FicWad

You’re awake before House the next morning; the cool light wakes you and for a moment you’re suspended in between worlds. But your dreams fade away and your eyes open to see that House has turned away, rolled up on the other side of the bed in the blankets he took from you in the middle of the night. You can’t believe how different he looks asleep and you think it has to do with his eyes; they’re too wise, too knowing (things no one should know) for one lifetime. When his eyes are closed and he’s stretched out, oblivious to the world, he looks younger. Happy, almost (and you want to touch him, kiss him so badly but you look away instead). You move one foot, then the other to the floor and slide off the bed. He doesn’t hear you. You dress quickly, haphazardly and leave, but not before you look back and steal a glance of House in a state that you would almost describe as peaceful (you know him too well for that).

The drive is short and you realize you’ve never lived far away from House; 15 minutes at the most (your life has been built around his, and you’ve only just begun to understand the full extent, how deeply you’ve entrenched yourself in him). When you pull up the driveway is empty, not that you were expecting your ex-wife to be there; she leaves early for a long commute. You sit in the car for a moment when you realize she’s become your past. The house is quiet, dark when you enter and there’s a note on the fridge that has your name on it.

James,

I’ve gone to stay with my sister for a week. Thank you for agreeing to let me keep the house. I’m so, so sorry for what happened, but we both know that the marriage was falling apart. I’ll send the papers to your lawyer; I hope you’ll find the arrangement fair. I don’t want or need anything, a clean break will suffice. Take care of yourself, James.

Elise

You touch the note, run your fingers over it lightly. The ink smears a little under your fingers; she never uses a ballpoint pen—always those ornate fountain pens that took forever to dry and left your hand streaked with ink from the letters you wrote (the pens don’t work with lefties; just another way you were incongruous with her). You take your black fingertips back and move upstairs. The bedroom is neat, undisturbed. At first glance, everything is normal. Then you see that your clothes lay in a box on the floor. You’ve been cleared out, removed (to be replaced soon, most likely).

When you go to the bathroom and turn on the shower, your toiletries are lined up on the sink, like the front line of an army. You’re not upset, really, just….amazed as how quickly you can be wiped out (erase and rewind). The shower still smells like her shampoo; the fragrance washes over you and for a moment she’s with you, staring at you with those eyes. The last time you looked at her, it was like this. She wore that expression, one of complete indifference (it made you miss the disappointment she used to show; at least then she cared) and she kissed your cheek goodbye. You left the house with her perfume in your nostrils; it clung to you and stayed in the car so you smelled her on the way home. Then she confessed and you fled to House.

The reverberation of the water on your skin and the wall is loud and constant and it pulls you from the memory of the woman who wants nothing more to do with you. Your hands have started to prune, though, so you get out and wrap a towel around your waist. God, everything smells like her. You feel wrong, like you shouldn’t be there (you never should have been). You find the least-wrinkled clothes in the box and dress, annoyed at how unkempt you must look. You loop a tie around your neck and look around at the half-empty room that used to be part of your half-empty life.

I’m barely alive. The realization that everything in your life has been done because it was what you were supposed to do hits you hard in the chest and you sit to avoid falling. You live, thrive in perceptions. People think you’re a nice, well-adjusted man who has bad relationships. But that’s not the truth, is it? The women that marry you are all good people; you could have been happy with them, could have had a life but instead drive them away with your desperation. House was right; he always is. And you sit there on the carpeted floor like a child who’s just found out that the world it not the safe, beautiful place it’s made out to be. All this time you thought you were trying to help House; he was letting you do it, letting you believe you were the responsible adult. How can he want you? You’re barely a person; you function because of others’ needs.

And it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? When your brother left, you were so good so careful not to upset your parents because they needed you to be a good boy. Don’t cause trouble. Get good grades. Be a doctor. Get married. They got to brag, tell everyone how wonderful their son is. How modest, how hard-working (looking after all those cancer patients. How caring . On paper, you’re perfect.

