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moose_mcmoose) wrote2010-02-12 01:38 pm
moose_mcmoose) wrote2010-02-12 01:38 pm
The Week That Was
First off I want to apologise because.....this is really depressing. Also blame Colin Firth because I saw his film and it gave me this idea. So there. (P.S. the film was reaaalllllly fucking good)
Title: The Week That Was
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: R - adult themes
Words: 1400 (7 200 word drabbles)
Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans.
Summary: Some SERIOUS D: going on here. 7 drabbles following Wilson through a particularly difficult week.
WARNING>>>>>>>>>>> (Implied character death (whoops!)). <<<<<<<<<<<<
Tuesday
It's only eleven-thirty but you've taken an early lunch. It's not like you were getting much work done in your office anyway. You're hidden away, cramped up in the soft, red seat in the corner of the cafeteria, away from the bustle of the buffet and the prying eyes of fellow colleagues. You're not sure if it's paranoia or you've acquired a new sixth sense, but it seems everyone staring these days, some with curiosity, some with sympathy, most with pity. You avert your eyes and put your head down when a young, blonde nurse meets your gaze, quickly shoving a floppy lettuce leaf in your mouth to give the impression of nonchalance. It's disgusting, probably out of date, but you chew on it anyway before waving your fork above the rest of the food. Nothing really appeals to you, the lettuce is limp, the fries are hard, the cheese burger didn't even warrant you taking a mouthful, even the coffee you made tastes like old dish water. You drop the fork onto the plate and push it to the end of the table. It seems food only tastes good when when someone's trying to steal it from your plate.
Wednesday
You haven't drank in a while and it shows. You're on your third bottle and the earth already feels like its being wobbled violently on its axis. There goes the barman, left, right, left, right. You'd ask him to stop moving so fast if you thought he was the cause of your unbalanced vision but it's just the booze. Down the hatch goes the last of the third beer. You raise a finger, the barman nods and hands you another. It's so efficient that it's disturbing. This is your sixth night in a row, the barman has already got you on first name terms. This is becoming a habit, you're becoming a regular. As regular as the wallpaper, as regular as the old bearded man who sits in the corner, scotch in one hand, a photo of his wife in the other; as regular as the unattractive prostitute who sits against the right hand wall, awaiting her next client. Normally, you'd be bothered by something like this, getting stuck in a rut, and you'd want to do something about it, but you're already lost. And you're quite happy to silently drown just as long as you don't forget about him.
Thursday
You're watching them with intent as they slowly etch away his name from the door. You were hoping Cuddy wouldn't do it so soon but you understand her reasons. The hospital doesn't just run according to one doctor alone even though, at times, it felt like it did. You're probably unnerving them somewhat, sitting their with your long white coat and your dark eyes, hands clenched together between your knees, although they aren't showing it. Or they weren't until you spot the guy struggling in his attempt to remove the last 'E'. You hope it's fate, a sign that his name wasn't meant to peeled away and that he would, in fact, return to work tomorrow all sarcasm and bluster, but when the guy finally persuades the last arm of the 'E' off from the glass, that hope vanishes as quickly as it came. Now there was a glass door, giving a view into an disgustingly empty office. The only indication that anyone had been here at all was a red and grey tennis ball that lay on the floor. Smiling, you pick it up and leave it on the now uncluttered desk. Now people would remember who was here.
Friday
Danny was awfully quiet tonight. Though, you realise this is unfair as you're as equally as tight-lipped. The doctors had told you he was doing well this week with his change in medication. The aggression was subsiding, the psychotic episodes less frequent and shorter, he was certainly more lucid than he had been. Apparently. It seems you've caught him on an off-day because you're not seeing any of these supposed improvements. To you, he's just as bemused, confused and fidgety as he usually is. You wonder if he has a concept of how much you care about him or a concept of how much you would give just to take all this shit away and give it somebody else. It's not his fault, but you're pissed by the possibility that he doesn't understand. It voids it all, everything you've ever done. The time, the effort, the emotional strain, the worry. You wonder what the point is when the only living person you truly care about can only stare back with a blank face.
Now he's off talking again to some invisible entity in the room and you're suddenly overcome with jealousy at the fact he's got somebody to talk to.
