Broken Redemption

Sun, 10 Dec 2006 07:58:47 GMT

The craziest thing happened to me at work tonight.

Actually, two of the craziest things happened to me tonight. The former - which I'm too scared to talk about - will change everything, for the rest of my life. The latter - which I'm about to talk about - is really more amusing than life-changing.

I worked the desk tonight. And I have to wait for all the guests to leave before I can leave. Around 11:30, the valet guy radioed in, saying he had 5 sets of keys left. But I told him all the guests appeared to be gone. I checked the West Side Dining Rooms - no one. I checked the East Side Banquet Rooms - no one. I checked the pub. There were 4 people left.

But valet still had 5 sets of keys.

"Capital Club to valet: you should only have 4 keys."
"Valet to Capital Club: well, I've got 5."
"A couple went down a few minutes ago. Maybe they're number 5."
"10-4. I'll see if they show."

That's when I noticed - the EMERGENCY signs in-between the elevators were blinking. EMERGENCY. EMERGENCY. USE STAIRS.

There were people stuck in an elevator.

Only problem: there were 5 elevators. Which one was broken?

I ran back to the desk and called security. Security called the fire department. And then I radioed Valet.

"Mike, I'm coming down."
"Bring the radio with you."
"Will do."

I slung my bag over my shoulder and entered the stairwell. I'd never been in the stairwell before. But I'd always wanted to try it. So I descended all 21 floors - all 42 flights - as quickly as I could. My knees began to hurt. When I got to the bottom, the door was locked. I couldn't get out of the stairwell. So I began climbing all the stairs I'd just descended, until I was back on the 21st floor.

That door was locked, as well.

There were emergency phones on every other landing. But I didn't want to call the police department to get me out of the stairwell. So I stood on the landing at the 21st floor, staring at the ceiling in abandon.

Just then, I heard the door alarm go off, and a security guard entered the stairwell; he brushed by me and started down the stairs. I caught the door before it closed, and I was back in the Club.

Now I had no choice but to use the elevators.

When I got to the first floor this time, the doors opened, and I walked out to find firemen and police officers standing in the hallway. The people were still stuck on that elevator. I went through the revolving door, down the outside steps, past the escalator, and entered the valet guy's hallway. I gave him back the radio.

He was still sitting there waiting when I left around 12:15. I wonder how long those people were stuck.

Wed, 06 Dec 2006 01:45:09 GMT

I'm applying for a loan right now.

The school's already agreed that I'm eligible for a certain amount. So I applied through the mail. I was sure I'd gotten the loan, and I hated myself for it. I didn't want the loan. I don't want to be in debt. My parents got into severe debt when I was 2. And I've seen what it does. It's affected me every day since then.

School is not worth ruining my finances before I'm even old enough to have them.

Especially a school I don't even want to go to.

Now the school's sent me a letter saying I have to apply online. So here I am. Applying.

Subsidized loan.
Unsubsidized loan.

What the hell.

What should I do? Is this worth it? Should I work for a few years to save up the money? Or should I go ahead and do this? People tell me that if I don't do it now, I never will. And I'll be working in restaurants for the rest of my life.

I'm moving in January. Into an apartment with my sister. Most of my work money will go toward living expenses. It'll be hard to save anything for college. Should I tell my sister to find somewhere else to live, and then stay here with my parents? Save some money?

I don't want to be a bum, almost as much as I don't want to be in debt.

Tue, 05 Dec 2006 05:03:15 GMT

I work at a Private Business Club. And we're not usually open on Mondays for dinner. But tonight we were, for the Holiday Open House. So I had to work the desk.

On the upside, I made good money in coat-check tips. I've noticed that the men tip more often than the women. And the older men tip more than the younger men.

It's interesting, really.

I've got a headache from smiling so much. Rich people like to be smiled at.

Tomorrow it's back to the banquet hall. Lighting candles. Pouring Chardonnay and Champagne. Shining silverware. Serving chocolate cake. I'm better at that stuff anyway. Working the desk is too complicated - what, with all the phone lines and voice mails and questions I don't know the answers to.

At least I got to sit down at the desk, though.

Clicky for some randomness I stole from melancholyecho:

Make the things that pertain to you bold.

