When I heard that Greg had stuck a knife into an outlet and had nearly killed himself in the process, I thought it was a joke. It had to be. But that thought lasted a full split-second before it was replaced by another one: The bastard was crazy enough to pull such a stunt. Why he would do such a stupid thing, I didn't know yet. I'm waiting for him to wake up so I can get the answer straight from him, then I'll decide whether or not to kill him myself and save him the trouble of blowing out another outlet.
He had been doing well, or at least I thought he had. I had been keeping a close eye on him after my devious plot to drug his coffee with antidepressants went awry. He was still cranky as hell and his mood swings returned, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. I think it had finally sunk in that I was here for him, something he could take advantage of and fully appreciate. Not that he would actually talk about what was bothering him. Most of the time he just lounged with me and wanted me to stroke his neck or have an arm around him. That's what he liked. He wouldn't talk about it and I couldn't make him. But sitting with me made him happy, and if he was happy then I was happy.
Then he turned around and tried to electrocute himself. Now he's unconscious and I'm just a little bit pissed off. When I asked his potential fellows what the hell had happened, they couldn't answer. The only one who had actually seen anything was a very agitated Amber, who rambled on and on about receiving a page from House, seeing a bright flash of light as she walked to his office, and finding him on the floor with no pulse.
So it wasn't some freak suicide attempt. He made damn good and sure someone would be there at just the right moment, preferably someone who knew CPR and was trying to get on his good side so he would hire her.
Pretty damn clever, I have to admit.
But the still didn't explain what the hell he was hoping to accomplish by sending tens of thousands of volts into his body.
I sat by his hospital bed, alternating between staring at his face and at the bandage on his burned hand.
A soft grunt, then his eyes fluttered open. He looked around the room and didn't seem too surprised to see where he was. Then he looked over at me. If I didn't know any better I would have to say that he looked both surprised and relieved to see me there. We have had plenty of ups and downs, and I'm not sure where this ranks yet, but it's not the straw that broke the camel's back. The camel has nothing to worry about yet.
His blue eyes were still looking at me, waiting for me to say something.
So I did what he would have done. I told him exactly what was on my mind.
"You're an idiot," I said.
The drive home was unusually quiet. Any other time he would be babbling a mile a minute about a case, clinic patients, traffic, the downfall of civilization as we know it, monster trucks, his lust for Carmen Electra, what I would be making for dinner. Not tonight. He just sat there with his hands in his lap, staring out the window, like a kid who knows he's going to be punished for misbehaving as soon as he gets home. How he expected me to punish him, I don't know. I wasn't. I just wanted some answers, whether he was ready to talk or not. I wanted to make sure he was going to be alright. I wanted him to promise he would never do anything stupid like that again. I wanted him to know the hell he had put me through the last day or so.
I held the front door open as he limped in.
"How's your hand?" I asked. "Do you need the bandage changed?"
"No, it's fine."
I watched as he made straight for the sofa, collapsing on it with a loud exhale of relief.
Whatever relief he was feeling was short-lived. I chose that moment to interrupt.
"What the hell were you doing?"
"I'm sitting here."
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. "No, Greg, I didn't ask what are you doing. I asked what were you doing? Today, in your office. You know, the knife and electrical outlet? What the fuck did you think you were doing?"
Resting his head on the back of the sofa, he glanced over at me and said, "I was looking."
"For what?" My voice was getting louder. I wasn't in the mood to play games with him, not now, not after what had happened. "To see how long your heart could go without beating before you were brought back? A more efficient electric chair? To see if the fucking outlet worked? What the hell were you looking for?"
His head tilted towards me, and his answer was the craziest thing that ever spilled from his lips. It hit me like the electrical shock must have hit him; my legs suddenly turned to Jello and I dug my nails into my palm to make sure this wasn't a dream. The pain told me this was all very real, as did the blood dripping down my fingers.
"I was looking for God," he said calmly.