Saturday
It feels delicate in your fingertips, and fits comfortably in your palm. You inspect it in the light and run your finger along the barrel. The man behind the counter looks at you warily, probably fully aware that you've never bought or handled anything like this before. You had asked for the most popular and the easiest to use, and he handed you a .45 Colt. You trust his judgement, because, well, you have no other judgement to go on. You know that it's rather extreme, to put it bluntly, but it's the only way you can think of to end this pointless cycle of life. A headless chicken can only run around for so long before it eventually succumbs to the inevitable. Strangely, you feel positive, proactive, and full of purpose as you hand the gun back over behind the counter and begin filling your details onto the necessary forms. You can almost smell the irony, the only thing that has got you going is thing that is going to end it all, but you've always been a fan of irony. The goofy man twists a toothy grin and thanks you for your custom before handing you your purchase.
Sunday
You never really expect a knock at your door any more so you almost jump out your skin when there's a harsh rapping on your door. You pad wearily to the source of the noise, that single Ambien you popped before was taking effect quicker than you expected. It's Cuddy at the door, with a pathetically patronising mask of concern on her face. She holds up a plastic box and announces she's brought some spare muffins from her baking session with Rachel. You kindly accept the box with all the strength you can muster, though you rebuff her when she asks to come in. You've left the gun on the coffee table and you're aware how freaked out she will get if she sees it. Even though you can bullshit with the best of them, you don't want to risk weaving some elaborate lie that she will try and poke holes through. You gently explain you were going to bed, to catch up on sleep lost before you go to work tomorrow. She nods before uttering that she will see you tomorrow. You neither confirm or deny it because, in all honesty, you don't know if you will or not.
Monday
Your rope has been untethered, you've been cast from the harbour, you've been bobbing in empty seas ever since. Usually there was a life-raft, old and beaten with a stitched up puncture on the right hand side. But this time there's no life-raft, no lifeboat, no air sea rescue, no passing ships willing to lend a hand. You load two bullets for good measure and settle the gun back on the table. You grab your stash of sleeping pills, collected from your new prescription and a few old prescriptions from the past six months, and pour them out onto the coffee table. There's not a massive amount but there are more than enough to serve their purpose. You pour out several glasses of water to help things along before placing the pills on your tongue a couple at a time. If the gun didn't kill you than the pills would. Drowsiness is kicking in by the time you finish the last pill, so you stick the barrel straight onto your temple.
You miss him too much for this not to happen. You have to do this.
Because you're tired of drifting on your own without any hope of being saved.
Title: The Week That Was
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: R - adult themes
Words: 1400 (7 200 word drabbles)
Disclaimer: I don't own them. A shame, as then I could buy some new jeans.
Summary: Some SERIOUS D: going on here. 7 drabbles following Wilson through a particularly difficult week.
WARNING>>>>>>>>>>> (Implied character death (whoops!)). <<<<<<<<<<<<
Tuesday
It's only eleven-thirty but you've taken an early lunch. It's not like you were getting much work done in your office anyway. You're hidden away, cramped up in the soft, red seat in the corner of the cafeteria, away from the bustle of the buffet and the prying eyes of fellow colleagues. You're not sure if it's paranoia or you've acquired a new sixth sense, but it seems everyone staring these days, some with curiosity, some with sympathy, most with pity. You avert your eyes and put your head down when a young, blonde nurse meets your gaze, quickly shoving a floppy lettuce leaf in your mouth to give the impression of nonchalance. It's disgusting, probably out of date, but you chew on it anyway before waving your fork above the rest of the food. Nothing really appeals to you, the lettuce is limp, the fries are hard, the cheese burger didn't even warrant you taking a mouthful, even the coffee you made tastes like old dish water. You drop the fork onto the plate and push it to the end of the table. It seems food only tastes good when when someone's trying to steal it from your plate.
Wednesday
You haven't drank in a while and it shows. You're on your third bottle and the earth already feels like its being wobbled violently on its axis. There goes the barman, left, right, left, right. You'd ask him to stop moving so fast if you thought he was the cause of your unbalanced vision but it's just the booze. Down the hatch goes the last of the third beer. You raise a finger, the barman nods and hands you another. It's so efficient that it's disturbing. This is your sixth night in a row, the barman has already got you on first name terms. This is becoming a habit, you're becoming a regular. As regular as the wallpaper, as regular as the old bearded man who sits in the corner, scotch in one hand, a photo of his wife in the other; as regular as the unattractive prostitute who sits against the right hand wall, awaiting her next client. Normally, you'd be bothered by something like this, getting stuck in a rut, and you'd want to do something about it, but you're already lost. And you're quite happy to silently drown just as long as you don't forget about him.
