Generally speaking, how do you think others perceive you?
"Beyond the picket fences and the oil wells, the happy endings and the fairy tales, is the reality of shattered lives and broken dreams." - Tim McGraw, 'We Carry On'.
House has decided, that if he gets another sympathetic glance from a stranger, he's going to give them a beating they'll never forget.
He ducks his head and promptly yanks the hood of his sweatshirt up to cover his face, content to disappear behind the fabric as he makes his way through the halls, two hands gripping a pair of crutches tightly, sneakers squeaking against linoleum so well waxed and clean he thinks he can see himself in it. He doesn't know why they bother cleaning the hospital floors so often, because hell, people are just going to disease them up anyways and it's a losing battle.
His left foot braces firmly against the floor with each step, holding up his weight, taking a little bit of the tension out of his shoulders that's grown the last few weeks he's actually been up and moving. It's a welcome pain, when the only other option was to be staring at the ceiling in his now empty apartment, eyeing cobwebs he can't climb up to brush away. Never did the great doctor House think he would spend his days taunted by something so intangible as dust.
The Healer, who couldn't heal himself.
His right foot never touches the floor. He's found it easier that way, rather than attempt a half-walking hobble across shined floors with a leg that won't cooperate, to just hold it up, as if the foot was broken, and hop along. It took him a few weeks to practice moving about on the crutches, one session with another pitiful woman who was so sorry for him, and she'd gotten very uncomfortable when he told her to take her pity and shove it, unless she was going to leave her normal, uncripple husband and come have sex with a guy with a bad leg anytime soon. People skills had never been his strong suit.
He knows he looks tired. That's what happens when you avoid going to physical therapy and instead spend your time hopping around the hallways in the building next door. It's his own form of therapy. He uses the arm strength to haul himself out of bed, stand from a table, move in the kitchen, take a shower without falling. They tell him he'll heal, slowly, but he knows they're just feeding him the inspirational bullshit they feed any recovering patient. Only problem is, he's not a patient, he's a doctor first and he knows how this goes.
They give him painkillers because they can see how much pain he's in when he's lying on the floor trying not to cry later that afternoon. One of the nurses makes the mistake of asking him where Stacy is and why she didn't come with him to the therapy like she had the weeks before. House hauls himself up -- putting that improved arm strength to good use -- and grabs the crutches, hops out without another word. He won't step foot in that building for nearly three years.
Instead, the great doctor spends his nights in an empty apartment that still smells of vindaloo curry and cigarettes, eyeing cobwebs in the corners until he gets a little bit drunk one night and attacks them with a broom. A picture falls from the mantle -- an accident at the time but he's glad it happened later -- and he doesn't bother cleaning it up for three days, it just disappears one day after his best friend comes over to restock the groceries and bring the mail in out of the box. He doesn't ask what happened to it.
House is past reasons for events.
No longer does he walk through the halls of his hospital with a sense of pride and a keen ability to evade wayward loved ones who want to thank him for saving little Johnny's life, or curse him and his name for letting dear sweet Esther pass on into the depths of eternity.
He stops speaking to patients because who wants to be healed by a man who isn't whole himself? He stops doing his clinic hours because he gets enough pitiful glances walking the halls, he doesn't need more from random strangers and idiots. He stops going to the hospital Christmas party for a year or two because he can't take the understanding in the eyes of children who know what it's like to be hurting inside, so deep that no adults can see it except for those who are broken too.
Failure.
Cripple.
Fool.
Lonely bastard.
Asshole.
Drug Addict.
Angry son of a bitch.
If he sees one more person glance at him while he's making his rounds through the hallway, he swears he's going to go off on them and strangle them against the nearest wall, crutch crushing trachea until someone pulls him away. He'll blame it on his medication, he'll blame it on his depression, he'll blame it on the fact that everyone says he's crazy and completely fucked up, so he felt the need to justify them, make them right.
