Fic: Still Bleeding
Title: Still Bleeding
Summary: House gets a paper cut that moves him to tears. Introspective, touches on House’s childhood, and set shortly after the infarction.
Words: 450
A/N: Inspired by
maryshelley’s claim that the only situation she could think of that was less stimulating than anemia was a paper cut.
Droplets of deep crimson mesmerized, mixing with pain and drugs, transporting him to a hazy memory; a bright red fire truck, a gift from his mother. It had a bell that he loved to ring because he hadn’t yet learned that children were meant to be seen and not heard. Watching huge manly hands smash the truck on the green kitchen tiles while angry yelling echoed all around his cowering three-year-old self was meant to teach him that. But what he learned was not the lesson intended. It was the first of many unintended lessons. Paper cuts were supposed to be mere annoyances, but this one was an unintended lesson as well.
If even paper cuts were no longer the same, nothing was the same. He was not the same. Trivialities were no longer so trivial. Every step had to be measured, every action controlled, just as when he had lived in fear of his father’s harsh disapproval and punishments. He continued to watch blood trickle from the small linear wound, which shouldn’t have bled at all. He now lived a life full of unrelenting consequence. Bleeding could no longer be stopped as quickly. Journeys could not be taken as lightly. Emotion and trust could not be given as unguardedly. Things that shouldn’t hurt, hurt.
A soft chuckle of irony escaped his lips as he looked down at the stinging red line set against the backdrop of skin that was paler than he remembered. He should feel fortunate to be alive. He should feel grateful to Stacy for saving him. He should accept that this was his life now and move on. That’s what they told him. They did a lot of shoulding, but he could only stare blankly in return. He wanted to rage, rage at their blindness. How could he feel fortunate or move on when he was still bleeding? Prickling heat crept up his neck and the stinging in his eyes and nose overshadowed that in his hand.
He forgot for a moment that his body was not his own, but the foreign one he had woken up to in the hospital, and thought about getting a cloth to wrap around his finger. Red bloomed against the edge of the white cotton T-shirt he used instead. It would match the stains the wound had already left on his pants. Hot bitter droplets from his eyes flowed as those from his finger ebbed. He felt like a maudlin fool. The importance of stoicism was a lesson that had not been lost on him, but this foreign body didn’t seem to understand. Tears were pathetic. It was just a stupid paper cut, fire truck, muscle. But still, it hurt. And still, he bled.