Thursday
You're watching them with intent as they slowly etch away his name from the door. You were hoping Cuddy wouldn't do it so soon but you understand her reasons. The hospital doesn't just run according to one doctor alone even though, at times, it felt like it did. You're probably unnerving them somewhat, sitting their with your long white coat and your dark eyes, hands clenched together between your knees, although they aren't showing it. Or they weren't until you spot the guy struggling in his attempt to remove the last 'E'. You hope it's fate, a sign that his name wasn't meant to peeled away and that he would, in fact, return to work tomorrow all sarcasm and bluster, but when the guy finally persuades the last arm of the 'E' off from the glass, that hope vanishes as quickly as it came. Now there was a glass door, giving a view into an disgustingly empty office. The only indication that anyone had been here at all was a red and grey tennis ball that lay on the floor. Smiling, you pick it up and leave it on the now uncluttered desk. Now people would remember who was here.
Friday
Danny was awfully quiet tonight. Though, you realise this is unfair as you're as equally as tight-lipped. The doctors had told you he was doing well this week with his change in medication. The aggression was subsiding, the psychotic episodes less frequent and shorter, he was certainly more lucid than he had been. Apparently. It seems you've caught him on an off-day because you're not seeing any of these supposed improvements. To you, he's just as bemused, confused and fidgety as he usually is. You wonder if he has a concept of how much you care about him or a concept of how much you would give just to take all this shit away and give it somebody else. It's not his fault, but you're pissed by the possibility that he doesn't understand. It voids it all, everything you've ever done. The time, the effort, the emotional strain, the worry. You wonder what the point is when the only living person you truly care about can only stare back with a blank face.
Now he's off talking again to some invisible entity in the room and you're suddenly overcome with jealousy at the fact he's got somebody to talk to.
Saturday
It feels delicate in your fingertips, and fits comfortably in your palm. You inspect it in the light and run your finger along the barrel. The man behind the counter looks at you warily, probably fully aware that you've never bought or handled anything like this before. You had asked for the most popular and the easiest to use, and he handed you a .45 Colt. You trust his judgement, because, well, you have no other judgement to go on. You know that it's rather extreme, to put it bluntly, but it's the only way you can think of to end this pointless cycle of life. A headless chicken can only run around for so long before it eventually succumbs to the inevitable. Strangely, you feel positive, proactive, and full of purpose as you hand the gun back over behind the counter and begin filling your details onto the necessary forms. You can almost smell the irony, the only thing that has got you going is thing that is going to end it all, but you've always been a fan of irony. The goofy man twists a toothy grin and thanks you for your custom before handing you your purchase.
Sunday
You never really expect a knock at your door any more so you almost jump out your skin when there's a harsh rapping on your door. You pad wearily to the source of the noise, that single Ambien you popped before was taking effect quicker than you expected. It's Cuddy at the door, with a pathetically patronising mask of concern on her face. She holds up a plastic box and announces she's brought some spare muffins from her baking session with Rachel. You kindly accept the box with all the strength you can muster, though you rebuff her when she asks to come in. You've left the gun on the coffee table and you're aware how freaked out she will get if she sees it. Even though you can bullshit with the best of them, you don't want to risk weaving some elaborate lie that she will try and poke holes through. You gently explain you were going to bed, to catch up on sleep lost before you go to work tomorrow. She nods before uttering that she will see you tomorrow. You neither confirm or deny it because, in all honesty, you don't know if you will or not.
Monday
Your rope has been untethered, you've been cast from the harbour, you've been bobbing in empty seas ever since. Usually there was a life-raft, old and beaten with a stitched up puncture on the right hand side. But this time there's no life-raft, no lifeboat, no air sea rescue, no passing ships willing to lend a hand. You load two bullets for good measure and settle the gun back on the table. You grab your stash of sleeping pills, collected from your new prescription and a few old prescriptions from the past six months, and pour them out onto the coffee table. There's not a massive amount but there are more than enough to serve their purpose. You pour out several glasses of water to help things along before placing the pills on your tongue a couple at a time. If the gun didn't kill you than the pills would. Drowsiness is kicking in by the time you finish the last pill, so you stick the barrel straight onto your temple.
You miss him too much for this not to happen. You have to do this.
Because you're tired of drifting on your own without any hope of being saved.
no subject
Another excellent story. <3
eta: I became so involved with the fic, I forgot you said this was inspired by A Single Man. I keep meaning to see it.
no subject
I deliberately stuck to 200 words each because I didn't want to make any particular section heavier and more wordy than the other. I think that would have made it a bit odd to read. I'm pretty proud I manage to stick to it because I have a habit of being a bit flowery with writing.
Cheers for reading and commenting XD Glad you enjoyed.
(And A Single Man is fantastic. Colin Firth in great acting shock. He should get an Oscar...seriously. And I usually hate very stylised films but it was just overwhelmingly good. Very simple plot but just brilliantly done.)