001. I have kissed someone of the same sex on the lips.
002. I see a therapist.
003. I'm the youngest child.
004. I am drawn to things associated with sadness.
005. I have gauged earrings.
006. I wear black eyeliner every day.
007. I am extremely influenced by kindness.
008. I love to write.
009. I can't live without lipgloss/chapstick.
010. I'm probably emotionally scared.
011. I lived in Tahoe.
012. I spend money I have.
013. I'll be in college for over 4 years.
014. I love designer handbags.
015. I've had a concussion before.
016. I'm not good with confrontation.
017. I loved the Backstreet Boys.
018. I have more than a couple horrible memories.
019. I'm addicted to Degrassi.
020. I've tried writing poetry before.
021. I've kissed someone of the opposite sex.
022. I'm not a fan of rap.
023. I love taking pictures.
024. I dislike people who are fake.
025. I can be mean when I want to be.
026. I love AFI.
027. I have kissed someone whose name starts with a B.
028. I have way too many pairs of shoes.
029. I was into Hot Wheels as a child.
030. I dress how I feel that day.
031. My room is painted a color other than white.
032. I cry very easily.
033. I'm always early.
034. I barely ever study for tests.
035. My birthday is my favorite holiday.
036. I have too many clothes for my closet/dresser.
037. I am a morning person and a nightperson.
038. I wish I were smarter.
039. I believe that it is wrong to be gay.
040. I think that it's perfectly okay to be gay.
041. No one really knows me.
042. I don't have many bad hair days.
043. I often fight with my parents.
044. I am passionate about my interests.
045. I have had the chicken pox.
047. I feel empty sometimes.
048. I am/was most likely clinically depressed at a point in my life.
049. I am no longer depressed.
050. I am very outgoing.
051. Christmas is my favorite holiday.
052. I can be very insecure.
053. I don't notice it, but I'm told I'm very softspoken.
054. I dislike ignorant people.
055. I love the color yellow.
056. I love guys that play the guitar.
057. I state the obvious.
058. I'm a happy person.
059. I have very little self-confidence.
060. I've contemplated suicide.
061. I hate cleaning my room.
062. I tend to get jealous.
063. I like to play video games.
064. I love John Mayer.
065. I get more upset when I see an animal hurt than a person.
066. I'm a vegetarian/vegan.
067. I've had a crush on a teacher before.
068. I am too forgiving.
069. I bite my nails.
070. I have a good sense of direction.
071. I wear glasses.
072. I've played a musical instrument for more than 5 years.
073. I can function perfectly well without a girlfriend/boyfriend.
074. I love kissing.
075. I love the color blue.
076. I don't sew.
077. I am not addicted to drugs.
078. I wear contacts.
079. I hate it when people say they hate Bush because he is a moron.
080. I strongly dislike Bush, but I have reasons to justify it.
081. I don't take criticism well.
082. Conformity is stupid.
083. Chris Carrabba is one of the sexiest men alive.
084. So is Conor from Bright Eyes.
085. I love my family.
086. I don't mind getting shots.
087. I am a perfectionist when it comes to certain things.
088. I always wanted to learn to play the drums.
089. I can be too hard on myself.
090. I'm probably going to have premarital sex.
091. I have had mono.
092. I am very religious.
093. I still act like a little kid.
094. I am ridiculously indecisive.
095. I believe in a higher power or some form of an afterlife.
096. I love music.
097. I have a dog.
098. I have problems letting go of people.
099. Jesse Lacey writes some of the most amazing lyrics ever.
100. I don't really like ice cream.
101. I have freckles.
102. My birthday is in December.
103. Brody Dalle is pretty.
104. I like older guys.
105. I've gotten in numerous fights, and have won most of them.
106. I get bored very easily.
107. My parents are divorced.
108. I don't even know what my natural hair color is anymore.
109. I get really anxious in big crowds of unfamiliar people.
110. I dont know if I'm supposed to add something new to this list.
111. Sometimes I cause myself more drama than other people do.
112. Most of my social activity takes place online.
113. I love to sleep.
114. I am very devoted to my friends.
115. I love the Phantom of the Opera. I love the person who put this!
116. I am a democrat.
117. My best friend is a girl.
117. I grew up somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
118. I know what HTML stands for.
119. I have a cat.
120. I'm "half", as in my race.
121. I am pro-life.

whew

Tue, 14 Nov 2006 02:41:47 GMT

Well what do you know... I'm back.

A month without a computer.
It was certainly interesting.

During that time, I became incredibly bored. And lost quite a bit in the process - like my hard drive. All my programs. And my mind.

