& this
title: but what a waste of my time
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: House
rating: pg
character(s): Jimmy Quidd
warnings: allusions to drug&alcohol use
word count: 204
notes: so, this is some crazy s-o-c thing? i have no fucking idea, but pretty sure this ain't the last of Jimmy. I BLAME YOU, RENNER.
Back when he was James. Not Jimmy, not even Jim, not yet. He remembers it sometimes. Sits and pieces together the parts the drugs haven’t burned holes in, the booze hasn’t washed clean.
There’s a kid standing in front of an empty house. This kid, he comes home every day to no one. Gets off the bus, goes inside. Does whatever. Maybe he sees his mom before he goes to sleep that night. Most of the time he doesn’t.
But today. Today he knows there’s something different about the silence between rooms. Clothes hangers swing in her closet, empty drawers gape at him from the dresser. He waits and waits and the only person that shows up, comes to take him away.
He’s nine.
Jimmy hates that kid. Feels sorry for him even though he doesn’t want to. Almost thirty years and too much - just, too much - and that house is nothing but a memory. So’s his mother. He hasn’t seen either one of ‘em since that social worker showed up in her squat little station wagon. Maybe one day he won’t remember them at all.
He cracks the cap on another bottle. Does another line off the back of his hand. Here’s hoping.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: House
rating: pg
character(s): Jimmy Quidd
warnings: allusions to drug&alcohol use
word count: 204
notes: so, this is some crazy s-o-c thing? i have no fucking idea, but pretty sure this ain't the last of Jimmy. I BLAME YOU, RENNER.
Back when he was James. Not Jimmy, not even Jim, not yet. He remembers it sometimes. Sits and pieces together the parts the drugs haven’t burned holes in, the booze hasn’t washed clean.
There’s a kid standing in front of an empty house. This kid, he comes home every day to no one. Gets off the bus, goes inside. Does whatever. Maybe he sees his mom before he goes to sleep that night. Most of the time he doesn’t.
But today. Today he knows there’s something different about the silence between rooms. Clothes hangers swing in her closet, empty drawers gape at him from the dresser. He waits and waits and the only person that shows up, comes to take him away.
He’s nine.
Jimmy hates that kid. Feels sorry for him even though he doesn’t want to. Almost thirty years and too much - just, too much - and that house is nothing but a memory. So’s his mother. He hasn’t seen either one of ‘em since that social worker showed up in her squat little station wagon. Maybe one day he won’t remember them at all.
He cracks the cap on another bottle. Does another line off the back of his hand. Here’s hoping.
- end