A/N I was viciously attacked by a plot bunny while studying Art Nuevo architecture…. I cant find the connection either, but it wasn't going to let me go until I wrote it down… so while my grades might complain, I don't think you all will…. So I hope you enjoy!
You sit on your black leather couch staring at them, mentally counting them once more. Yup, still the same amount you had laid out forty seven minutes ago. They look so unassuming, sitting there innocently. Just an arbitrary number of pills all lined up in an evenly spaced row across your coffee table.
But its not an arbitrary number, not even close, anyone who knows you, knows that's not your style. It's calculated, it's exact, it's perfect. Not one too many or too few, you are a doctor after all, it's not hard to figure out the math in relation to your height and weight.
Physiologically you know exactly what is going to happen. The high dosage of depressants coursing through your nervous system will make you fall asleep, well more like it going to make you pass out, not like the difference is going to matter at this point. No one is going to try to wake you up. After you slip into unconsciousness, your breathing will depress, your heart rate will slow, then they will just…
Stop.
Everyone lives their life by milestones, and not just the big ones, birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. No, people need more immediate reassurances that they're still breathing. So they have small events that mark the passage of time, signaling to themselves that they are still making it through each day. These routines that they don't even realize they have define their life. Some people live meal to meal. For some people its getting in and out of bed. For others it might be the time they spend at work verses anywhere but. Some might signal the passing of time by their favorite shows on TV. A few pathetically sappy souls might use kisses from their loved one. Greg House uses little white pills.
But for you its not a signal that you have made it through another day, or from one enjoyable activity to another, for you its signaling that the pain has grown too much to bear. There is never a moment where you're not in pain, its just a matter of degrees, it just a matter of little white pills.
It appealed to your sense of irony, your life is ruled by these little white pills why shouldn't it be ended by them. They are you sentence, your prison, your executioner, your release.
Your freedom.
You manage to tear your eyes away from the neat and even row of pills you meticulously made, long enough to glance at your glass of scotch. You had already started to reach out for it, until you realize that all that was left was melted ice and a sizable ring of condensation pooling underneath the heavy tumbler. You considered pouring yourself another glass from the half empty, not half full, bottle, but decide against it. You had only had a glass and a half so far, not even enough to give you a buzz with the tolerance you have built up over the years. But you don't want to be drunk for this, you wanted to know exactly what you doing. Besides you really don't want to take the chance that the alcohol might react with the pills and make your stomach revolt, leaving you very much alive and miserably ill.
You have no regrets for what you are about to do. No one will care. Well, maybe Cuddy and Wilson will care, but only for the same reason that they considered themselves your friend in the first place. Guilt. You are all to aware that the only reason Cuddy hadn't fired you years ago and Wilson still puts up with all of the crap you put him through was that they feel guilty. Because they were there for the infarction, because they feel partially responsible for your misery so they feel partially responsible for you. They would feel partially responsible for your death. And perhaps they would be, perhaps not. You cant find it in yourself to care which.
Guilt.
Guilt would cause them to mourn. They will feel guilty because even for all their effort they weren't able to stop you. They will feel guilty because a small part of them that they will try to hide and bury from themselves, will be glad. They will be glad they wont have to deal with you any more. That they will no longer be responsible.
You reach out and take one pill off the end of the row and roll it between your fingers leaving a chalky film on your finger tips. You don't even bother to glance up when there is a knock on the door. You know it's Wilson, he's the only person crazy enough to come to your home. You shake your head as you ignore the knocking, it's too bad he didn't come by a couple hours later so he could find your body when it's still fresh instead of when it will smart to smell when he finds it tomorrow when you don't show up for work. Because you know he is going to be the one to find your body, because he is the only one that would come check on you. It's that whole guilt and responsibility thing again.
"House! I saw your bike outside, I know you're home."
You sit up, clenching the pill in the palm of your hand. That is not Wilson.
"It's cold out here, please just open the door."
You know it's cold outside, but what you don't know is why Allison Cameron is knocking on your door. With a sigh you place the pill back at the end of the row and heave yourself off the couch. You realize you cant die before you figure out what she is doing here. After all, that is your pathology.
"What do you want?" you ask tiredly.
"The guys and I are taking Wilson out for dinner at T.G.I. Friday's, for his birthday and we were wondering if you wanted to come," she explained leaning against the door frame.
"And you couldn't call me to ask, why?" you reply.
"Because its easier to hang up on me than to kick me out," she remarks with a snide smile.
"His birthday was last week," you mention.
"We had a patient last week so we didn't have time to do anything," she explains. "Now come on, he's your friend he would want you to be there. And dare I say it, you might actually have some fun," she teases.