But on the flip side, I gained a full-time job, a phone relationship with Mary, and a tattoo. I started writing in my journal again. I came to terms with losing everything I'd worked for and saved and held dear - I thought I'd lost all my files. My papers, my music, my art, my pictures. My novel. My only saved conversation with Phillip. I came to terms with it all being gone. And the slate of my life being wiped, like my hard drive.

The metaphor is lost, now that I've got all my files. But living through those eyes for 35 days... It was an experience.

No computer

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 22:47:45 GMT

Hey everyone! This is princessklutz04, and I've hijacked my friend's account per her request.

I am to tell you all that she is not gone forever, she is just ~~too busy playing with her barbie playhouse~~ unable to access the internet. Her computer is on the fritz, and when I talked to her last night she told me that the repair man said to give it a week.

Any comments you leave here, I will pass on to her!!

til morning, a House/Cam drabble

Sun, 08 Oct 2006 06:00:11 GMT

clink. clink. clink. clink.

Branches on the window.
Wind on the roof.
Rain, pouring, pouring, on his bedroom.

He's drowning.

Glance at the clock. Roll back over. Wrap himself up in his burgundy sheet.
clink. clink.
He washed it today. His pillowcases, too.

He figures it means something: normalcy, maybe. Caps of detergent. Gyrating washers. Sitting on the dryer while swinging his feet.

But it didn't bring him back to his childhood.
He tried.

Then he drank.

Now he tosses back and forth.

His arms make a diagonal stretch across the bed.
His fingers touch the corner.
His hand grips the edge.

clink. clink.
She knocks. And he listens. And she stands in the rain.
Avoiding the river pouring down from the roof.
She knocks. He listens.

She lets herself in.

House becomes an echo. The branches on the window nearly drowning it out. But he listens. And she finds him. And she opens the door.

He stays on his stomach, with his nose in the sheets.
Burgundy springtime.
It's wrong - it's euphoric.
It's so damn dark.

Thunder shakes his bed and he smiles.

Because he thrives on the contradiction.
And the clinking.
And the footsteps advancing through the carpet.

Warm pressure.
A woman on his back.
Her skin on the skin of his arms, and he wonders:
Whose skin is colder? Her hair soaks his shirt.

You're staying. She nods.
Open like an eagle, above him. Atop him.
She breathes on his shoulder and he sleeps.
At last.

His nose buried deep in the sheets.

Their arms make a diagonal stretch across the bed.
Her fingers link with his, and she whispers,
til morning.

Thunder shakes his bed and she smiles.

pimpin' the fic

Thu, 21 Sep 2006 23:35:07 GMT

Continuation of comments for So Many Vases.

Yeah, I didn't want to delete them...

Metaphor De Physical

Wed, 20 Sep 2006 05:47:46 GMT

I'm burnt.

Everything on me is burnt. I think I have 3rd degree burns. It's befitting. I deserve to burn. So I don't wear sunscreen. And then I blister and my face peels off. My skin is bleeding. It hurts to smile.

It always has.

Everything in life is coming together. Physical metaphors for all my emotions. I was in a hotel room when 12:00 struck. On the one-month reminder of his death. And I announced it before-hand. No one spoke. Except for, "It's been a month?"

And then silence. Another metaphor. It's driving me crazy.

I don't want to go to college. It's always been expected that I would. But I was ready to die, and end it all. Nothing mattered in the moment. And now I'm in the wake of it, piecing things together. One by one, getting them back. I'm still deciding if I want them back. And college - I never wanted anyway.

Magna Cum Laude. Latin-speaking graduate. Highest score in America on SAT essay. It seems like it should be enough. It seems like I should go to college. It seems like I should have bragging rights. But all I want to do is write. And write. And when I go crazy, finally, I'll write. And then write some more.

It's all I want in life.

That, and for it not to hurt when I smile.

In Memoriam: one Month, minus one Day

Sat, 16 Sep 2006 00:46:47 GMT

Tomorrow is the one-month anniversary of his death. The word anniversary sounds fun. I'll be at the beach. Or driving. Or eating. Probably in a hotel room when 12:00 strikes. But I don't deserve to have fun.

The world should be silent at midnight tomorrow. It lost a comedian. Maybe a politician. An aimless 18-year-old; it lost Phillip Turner. The world is less funny now that he's gone. And I don't deserve to have fun.

I see the signs in retrospect. His MySpace display name was Fuck me in the brain. That shouldn't be poetic, but it is. He wrote in my yearbook, 2 years ago:

Cry for me
Once the moors fall.
They're me.
-Phillip T.

And he traced his hand.

