Dec 13, 2005 22:03
He had Johnny Cash on the clinic radio. Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down, a song that reflected his mood a little too well. When it reached the final chords, he hit repeat to listen to it again, his fingers tapping out the beat on the edge of the desk.
He'd been trying to call his father all evening, and had only gotten the answering machince at home and voice mail on his cell The voice mail didn't surprise him, his father never turned the phone on. But the house phone? The fact no one answered unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, maybe not constantly in his thoughts but always close, hovering, never far away.
He was in the clinic, reorganising the drugs in the lock up while he listened to Johnny Cash, because it gave him something to do. He'd had the bottles alphabetical, then rearranged by catagory, and decided he liked alphabetical better.
Hurt came over the CD player. With a weary sigh, he left the lock up half alphabetical, half by catagory, and went into the lobby to sit at the desk to listen without distraction.
"I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel...
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real"
samuel anders,
lee adama,
gregory house,
kara thrace