AN: First ever House fic. Hopefully not my last. It's based on T.S. Elliot's "The Hollow Men," the main influence being the lines "This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper." I suppose it could be from anyone's perspective, really, but when I was writing it, I was thinking about Wilson. Poor guy has to put up with so much of House's shit. Enjoy, though!
Disclaimer: I do not own the television show House. I do not own the characters of the television show House. I also do not own T.S. Elliot's "The Hollow Men."
This Is the Way the World Ends
This is the way our world will end. Not with a tongue but a thrashing. Your skin now tastes bitter when it used to leave a sweet tang in my mouth, and your lips have cracked and broken. I always reveled in the paths they traced down my body. But not anymore. And you wonder why I've gone to so many others for satisfaction. I want a response, I want a reaction that you can't give . . . aren't willing to give. And that hurts, but it won't show. I won't give you that privilege.
This is the way our world will end. Not with a drop but a splash. You'll dive into that great, glassy lake and drown within seconds of impact. I'll watch from a distance, torn between going in after you and waiting to see if you emerge on your own. But you won't. Oh, you won't. Because if I could, I would hold you under myself, bare hands and all. I'd smile as the life from those beautiful blues faded to dull, rancid gray.
This is the way our world will end. Not with a smile but a hanging. That noose around your neck has been tightening for years, and it's just a matter of time before the final sinch leaves you gasping your last breath. These mundane tasks you complete everyday -- you think you aren't a routine, but I've got you nailed down to the wire. Every step, every act, every sarcastic quip that escapes your lips . . . I know your every trick. You smile when something's wrong, you bark orders when you want to be left alone, you disappear when you want to hurt yourself.
This is the way our world will end. Not with a kiss but a clash. We don't mesh. Our contures don't fit like they should, and you're either oblivious or don't give a shit. All those moments spent pressed against one another, desperate for contact, ravaging, clawing, biting. Anything to keep our minds off of injuries, illnesses, terminal patients, unsolved cases, former wives and lovers. But it still got to you, didn't it? That I was able to forget and you were left with the memories? That I could leave it all behind in an instant without a second thought? That I might do the same to you?
This is the way our world will end. Not with a bed but a grave. All these nights that we fuck and say nothing are becoming fewer and further between. I used to relish the feeling of you inside me. Now it makes me sick, and it's all I can think about when I see your face everyday. You pretend it doesn't happen -- I can see it when your eyes are tired and faded, when you speak and your voice is strained but empty, when you only look that way for me and no one else. You're a liar, and you don't deserve the life I have willingly given to you.
This is the way our world has ended. Not as lovers but enemies.
AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard for any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?
Well, Kats and Kittens, hope it wasn't too much of a bore or a snore. It certainly wasn't as long as I would have liked, but I just couldn't seem to find anymore to add to it. I might end up thinking of more to say, so I'll keep it posted as "in progress" for the moment. Maybe I'll add more chapters.
Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.
-T.S. Elliot, "The Hollow Men"