I put my hand in his hand, and know he'd disapprove. He was hesitant against my hug. But he sat beside me and touched me with his knee. Ordered Apple Pie he didn't even want. And then laughed when he left it in the restaurant. They way I left my pizza in the back of his car.

I'm so scared of forgetting. That his favorite band was Pearl Jam. That he wanted a tattoo of them somewhere on his arm. That he bothered me in journalism every single day. And chased Anthony all the way to high school.

He called me and we talked 'til 3 in the morning. He said...if he could stop the world from spinning, that he'd know what everyone's thinking. And he sat on the floor, next to the outlet, making funny comments and making me laugh. His charger was a pain, but it gave me these memories.

I'm glad he asked me to do things I didn't want to do. Like eat at a college bar and drink his Jack Daniels. Stand in a porn shop for 3 and a half minutes without my ID in my pocket. Like switch to Marlboro and stop attending church. Like question everything in life.

I'm glad I let him drive my car, and almost wreck into an SUV. It scared me for the moment; it prepared me for now. When I'd have to rely on petty memories to keep him fresh in my mind. I'll always have his picture; I'll always have this frame. And the candle, and the rose petal, and the cross. And the calendar that's stuck on the day he died.

August 16, 2006.

I remember, Phillip.
I remember.

Asleep in the Lights of Dallas

Tue, 12 Sep 2006 05:52:32 GMT

Field Interviewer.

It's not the money that drives me now. The job is perfect, for a different reason. The empty hotel rooms. The weeks away. The nights in another time zone. I long to live from a bag, and be lost. And fall asleep in the lights of Dallas. Again.

But this time alone. And aimless.

Sat, 09 Sep 2006 04:27:11 GMT

I still can't stop thinking about him. About his life. About everything he's thrown away. I want to hate the gun that killed him. But guns don't kill; people do. I can't hate his killer. Because I can't hate him.

So there's nothing to hate. But myself. For not knowing. I talked to him the night before. How could I not have known? How could this not have been planned? There were signs - all over the place. More than enough signs...to point to an accident. But nothing to point to this. This thing that he did...on purpose.

His birth, and his death. I want the dates tattooed on my ankle. I wake up at night and I'm scared to - do I want him on my ankle forever? Do I want to remember? Do I want my future husband to look at it? But then I remember, that I have to remember. It isn't a matter of choice. I will; and there's no escaping it.

Wait For Me, a House/Cam angst in 3 parts

Thu, 31 Aug 2006 09:25:21 GMT

Rating: R
Summary: To sit on the roof with a gun and a girl, puzzling at the color of the world.

After sitting on the roof in the rain tonight, the words finally came. And I wrote them down. Thanks to princessklutz04 for letting me bounce if off her.

i.

Black windows. The night is black. A blur of headlights - passing cars. Again. And then silence. Again. And then silence. Again, and a swoosh of air and metal. Strangers, like her. Heading home. One here; another there. And then silence. But she's running from home as fast as she can.

Intersection: green, and red. Like Christmas. But without the bells and holly and snow and reindeer and House and everything familiar. Just the green. The red. The implications... She closes her eyes. And still sees red around the edges.

She runs a red light. It was yellow. She thought she could make it.

She can't.

She's driving too fast. Her thoughts are too scattered. He's standing on the roof, and she knows there's –

Her foot hits the brake, but it slips, and she swerves into another lane. Beating. Beating. Her pulse in her throat. The horn beside her keeps blowing. They're rolling down the window and shouting. She pays them no attention.

She hears nothing. Sees nothing. Feels her way down the boulevard. The night is black. Black and yellow. Like rain. It's a painting of a smudge on a sidewalk. And she knows she's going to get there too late.

"Cameron. He's on the roof. He's got a – "

She hears a bang and he drops the phone.

"Oh my g– " She chokes. "Wilson? Wilson! James!!!"

There's nothing but silence in the background.

"Jame– "

"Allison." His breath is thick. His words are heavy. "Cameron, please come." He's quiet. But his voice is shaking.

Another swoosh of headlights. Her left hand pulls on the wheel, pulls toward an oncoming car. She wants a smash of black and yellow and metal like a smudge on a sidewalk. But her right hand keeps the wheel from turning. She stays in her lane, and the car swooshes by. They'll never know. And she'll never tell.

"Wilson..." It's a whisper. "What's going on?"

But there's no response.

She doesn't hang up. She listens to the sound of her breath in the speaker. The echo of the bang in her ear.

