Hello everyone! This is my first fiction, and I hope you'll like it. I'm French, so my English isn't that good, please don't hesitate to correct me.
I guess I have to say something along the lines of " House characters don't belong to me", but I won't, just for the heck of it, and because if I really did own them...what the hell would I be doing here :p ?
Okay, I'm shuting up now, the story's about to begin. I really hope you'll enjoy it.
Chapter one : Saying goodbye
" You can't do that !" he yelled, furious. Or was "desperate" a better word for what he was feeling at this moment? This moment when the woman he loved was telling him that she was leaving, taking with her their little baby, Callie.
"Just watch me Greg". She replied, tears already falling down her cheeks. She had stopped trying to weep them away, it was no use for they kept rolling down. Her heart, she was sure, was willing to drown in them: how do you tell the one you love that it's over? "You had it coming, so don't try to look surprised, and don't give me that betrayed look. You knew this was going to happen! I told you it would! And you could have changed it, but the truth is, Greg, you wanted this to happen; even now, as you're yelling at me that I can't leave, a part of you is relieved" . It hurt to watch him consider what she had just said, because weather he admitted or not, his shocked silence was enough of a confession. She knew it already, so why was it so damn hard to have it confirmed?
He stared at her, troubled, confused, angry at her, angry at himself. He couldn't deny it, she had given him several opportunities to prevent this, and as usual, he had laughed at her, made a sexual suggestion, and got away from the confrontation. Now, watching her in the middle of their living room, eyes red from the seemingly unstoppable flow of tears, he pondered on her words. "A part of you is relieved"…
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, and his voice was heavy but clear. "What should I do?"
"There's nothing to do, Greg. It's over. It has been for a while." Damn it, why was her voice trembling so much? Now wasn't the moment to be weak, or to hesitate.
"Damn it Stacy! What the hell do you want me to do? Do you want me to cry? Fall at your feet and beg you to stay? Is that what you want? I know I've been a jerk, I said I was sorry, didn't I ? What more do you want?"
" "Sorry"? You think that "sorry" is going to solve it all?" She asked disbelieving. "You're not even sorry to begin with. Actually, you want ME to say that I'm sorry, because the truth is that you still haven't forgiven me."
No he hadn't. He had tried, or at least, he felt like had tried to forgive her, but it really wasn't easy when the pain in his leg was constantly screaming at him that it was all her fault, that she didn't have the right to do what she did. A cripple. Even though everyone around him, including her, kept on telling him that limping was a way better option than dying, he still had his doubts about it.
"Do you even love me anymore?" Her voice was so full of utter sadness, her eyes begging for…well, he wasn't really sure what for. He averted his eyes, he couldn't take that broken look on her face. Could he lie to her? Of course he could, everybody lies, right ? The real question was: did he want to lie to her? Could he handle the consequences of lying to her ?
"I'm sorry" was his honest response.
The silence that fell on the room was suffocating. He needed it to stop, if she didn't leave now, he probably would, just to escape that terrible cold sensation that was creeping up his members. His leg was killing him, and he tried to rest more of his weight on his cane, to the point where his joints were turning white. The pills were on the kitchen counter, and painfully, he made his way to them, and it seemed like each one of his steps had been leading him to those pills recently. As he popped the bottle open, he could hear her short intake of breath. She did that every time. That unnerved him. Wasn't it her fault if he had to take those? What? Did she want him to suffer more than what he already did? Did she have no mercy? He was about to voice his anger, when a whimper coming from the bedroom was heard.
Stacy raced towards the noise, and came back a few seconds later with a bundle in her arms. Callie. His nine month old daughter. He still wasn't used to the beauty of this child, his child. Sometimes he felt like she couldn't possibly be his. It was preposterous to believe that this angel, this perfection, was his. But one look at her face and you couldn't doubt it. Callie House was the image of her father; she had his thin facial structures, his black curls, and his unique eyes. Wherever they went, everyone would stop and marvel at the beauty of the girl and would congratulate the new father with a " She looks so much like you!". Stacy hated that.
As he watched her calming their daughter, a profound sadness washed over him. She was leaving with Callie. His little Callie. His treasure. So why wasn't he fighting her on that when it was breaking his heart?
"You can't take her away, Stacy. You just…can't." he said, his voice surprisingly weak.
She gave him a look that seemed tender. She knew of his love for their daughter. A part of her had been so jealous when she understood that he would never love anyone as much as he loved Callie. But it soon subsided, her motherly instinct taking over and rejoicing in his affection for the precious being that they had created together.
"I'm taking her, Greg. And you know really well that it's the best thing for her. You can't possibly want her stay with you. If you love her, you can't want that for her."
It kind of hurt to hear her say that, and his hand clutched the handle of his cane a lot harder than necessary. But she was right. As much as he adored his daughter, he knew he wasn't capable of taking care of her. He never really did. He always stayed at a distance, watching her like you watch a fine piece of art in a museum: those beauties that enchanted you but that were kept from your touch because one finger could damage it. He loved her too much to ruin her, to break her. When he came home drunk, after a night out in a miserable bar, he would sway into the bedroom, trying hard to not wake Stacy up, and he would move to the crib where his precious girl was sleeping.
He would spend hours just looking at her, hating himself a bit more at each one of her breath. She didn't deserve such a pitiful, broken father. Sometimes, he wished he could be one of those men who took their kid to the park, rolled around in the grass with them, taking pictures every five minutes. He wished he could give that normal and simple happiness to Callie. But he couldn't. He was broken beyond repair. And he couldn't pretend, not with her. So yeah, he knew that she would be much more happy with her mother, the one who took care of her, who fed her, dressed her, changed her, the one who did all these things he felt incapable of. He had to let her go, for the love of her, even if it killed him.
"Yeah, I know." he replied, broken.
There was that sad look in her eyes again. He didn't need her pity.
"We're leaving tonight. I booked a plane for Chicago. I found a job there, and we won't be too far from my mum."
He realized now that the room was filled with suitcases. How did he not notice earlier? Oh yeah, he was stone.
"Will you tell Wilson that I love him and that I'll miss him?"
He nodded absentmindedly, his blue eyes on the girl sleeping softly in the arms of her mother. Slowly, he made his painful way to her, and laid a trembling hand on her small, soft head full of curls. The touch was light, barely there, but she felt it nonetheless for her eyelids began to tremble and soon his own eyes were looking back. God she was beautiful. Her pale soft pink cheeks gave her that angel look you saw only on paintings. She was warm under his palm, and her eyes bored into his, like she knew something, like she understood it all, like she forgave him his cowardice. Her little hand went to his, and he felt his world break. She didn't cry, didn't smile, she just watched him with a depth that was probably all in his imagination: what depth was there to a nine month old kid? He was the first one to mock the parents at the hospital when they marveled at their baby. Oh the hypocrisy of him.
Softly, almost reverently, he whispered:
She inhaled loudly, taking with her the last piece of his heart. Her mother, eyes still wet, took his hand away, willing herself to be strong, and without a look back, she walked to the sofa, took the baby bag that laid there, almost ran to the door, opened it, and went out of his life. For good.
That night, there was not enough Vicodin on this damned earth to ease his pain.