Have you ever woken up in the morning and not remembered what you did the night before?
I hurt like hell.
My entire body felt like it was on fire, like it'd been run into with a large truck, and dragged behind a horse for a mile. My throat was dry, and it wasn't just from the panic. I could taste blood in my mouth, and the bitter taste of the anesthesia on my tongue. I would have thrown up, had my stomach not felt like it was ripping in two. My neck was throbbing, which made my head throb, which made my brain throb, which made me squint against the lights.
What the hell had I done to myself?
I ran through the list in my head, at least tried to. I hadn't gone out drinking and gotten in a bar fight, not this time. I hadn't ridden my bike on the Turnpike without a helmet on, I wasn't that stupid. I hadn't had amazing sex that left my brain fritzed and my body sore, though two nights prior was a whole different story.
But I couldn't remember what I had done.
Why was I lying there in that bed, itchy blanket on my legs, paper thin gown on my body, lumpy mattress under my back -- you would really think for an Ivy League school we'd have better mattresses, Christ.
I couldn't remember.
It kind of freaked me out. I'm a doctor. I have a good memory for facts and figures and the little details. But I couldn't reach my charts at the end of the bed. So I looked myself over. Slowly it came back. The bandage on my stomach had covered the first shot. The bandage on my neck had covered the second, the one that was supposed to kill me. Moriarty had wanted me dead, like his wife had killed herself. My wife. Oh God where was my wife...
She was there.
I hurt like hell. The details were still fuzzy, even for the first hour or two. Ketamine? Why'd I ask for Ketamine? Why'd I go hunt down fish tacos downtown? Why did Cameron have those special agent looking sunglasses on? Why did I punch Wilson?
Why did I kill a man on the table?
Why did the bullet fall?
Unanswered questions. I hate unanswered questions. It freaks me out, unnerves me to no end when I can't figure out what the fuck is going on in any given moment. That's why I'm a diagnostician. I figure things out. Put together the clues. Solve the puzzle. But this one, I couldn't solve.
I still haven't remembered all of the shooting.
Maybe I'm blocking it out of my head. Who knows. But I can't really remember.
Dr. Greg House
House
Words: 430
My entire body felt like it was on fire, like it'd been run into with a large truck, and dragged behind a horse for a mile. My throat was dry, and it wasn't just from the panic. I could taste blood in my mouth, and the bitter taste of the anesthesia on my tongue. I would have thrown up, had my stomach not felt like it was ripping in two. My neck was throbbing, which made my head throb, which made my brain throb, which made me squint against the lights.
What the hell had I done to myself?
I ran through the list in my head, at least tried to. I hadn't gone out drinking and gotten in a bar fight, not this time. I hadn't ridden my bike on the Turnpike without a helmet on, I wasn't that stupid. I hadn't had amazing sex that left my brain fritzed and my body sore, though two nights prior was a whole different story.
But I couldn't remember what I had done.
Why was I lying there in that bed, itchy blanket on my legs, paper thin gown on my body, lumpy mattress under my back -- you would really think for an Ivy League school we'd have better mattresses, Christ.
I couldn't remember.
It kind of freaked me out. I'm a doctor. I have a good memory for facts and figures and the little details. But I couldn't reach my charts at the end of the bed. So I looked myself over. Slowly it came back. The bandage on my stomach had covered the first shot. The bandage on my neck had covered the second, the one that was supposed to kill me. Moriarty had wanted me dead, like his wife had killed herself. My wife. Oh God where was my wife...
She was there.
I hurt like hell. The details were still fuzzy, even for the first hour or two. Ketamine? Why'd I ask for Ketamine? Why'd I go hunt down fish tacos downtown? Why did Cameron have those special agent looking sunglasses on? Why did I punch Wilson?
Why did I kill a man on the table?
Why did the bullet fall?
Unanswered questions. I hate unanswered questions. It freaks me out, unnerves me to no end when I can't figure out what the fuck is going on in any given moment. That's why I'm a diagnostician. I figure things out. Put together the clues. Solve the puzzle. But this one, I couldn't solve.
I still haven't remembered all of the shooting.
Maybe I'm blocking it out of my head. Who knows. But I can't really remember.
Dr. Greg House
House
Words: 430