She suddenly remembers: she's out of gas. She'd forgotten to stop after work. Empty. The needle's in the red. Needle. Red. It's a blur of pictures, and she slams on the brakes. Red light. Christmas. Out of gas. Her tires are squealing and she finally stops. She's over the line, but she doesn't care. She's knows. She's too late. And she isn't prepared.

It's bang bang bang. All the way there. The echo of a bang and she whispers Wilson. James. What's going on. And things like don't do it and wake me up. All the way to the gas station. He's on the roof. He's on the roof. And she's at the gas station, wasting time. But she's too late. Too late.

She can't be.

There's a terrible noise when she opens the door. A grinding. And her seatbelt is choking her. Her seatbelt is sliding in the wrong direction. Tighter, and tighter, and tighter. Final Destination flashes through her mind while she gropes for the seatbelt release. There's a lever somewhere. Her fingers can't find it. Tighter and tighter. The noise getting louder.

And then it stops. Her fingers stay resting on the lever. She breathes and wonders if this is a joke. People are watching. People with beer and sodas. And chips. People with cigarettes stand watching from the corner as she shimmies underneath her seatbelt.

Holding her throat, she steps from the car. She feels bruised and angry and He's on the roof. And she's late. And she's lost. And when she closes the door, the noise resumes. "Damn it!" The grinding gets louder. Her yelling gets louder. "Damn it! Damn it!! Damn it!!!" She's kicking the car and people are watching and her foot hurts worse than her throat. "Damn you!! Fuck you!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!!!" It's all she can think of. She punches the window.

And immediately cries out in pain. "Ahhhh!" With her fist at her stomach and her face toward the ground. She's jumping up and down and the tears burn her eyes. "Ahhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!" Clenching her teeth and flailing about. She wants to yell until her voice is gone. Until He's on the roof. He's got a– begins to fade.

It's when she sees the cop car that she leans against the window - unscathed by the punch - and slides all the way to the ground. To her knees. And cries. He's coming toward her. She knows it. She knows she's too late, and she'll never get there. She'll never see him. She'll never fall asleep again. She'll never...

He steps from the cop car, and she hears him coming. She doesn't look up. Merely cries in the shadow of the flashing blue lights and knows that she'll never... She'll never.

ii.

"Ma'am, do you need assistance?"

Her crying is silenced. Her eyes are closed. She's rocking back and forth on her knees.

"Ma'am?" Louder. "Are you okay?"

She doesn't look up. It's a terrible nightmare. The flashing blue lights, the ma'am, ma'am? Bad news is always to follow.

"Fine," she mumbles.

"Are you in pain?" Calculated words. He does this often. Yells over the sound of the few passing cars. The black. The yellow. The night. "Does your stomach hurt?"

She almost laughs. Knows it's a joke. The roof, the seat belt. In the midst of a nightmare, does your stomach hurt?

"No." It's humid. She waits for the rain. A perfect ending to a perfect cliche. "My hand." She tries to be civil. She's late. And she doesn't need this. "My seat belt just... I hit my hand."

"Why don't you stand up, so I can see it? Do you need a paramedic?"

She sits up straighter and looks at her fist. It's red. Red. Like the needle in the red. Like Christmas. Like House. Like being late.

"I'm fine." Her voice is scratchy. She needs to get gas. She needs to leave. She wonders if she should tell him...

"Will you stand up so I can look?"

She gropes for the door handle. Pulls herself up. There's a grimace when she uses her toes.

"How much have you had to drink tonight?"

She swivels and gives him a look. "What?" There's a flashlight and she's losing her patience.

"Have you been drinking tonight?" He lowers the flashlight. "Any drugs? Cocaine? Maybe some Crystal?"

"What are you– My seat belt malfunctioned. I need to go." She walks around her car and he follows.

"I received a call from the convenient store owner. He says – "

"I was kicking my car. My seat belt malfunctioned." She opens the door to retrieve her purse. The grinding noise starts up again. "Damn it!" Violently, she digs for a credit card. "I'm fine!"

"He says you were cursing – "

"Well it's being a bitch!"

" – very loudly." He eyes her as she pumps the gas. "You're being a public disturbance."

Her left hand pulls on the nozzle. She wants to douse him. She wants to kick him. She needs to call Wilson. She needs to wake up. But her right hand stays on the trigger, and the nozzle stays in the car.

She watches the numbers. Scrolling. Numbers. Higher and higher. He's on the roof. 15. 16. 18. 20. "I'm sorry, officer." He'll never know.

