Disclaimer: I do not own the show or the characters. That belongs to David Shore and Fox.
A/N: I really shouldn't be writing this. I need to study for my Principles of Management test tomorrow.
But, it wouldn't leave me head, so here it is. Also, this is my first House fiction. I hope you enjoy it.
You sit in the dark, once again, with a pill bottle in your hand. The only company is the deep searing pain in your thigh.
You sit in contemplation, wondering if it woud be better to end it all right now. Take away the loneliness, the darkness, the pain. It would be simple. All you would need is the vicodin in your hand and the whiskey on the table.
A few swallows of each would do more than numb the pain this time. It would end it completely. No more pain. Just non-existence.
There is no God, right? No one to answer to for ending the life that by some mistake has lasted this long. There is no heaven or hell. All that matters is this life. All that matters is that in your nearly 50 years, you've made a difference somehow.
You've helped more than your fair share of people. Hell, you're a doctor. You do it every day. You fix the plagues, make the bodies and brains right again, even when it seems impossible. And in return, you have a dead leg and a lifetime supply of pills to lessen the extraordinary pain. And becoming a slave to this addicton, to this... artificial means of pleasure... has to be worse than death, right?
You think of all the people you'd leave behind. Well, luckily your big relationship failed. You have no kids to think of, and Stacy, well, she's moved on anyway. You're not entirely sure she ever really loved you in the first place.
Then there's Cuddy. You could see a few great nights with her. In fact, you already have. But a relationship? No. It'll never fucking happen. You're too much of an asshole to really let her in. She hates you, anyway. The only thing it would ever be is sex. And while it's not exactly a bad deal, it's not enough to stay in this much pain for however much longer your liver would hold up.
Foreman, Chase and Cameron. Your little musketeers. Aside from Cameron, who would probably leave Chase for you if asked in a persuasive enough way, they wouldn't care. They never liked you. Respected your thought processes, maybe. They're glad you're around to help them solve the case and cure the patient. But would they miss you? No. Probably not.
The only person that really leaves is Wilson. Your best friend. Your only friend. Would he be upset to find you unresponsive on the living room floor? Yes. Definitely. Would he miss you? Sure. He'd be inconsolable. For a while. But nothing lasts forever. He'd get over it with time. He sees people die every day, and it's not exactly like everyone hasn't seen it coming.
You're a drug addict. You're an insane, sarcastic, uncaring, arrogant human being that puts other human lives at risk every day. All for the thrill of putting all the pieces together. Even if the last piece is the one that kills the patient. Or at least, that's what you want them all to think. Because if you remain untouchable, they can't see how damaged you really are.
You're not sure if you were ever really whole. If you were ever innocent. Your father couldn't even love you. He hurt you because he knew what you would become. It was a great way to begin a life. With an abusive childhood.
Your trust issues came with consequences. You didn't date. You fucked. There was no intimacy in sex, because intimacy always led to hurt, in your experience. Love is equal to pain. But by some unforseen miracle, Stacy got through. And you were happy, for a while.
But with the death of the muscle in your thigh came the death of your spirit. When you gained the scar, you lost a piece of yourself. Your happiness. Your love. And nothing can make it right again. As long as your leg is unwhole, so is your life.
You have nothing to offer anyone. You can't be emotionally open. You can't deal with the pain in your body or in your mind. You're fucked up in so many ways, that overdosing would be more humane for everyone than continuing on for 20 more years.
The throbbing pain shoots through your nervous system once again, bringing the pills back to the forefront of your consciousness. You weigh the options: take a few to slightly dull the pain, or take them all and end it completely?
You take a deep breath and calm all the small voices in your head telling you what you should do. They don't matter. They are lying. Everybody lies. Even the figments of your imagination.
Death is easy. Death is safe. Death is the blinking screen that says 'Game Over'. But there's no reset button. No way to begin again.
You like games. You like puzzles. And you haven't solved them all yet. If you die, who will solve the puzzles when you're gone? No one.
You sit in contemplation. Games...puzzles...what if you, your pain, is just another piece in a big puzzle. You can't leave a puzzle unfinished. You wouldn't be Gregory House if you did.
With one last look at the orange plastic, you sigh and set it back on the table. You'll deal with the pain. You have to. Because there are still puzzles left to solve.