He just keeps walking. One half stepping hop at a time.
The Healer, who couldn't heal himself.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 840
House has decided, that if he gets another sympathetic glance from a stranger, he's going to give them a beating they'll never forget.
He ducks his head and promptly yanks the hood of his sweatshirt up to cover his face, content to disappear behind the fabric as he makes his way through the halls, two hands gripping a pair of crutches tightly, sneakers squeaking against linoleum so well waxed and clean he thinks he can see himself in it. He doesn't know why they bother cleaning the hospital floors so often, because hell, people are just going to disease them up anyways and it's a losing battle.
His left foot braces firmly against the floor with each step, holding up his weight, taking a little bit of the tension out of his shoulders that's grown the last few weeks he's actually been up and moving. It's a welcome pain, when the only other option was to be staring at the ceiling in his now empty apartment, eyeing cobwebs he can't climb up to brush away. Never did the great doctor House think he would spend his days taunted by something so intangible as dust.
The Healer, who couldn't heal himself.
His right foot never touches the floor. He's found it easier that way, rather than attempt a half-walking hobble across shined floors with a leg that won't cooperate, to just hold it up, as if the foot was broken, and hop along. It took him a few weeks to practice moving about on the crutches, one session with another pitiful woman who was so sorry for him, and she'd gotten very uncomfortable when he told her to take her pity and shove it, unless she was going to leave her normal, uncripple husband and come have sex with a guy with a bad leg anytime soon. People skills had never been his strong suit.
He knows he looks tired. That's what happens when you avoid going to physical therapy and instead spend your time hopping around the hallways in the building next door. It's his own form of therapy. He uses the arm strength to haul himself out of bed, stand from a table, move in the kitchen, take a shower without falling. They tell him he'll heal, slowly, but he knows they're just feeding him the inspirational bullshit they feed any recovering patient. Only problem is, he's not a patient, he's a doctor first and he knows how this goes.
They give him painkillers because they can see how much pain he's in when he's lying on the floor trying not to cry later that afternoon. One of the nurses makes the mistake of asking him where Stacy is and why she didn't come with him to the therapy like she had the weeks before. House hauls himself up -- putting that improved arm strength to good use -- and grabs the crutches, hops out without another word. He won't step foot in that building for nearly three years.
Instead, the great doctor spends his nights in an empty apartment that still smells of vindaloo curry and cigarettes, eyeing cobwebs in the corners until he gets a little bit drunk one night and attacks them with a broom. A picture falls from the mantle -- an accident at the time but he's glad it happened later -- and he doesn't bother cleaning it up for three days, it just disappears one day after his best friend comes over to restock the groceries and bring the mail in out of the box. He doesn't ask what happened to it.
House is past reasons for events.
No longer does he walk through the halls of his hospital with a sense of pride and a keen ability to evade wayward loved ones who want to thank him for saving little Johnny's life, or curse him and his name for letting dear sweet Esther pass on into the depths of eternity.
He stops speaking to patients because who wants to be healed by a man who isn't whole himself? He stops doing his clinic hours because he gets enough pitiful glances walking the halls, he doesn't need more from random strangers and idiots. He stops going to the hospital Christmas party for a year or two because he can't take the understanding in the eyes of children who know what it's like to be hurting inside, so deep that no adults can see it except for those who are broken too.
Failure.
Cripple.
Fool.
Lonely bastard.
Asshole.
Drug Addict.
Angry son of a bitch.
If he sees one more person glance at him while he's making his rounds through the hallway, he swears he's going to go off on them and strangle them against the nearest wall, crutch crushing trachea until someone pulls him away. He'll blame it on his medication, he'll blame it on his depression, he'll blame it on the fact that everyone says he's crazy and completely fucked up, so he felt the need to justify them, make them right.
He just keeps walking. One half stepping hop at a time.
The Healer, who couldn't heal himself.
Dr. Greg House
House
Word Count: 840