"I'm not dressed," you say simply. You're not quite sure why you are even considering this, after all you already have plans for the night. You now know what she came here for, you should just send her on her merry little way.
"I'll wait," she says with a determination that tells you that she isn't going to take no for an answer so you step aside to let her in. You suppose that the pills will still be there when you get home tonight.
You turn and walk back towards your bedroom without another word, leaving Cameron to entertain herself in the living room. You take an extra long moment sitting at the edge of you bed to process what you had been about to do and then to regroup. A glance at the alarm clock on your bedside table makes you realize you've been sitting there for twenty minutes and you're surprised that Cameron hasn't sent out a search party for you. You quickly change from your comfortable sweats to a pair of jeans and t-shirt, grabbing your leather jacket that was thrown across the chair next to your closet on the way out.
Standing at the end of the hall you see how Cameron had been occupying her time. A quick glance around the room confirms that she has tidied up the mess on your unused dining room table, the mail that had been piling up by the door was sorted but not opened, the collection of used glasses have all disappeared, presumably into the dish washer, including the one that you had been drinking out of earlier, she even mopped up the puddle it left behind erasing any evidence that it had ever been there at all. The bottle of scotch is also gone, most likely now tucked away in one of the kitchen cupboards, and the pills that you had so painstakingly counted out and lined up have been swept up and poured back into the bottle.
It only made sense that she would pick up after you in your own home, she does it at work every day. She doesn't have to, she doesn't have a reason too. Except that she's nice, it's a little thing to show that she cares.
She cares.
And you realize she would care if you die. She would be sad, she would mourn, she would miss you, although for the life of you, you cant figure out why. But she would.
As you watch her slide a stack of old medical journals in between an old copy of Atlas Shrugged and that Jenna Jameson book,you wonder what she must have thought when she saw the pills lined up on the coffee table, if she had any idea what they meant as she put them away. But you don't get far into your musings as she suddenly feels your eyes and turns around, guilt written clearly across her countenance.
"I'm sorry," she sputters nervously, "I just thought I would pick up a little while I waited, I hope you don't mind. I wasn't snooping or anything."
"It's alright," you reassure her, "I'm well used to your obsessive compulsive tendencies."
"Only around you though," she admits sheepishly.
You raise an eyebrow in a question she easily reads.
"My own apartment is a mess, I really need to clean, but I only seem to get the compulsion to pick up around you," she explains with a chuckle.
"Well you are welcome to come over and clean whenever you want," you joke. "Or if the situation every really becomes desperate at your apartment, I can come over and sit on your couch, eat your food, and watch you clean."
She laughs and rewards you with a smile, which you surprise yourself by returning.
"Oh, here," she says pulling your Vicodin out of her pocket and tossing them to you, as she remembered that she had them.
"Thanks," you murmur, looking at the bottle for long moment before popping the cap off with one hand and pouring a single pill into your other hand. You look at the white pill with new eyes, it suddenly has a completely new meaning than it did a few hours ago, and you don't know how you feel about that.
"So are you going to take that?" she asks innocently, motioning to the pill in your hand with a tilt of her chin and a curious glint in her eye.
Realizing you have no idea how long you've been standing there, you nod and toss the pill into you mouth, prepared to swallow it dry like you have done thousands of times. But your throat is dry and the pill sticks halfway down. Always prepared, you have no doubt in your mind that at one time she was a girl scout, Cameron pulls a bottle of water out of her purse and hands it to you as soon as you start coughing.
"I hate it when you do that, you could have choked on that thing and died. It's just a good thing I was here to save you," she joked and scolded lightly.
She has no idea.
"I'm driving and we're taking the bike," you announce as you gesture for her to start heading for the front door.
"I was hoping you would say that," she counters, to your surprise.
You pause half way out the door and she stops when she senses your hesitation, and turns back to face you, one eyebrow raised in an unspoken question.
"Thank you," you find yourself saying before you can stop yourself.
"What for?" she asks her other eyebrow shooting up to join the first in surprise.
"For changing my plans for tonight," you reply cryptically.
"You're welcome," she replied in that gracious manner of hers, even though you can tell she is still surprised and a bit confused by your virtually unheard of show of gratitude and you are grateful she doesn't press you about it.
She has no idea.
A/N So what did you all think? it's a little darker than anything else I have written and its also the first time I have written anything in second person so I'm not sure how successful I was… So you'll have to give me your honest opinion… on a side note, the next chapter is of I Do, I Don't is just about half done so keep an eye out for that as well…