"Ma'am, are you sure you're alright?"

Hang up the nozzle. Close the gas cap. "I'm fine." She opens the door.

Grinding! Grinding! She doesn't yell.

"I'll let you off with a warning this time."

Fuck you. And she thanks him politely. She shimmies underneath her seat belt. The officer walks away. She turns the key and presses the gas and...

"No! No!" She tries it again. "No no no!!!" Her car won't start. "Why! Why me!" She opens the door and shimmies out. "Shut up!!" And she kicks it closed.

Flashing blue lights and passing headlights and what's going on?, and she's running. Doesn't even look before crossing the street. "Ma'am?" It's distant and she doesn't respond. "Ma'am!" She keeps on running.

Between the median and the crickets and the pounding of her heels, she hears that her car will be towed. But she's breathing too loudly to care. Her foot hurts. Her throat hurts. There's an echo of a bang in her memory.

And then she hears the siren. It's short, and loud. Like Wilson!. Like a bang. Like a swoosh of air and metal. She takes off her flip flops, and takes a turn. She knows where he lives.

She can't remember.

She doesn't know why she's running.

The cop car pulls up, and he rolls down the window. "You can't just leave your car at the gas station!"

"Then," she huffs, "Then take it!"

"Where are you going?" He's driving along. Inching down the side of the road.

She wants to tell him. She wants him to know. He could help. He could... Make it worse.

"A friend's house!" she sputters. A drop hits her shoulder. She brushes it off. Another one hits her on the knee.

"Get in the car! This is dangerous!" But it's only an echo on the side of a building. She passes the building, the cop car, the world. She throws her flip flops in the grass; the pavement is rough on her feet.

"No!" She knows that he's already gone. "I won't!" She yells it anyway.

Black windows. The night is black. And she passes another building. A droplet on her nose. On her forehead, the sidewalk. It's a smudge of her scent and her sore aching muscles, her pain and the crickets and... Black. The street is black. The rain is black. The grass beside her is black.

House is on the roof. Or the sidewalk. In the back of a van, under a sheet. On his couch with a pillow watching tv. She should call. She should see how he's doing. Ask him to go for coffee. Banter with him, maybe. She looks for her phone.

Her phone is in the car with her purse.

This is a joke. She knows it is. People are watching; she keeps on running. "You think this is funny?" She doesn't stop. Rain drops and eyelashes soak to her soul. Soak through the pores in the pavement. "You think it's funny?" She's looking at the sky, but she can't see a thing. Running barefoot and feeling her way. "It isn't! It isn't funny!!"

His motorcycle. She sees his motorcycle. It's parked on the walkway and she wants to ride it. Ask him to go for coffee. He'll go with her; she knows it. She scrapes her toe on the asphalt. "Ouch!" Wilson. She can see him. She's wet and her hair is stuck to her cheek.

The next thing she sees is House.

iii.

This isn't what he wanted. A crowd. A scattering of spectators, waiting and watching. The neighbors, the police. The just-passing-by. He wanted to die alone.

The first shot was a test shot. The noise. The backfire. He wanted to know what it felt like. But the neighbors came out, and the pressure was on. He no longer had the control. Who would watch, and who he'd hurt. The legacy he'd leave behind.

In Loving Memory of Gregory House. The madman on the roof with a gun.

So he stalled and yelled and waved it around. Go back in the house. But nobody heard. It was calm down and we can work this out and all the other phrases he hated. Wilson just stood there. Smokey and still. His eyes like a painting of a father's consent. It was his final confession: that House would be House, and at the end of the day - at the end of this crazy progression - he wouldn't shed a tear.

He'd go back to sleep and never remember. Wake up with the burden gone.

So now he's just sitting, with the gun in the air. Nobody daring to move. It's a standoff, a struggle. And he wants his control. To live or to die. To feel the cold droplets as they soak through his shirt. To shiver without anyone watching.

He's scanning the spectators. One by one. Most of them strangers and cowards. Wilson is wearing a suede leather jacket. His hands in his pockets, his muscles tense. He's helpless and wet and he's staring. Four policeman on the sidewalk. Two brushing the crowd away; two looking up. Another case, another number. Another stack of papers to sign.

January 11, 1961 August 16, 2006
He is survived by his parents...

And then he sees bluegreen pushing through the crowd.

He is survived by his parents and a girl with green eyes.