You stand up and look into the mirror at your reflection. You finally see yourself (really see). It scares you a little, that you barely recognize the features you’ve had your entire life. You brush a hand through wet hair and decide you need to leave now. You’re in your car again and you’re blank for a moment; you don’t know where to go. The hospital, you decide. You drive slowly, sing along to a song you haven’t heard in years. The melody is almost upbeat but the words are sad; they’re about longing and lost love and you think maybe suicide. The hospital looms in front of you; the parking lot is desolate. Your steps echo, sharp and quick in the chill morning air. The coat you wear is too thin for the air in which winter is looming; you clutch it closer to your body. The warm air of the clinic hits you and the muscles that clenched in the cold relax. It will be too warm for you soon, but right now it feels good. Comforting. No one speaks to you on the way to your office, for which you’re grateful. The elevator opens for you and you get in alone; you’re warped in the silver doors. Your features are a blur of flesh-toned metal.

The elevators open and you’re in the hall. House’s office comes into view; it’s dark. You’re not surprised; he’s rarely up before ten. You slide your hand against the glass that bears his name and it’s cool under your fingers. The door to your office is next and you slide in, drop your briefcase and collapse on the couch. Your eyes close; the heat envelops you and suddenly you’re sleepy. It’s that heavy sleep, the kind that pulls at you hard so you can’t resist giving into its persuasion. But just as you’re slipping away, dragged under by the current, a hand grips your shoulder. Your scream is loud but low and you slide away from the hand onto the floor, sprawled. House stands over you and he’s grinning, but he’s looking at you with this look that you can’t place and for a moment you think it might be concern; but you brush that thought away.

“Went to your house?” He extends a hand to help you up but when you reach for it he holds up his cane as if to say ‘Hello…cripple?” and tells you to get yourself up. So you do and you move towards your desk but he motions you toward the couch.

“Ex-wife’s house.” You say, and a smile flickers across his face, so quick you’re not sure if it was there (but you hope it was because you’ve never seen it before and that means it was for you. Because of you).

“I’m calling my lawyer and I’m going to try to find an apartment today.” He doesn’t smile, nods instead and walks out the door, leaving you in the dark. You relax into the leather, splay your legs and arms and before your eyes are even closed you’re asleep.

The sun is shining and it’s warm; not summer warm, but that gentle, hesitant warmth that signals the end of winter. You’re in a park, on a bench and runners are going by, each one waving as they pass. There’s something off about them, though. They run in perfect sync; their steps, their breaths, the sound of shoes hitting the pavement. It’s all the same. You try to get up but when you move there’s this pain, this excruciating fire running down your leg. It’s blinding and you feel like you’re going to vomit and then you’re falling, curling into a ball on the wet grass below. You try to rub the pain, make it go away but that only add fuel to the fire and there’s this screaming, this animal screaming that echoes into the distance and now one of the runners is jogging towards you and you realize you’re the one who’s howling, nonsensically vocalizing your agony. Hands are on your body; they stroke your back, caress your face and massage your legs until the pain dissipates slightly, just enough for you to regain some kind of mental orientation. You try to sit up but the hands keep you down, whisper soothingly and tell you to relax. Give it time. You accept this and stay down and slowly you’re rocked into comfort. You turn to see who’s helping you, who your savior is and you see blue eyes, a narrow face. A long, healthy body.

“Why’d you take it?” He’s touching your forehead, feeling for a fever.

“Because I can’t bear letting you keep it,” You’re saying. You don’t know what it means, or even what he’s asking about but it comes out automatically and when it does, you know it’s the right answer. The pain is gone now, and he pulls you up to the bench. Slips his hand around yours and squeezes.

“Don’t try so hard. Just….let go.” You nod at his words, lean back into the bench. His free hand moves up to your hair and his eyes are slivers now; his hand moves in front of your eyes and he tries to hide it but you see that it’s covered in blood. You try to ask what’s going on, what’s happening, but you’re so tired. You’re listening to his advice; you’re not trying. You’re letting yourself slip away without a fight. As you drift, you hear your name being called. But it’s not House’s voice; it’s your brother’s. He’s calling, begging you to stay but it feels so good to just disappear.

In reality, House is the one calling your name. He doesn’t touch you, lets you wake up in stages, clinging to his voice. It carries you from sleep to reality and when you open your eyes, he’s sitting at your desk.

“I dreamt about you.” The words are out before you’re able to think clearly. House cackles at you, tells you how whipped you are, says this must be a record for him. But then he looks at you, seriously.

“Trying to find apartments yet?” You shake your head, tell him you’ve actually got to be conscious to look for a place to live.

“Well, I’d get on that. If you ever want to get laid, that is.” Then he’s gone again, but not before kissing you so hard you’re left breathless. You sigh, sign onto your computer, and begin poring over Craigslist.