water, gasping a little as the last of it slides down his throat. He can breathe again. The empty plastic is light in his hands and he knows he should throw it away, but he puts it down on the table instead (the ring will be in the wood permanently) and gets up.
The sun went down hours ago but the interior lights remain off. Wilson is in the kitchen now; he can just barely make out the words of the note left on the fridge. Julie’s away on a business trip; the ‘I love you’ on the note is scrawled as carelessly as her signature. She’s been distant lately and he’s tried to touch her, kiss her and bring her closer to him, make their bodies touch the way they used to, but he can’t. She shies away from him, wriggles out of his grasp with a smile and a giggle, like they’re playing a game (this isn’t happening). He doesn’t quite know what’s wrong, or what to do. He hasn’t cheated, hasn’t wanted or needed to. But the air in the relationship has become stifling and Wilson swears there’s a scent in the air, like death but sweeter (in a little while, I’ll be gone).
Wilson locked the door of his office earlier that day; he hadn’t wanted to see anyone. He wasn’t sure why. But he sat in his chair and used his foot to rock himself back and forth and imagined himself as a child, being rocked to sleep. He spun the chair then, stared up at the ceiling with his limbs tucked in and saw the earth rotate. It made him dizzy; the shrill, exuberant dizziness of youth. And for a moment he felt something, some semblance of happiness.
He didn’t know what he was feeling at first, couldn’t quite sort out the emotion inside. His mind was sluggish; it couldn’t find the right adjective. Those small glimmers of hope, of happiness had been few and far between. He didn’t recognize it.
He stopped spinning (the moment’s already past).
On his way out, House stopped him. Asked if he wanted to get a pizza. Watch tv. Whatever. He said no, pulled out his best annoyed face and explained that Julie had already made plans for them to have dinner with her parents. House nodded, seemed to accept this answer. He tossed some form of ‘sucks for you’ over his shoulder at Wilson’s retreating back.
Wilson sits in his dark house, wondering when the numbness began. There was no clean break, no before and after period that marked the day his smile became insincere, when his insides hollowed out. When the only feeling left became boredom. He knows something’s wrong. He’s never been apathetic; he’s always felt too much. But all that’s been sucked away; he’s left with a negative of himself. An inverse; it looks like him, speaks like him. And as long as he can keep it up, fool everyone, he’ll be alright (empty and frantic).
Wilson realizes he’s standing in the kitchen for no apparent reason. He goes back to the living room, curses without really caring at the watery ring left on the wood from his drink. He wipes it off hastily, hopes it will fade but is resigned to blaming House if Julie asks about it. He sits in the dark and stares at nothing, thinks about going somewhere, just driving away for the weekend but realizes he has clinic hours on Saturday. He thinks about everything (nothing) in his life for awhile; he’s getting tired but doesn’t want to move. His thoughts slow down, move through him like objects in the dark, bumping into the walls and each other.
But Wilson doesn’t fall asleep. He isn’t sleeping through the nights anymore; Julie doesn’t notice. She’s a heavy sleeper, always has been. He stares at the ceiling thinking deep thoughts while she drifts in the abyss that is sleep; his newfound insomnia makes him jealous of everyone else who can let go of reality, disappear into dreams for awhile.
Everything’s more intense at night, Wilson realizes. Nighttime is dangerous. He speaks to the darkness, like he used to talk to House. But House made it perfectly clear that he didn’t care about his problems, so he stopped talking. Stopped waiting. For some reason, (he can’t pinpoint it, or maybe just can’t admit it) this is so much worse than Julie’s rejection. House validated him once, and now…nothing. There’s nothing left for him in House, nothing the other man is willing to give. So now he talks out loud to no one; pours his soul out and watches it slip away, replaced quickly by a black hole. The silence deafens him, makes his words sound harsh, violent. It presses him, contorts him until he’s reduced into a reed, thin and brittle. Cold. He used to be warm, he knows he was. But now he’s a magnet; pulls in everyone else’s hurt and holds it in him. Lets it fill him until it flows out of him like blood. He’s a good man, that’s what they all say. A nice person. Happy. Well-adjusted.
I’m not here.
This isn’t happening.