She pushes all the way to the front. "Allison!" Ma'am? "Cameron!" Ma'am! She doesn't hear a thing. The policemen rush over, to pull her back.

And then bang. Everybody ducks and screams.

The crowd is silent. Wilson is silent. House keeps his finger on the trigger. "Move," he eyes the policemen. And suddenly he's back in control.

Cameron keeps blinking. The rain is too heavy. Her jeans are sagging and her legs are shaking. Her spine feels cold. And crooked. "How did you get up there?" she yells above the rain.

"Hey! How's this for unfixable?" He waves the gun in front of his face. It's silver. The world is black. "I'm broken!"

She stares. And blinks. Sees the fallen ladder. And wraps her arms around her body.

"You're not very good at this doctor stuff!" Through a stream of water at his lips. People are watching and waiting. Listening above the sound of the rain. "You know, this world is pretty fucked up! Nobody knows anything. If I could stop the world from spinning, I'd know what everyone's thinking! Like you..." he trails off. And fingers the trigger. "I'd know exactly why you squint like that, and that stupid clenching thing you – "

"I love you!" She shouts. And it isn't angry. Or desperate. She's just telling him - letting him know.

"...that stupid clenching thing you do!" He continues like she never said it. "When you answer the door." Rainwater - running down the sides of his face. He shakes his head. His hair's full of water. "You think I know! But I don't! You're so fucked up!" He swallows the rain. "You're so messed up..." And rubs the cold metal on his face. "Come here!"

She obeys too quickly. Wilson almost grabs her and holds her back. But suddenly House is flailing with the gun. Pointing it everywhere. The street, the sky. At the policemen. At the crowd. At him.

The onlookers are running and ducking for cover. The cops are in position. Ready to shoot. A helicopter hovers overhead.

"House!" Wilson stays planted on the sidewalk. "House! Don't hurt her!" Desperation is coming to a head. "You're screwed up! Miserable! Insane! Because you just can't figure it out! But leave Cameron out of it! Damn it, House! Let Cam – "

"Oh, shut up! Jimmy Boy... It was her choice to come and fix me. You're just jealous! Cancer patients can't do it for you!"

"House! I'm serious! She's young - she's got her- Listen to me!"

He points it back at himself. "Right there with you, Jimmy!"

"House! I love you!"

"Desperation, desperation... The world revolves around desperation. Love me tomorrow, would you? Your timing's a bit off!"

Cameron almost slips on her way up the ladder. The metal is cold. And silver. Reflecting the blue, and the flashing. And the thunder. She blinks. And steps. And blinks. And steps. And can feel the gun, tracing her steps. Keeping the cops away. She climbs to the top without looking back. Grips the shingles and gropes around. Searching for something to hold to.

"Kick the ladder." When she's on her knees.

And she does as he tells her. There's a clatter when it hits the ground.

The roof is scratchy; the angle is steep. Her jeans are too wet and it's hard to move. She keeps her arms out, trying to balance. And tiptoes carefully over.

He doesn't watch her. He's watching Wilson. Like they're fighting over Cameron and House is gloating. That she's on the roof instead of the ground. There's a smirk on his face; he's won his last prize.

And Wilson lets him have it.

Lightning. Let the girl down! The world flashes white. It's no longer black, for a moment. Don't hurt her, House! His jeans are bluer than they've ever been. The trees are greener. The rain is colder. It's a joke - the colors. A fucking farce. "Nothing makes sense..." Nothing ever does.

Cameron sits idly beside him. She's far too calm, and he wants to know why. Why she hasn't told him to put the gun down. Why she's wet and gorgeous and shoeless. Why she's sitting beside him.

She's picking at her feet. He doesn't watch. But he knows, and he wants to know why. Another flash of lightning turns everyone white. They're all just ghosts, pretending. To live. To care. To sit on the roof with a gun and a girl, puzzling at the color of the world.

He breaks the gaze with Wilson. Looks at the shingles, between his legs. They're rigid. And wet. Black, and he's cold. He should be inside with a blanket. With the tv. Alone. The piano keys. His scotch has turned to rainwater - poking him, bugging him. Soothing and burning the moment.

"My toe is bleeding." With her arms on her knees. Avoiding his eyes as he does hers. Bleeding on his roof, instead of him. She's blinking in the blue lights. And sharing his roof. They squint together in the rain.

He sighs. And tips his chin to the blackness above. "Why?"

She sniffles. A moment of truth. "I was running – "

"Why're you up here?" A droplet hits him in the eye.

"Because you're up here."