Wilson sits in his home, rolling a half-empty water bottle between his hands. The humidity outside makes the bottle sweat; he holds his hands up straight and watches droplets of water make trails down his arms. They reach the cotton of his shirt and are absorbed; his skin does the same, but slower. Without wiping his wet hands he opens the bottle and finishes the water, gasping a little as the last of it slides down his throat. He can breathe again. The empty plastic is light in his hands and he knows he should throw it away, but he puts it down on the table instead (the ring will be in the wood permanently) and gets up.
The sun went down hours ago but the interior lights remain off. Wilson is in the kitchen now; he can just barely make out the words of the note left on the fridge. Julie’s away on a business trip; the ‘I love you’ on the note is scrawled as carelessly as her signature. She’s been distant lately and he’s tried to touch her, kiss her and bring her closer to him, make their bodies touch the way they used to, but he can’t. She shies away from him, wriggles out of his grasp with a smile and a giggle, like they’re playing a game (this isn’t happening). He doesn’t quite know what’s wrong, or what to do. He hasn’t cheated, hasn’t wanted or needed to. But the air in the relationship has become stifling and Wilson swears there’s a scent in the air, like death but sweeter (in a little while, I’ll be gone).
Wilson locked the door of his office earlier that day; he hadn’t wanted to see anyone. He wasn’t sure why. But he sat in his chair and used his foot to rock himself back and forth and imagined himself as a child, being rocked to sleep. He spun the chair then, stared up at the ceiling with his limbs tucked in and saw the earth rotate. It made him dizzy; the shrill, exuberant dizziness of youth. And for a moment he felt something, some semblance of happiness.
He didn’t know what he was feeling at first, couldn’t quite sort out the emotion inside. His mind was sluggish; it couldn’t find the right adjective. Those small glimmers of hope, of happiness had been few and far between. He didn’t recognize it.
He stopped spinning (the moment’s already past).
On his way out, House stopped him. Asked if he wanted to get a pizza. Watch tv. Whatever. He said no, pulled out his best annoyed face and explained that Julie had already made plans for them to have dinner with her parents. House nodded, seemed to accept this answer. He tossed some form of ‘sucks for you’ over his shoulder at Wilson’s retreating back.
Wilson sits in his dark house, wondering when the numbness began. There was no clean break, no before and after period that marked the day his smile became insincere, when his insides hollowed out. When the only feeling left became boredom. He knows something’s wrong. He’s never been apathetic; he’s always felt too much. But all that’s been sucked away; he’s left with a negative of himself. An inverse; it looks like him, speaks like him. And as long as he can keep it up, fool everyone, he’ll be alright (empty and frantic).
Wilson realizes he’s standing in the kitchen for no apparent reason. He goes back to the living room, curses without really caring at the watery ring left on the wood from his drink. He wipes it off hastily, hopes it will fade but is resigned to blaming House if Julie asks about it. He sits in the dark and stares at nothing, thinks about going somewhere, just driving away for the weekend but realizes he has clinic hours on Saturday. He thinks about everything (nothing) in his life for awhile; he’s getting tired but doesn’t want to move. His thoughts slow down, move through him like objects in the dark, bumping into the walls and each other.
But Wilson doesn’t fall asleep. He isn’t sleeping through the nights anymore; Julie doesn’t notice. She’s a heavy sleeper, always has been. He stares at the ceiling thinking deep thoughts while she drifts in the abyss that is sleep; his newfound insomnia makes him jealous of everyone else who can let go of reality, disappear into dreams for awhile.
Everything’s more intense at night, Wilson realizes. Nighttime is dangerous. He speaks to the darkness, like he used to talk to House. But House made it perfectly clear that he didn’t care about his problems, so he stopped talking. Stopped waiting. For some reason, (he can’t pinpoint it, or maybe just can’t admit it) this is so much worse than Julie’s rejection. House validated him once, and now…nothing. There’s nothing left for him in House, nothing the other man is willing to give. So now he talks out loud to no one; pours his soul out and watches it slip away, replaced quickly by a black hole. The silence deafens him, makes his words sound harsh, violent. It presses him, contorts him until he’s reduced into a reed, thin and brittle. Cold. He used to be warm, he knows he was. But now he’s a magnet; pulls in everyone else’s hurt and holds it in him. Lets it fill him until it flows out of him like blood. He’s a good man, that’s what they all say. A nice person. Happy. Well-adjusted.
I’m not here.
This isn’t happening.
Sign up to rate and review this story