He laughs. It's bitter. "You do everything I do?"

Lightning His gun is a glint of silver. Nothing makes sense in the context. "No." Her eyelashes rise to reveal her sadness. He's caught in the color, and doesn't look away. "You asked me to come."

"You're pathetic." And he grips the metal more tightly. "If I asked you to shoot me, would you do it?"

It's something she wasn't prepared for. The absence of sarcasm. The birth of this ... thing. That he wants, and wants to share.

But he knows her answer, and she knows it too. And all she can say is, "No."

The earth disappears when she says it. Wilson. The cops. The helicopter. The sadness is all that's left. His. Hers. The mesh of color and confusion.

"Why?" It's rough, and raw. And she senses he's caving. "Because of the guilt?"

Cameron looks at Wilson. But she looks away. Because He's on the roof, he's got a– is the distant past. Her seat belt. The grinding. The Wilson! James! Her car's out of gas. The needle's in the red. There's a swooshing of air and metal. Everything's black, and yellow. And blue. White as it flashes and thunders.

But she doesn't have a car and she isn't really here. This isn't her boss. She isn't in love. Nothing is really alive. "Are you going to kill yourself?"

She looks at his face. He looks at her hair. It's limp and stringy. "I don't know." And full of knots. Because of him. "Are you?"

She takes her bottom lip into her mouth. "Yes." And looks away. "If you..." She's playing with her toes again. Bleeding on his roof. "...I couldn't live."

"Oh, have some backbone!" he shouts. And she jumps. "People are idiots! People are no reason to live. They don't make sense. They live, they die. You're forced to watch. And you're forced to make a decision." He's pointing the gun at the shingles. "Don't hang this on me."

"Why?" She's breathing more heavily. "Because of the guilt?" Throwing his words in his face.

The barrel is now at his temple. "What guilt, Cameron! Huh? What guilt!"

She squeezes her eyes closed.

"It's your own fucking choice! To come here, get up here! And sit here! And watch me! Yours! Your choice!"

"No! Now it's yours, House!" Tears are flowing down her rain-soaked cheeks. "Why do you think I get up in the morning?"

"To save the world from– "

"You, and your stupid red cup! That's why I get up, House! To see you and your stupid red cup!"

"That's not a reason to live..."

"It's my reason." She covers her face with her hand. "All I want is to be yours." And shakes with the cold and the crying. "Your reason. You pull that trigger, and I pull it too. So shoot me now, and I won't have to watch." She peeks at him through her fingers, then closes her eyes. "It is your fault."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Cameron screams. Black and yellow. Needle. Red. Christmas, House. Wilson! A funeral. Flowers, a gun at her head.

She's backed away, and she's holding herself. And looks through the rain at his face. Blue eyes are staring at hers. "One left," he says. "It's you or me." Not both. He won't give her that.

She lays on the roof. On her stomach. And cries until everything hurts. She cries at the image of a hole in his head, and his blue eyes staring instead. She cries at the image of her husband in the earth. At watching them lower House in too. At sitting in the office with his bright red mug. Pretending. To be living. To be feeling more than air and the ink on her paper. At sitting with a wine glass and the covers turned down. No one but her to cry in the pillow. No one but her to remember.

He watches her crying. Under limp, stringy hair. Scratching her face on the shingles. Crying over something that hasn't happened. Over him. And the pain he's causing.

One last bang, and it's over. The gun is still resting in his hand.

She doesn't look up; she doesn't want to. She can't. She can't. She can't see his face. And the red. And the bullet. And the mug he'll never hold. She can't look up. Because she's lying on the roof, beside his body. Still warm on the inside. Cold on the out. His hand has fallen and is resting against her. She can feel his knuckle on her thigh.

But then she hears a click. Of metal on metal. A trigger and a hammer; no bullet. Slowly, carefully, she lifts her head.

Another click. "It's empty." He watches her. And then he sets the gun on the roof. Gestures at the crowd below. His voice is quiet and gravelly. "They want something to watch. I'm not going to give it to them."

Cameron doesn't think, or see them, or care. She flings her arms around his middle, and buries her face in his stomach. His t-shirt is cold on her nose and cheeks. She presses her lips to the wetness. "House..." She can't breathe. She can't take it in. "House..."

"Something has to change." His voice is broken. She knows he's crying as well.

She nods against him. "It will." It's cracked. It's a whisper. Lightning makes a daytime of the darkness, and Cameron sees the cops closing in. "I want to stay here."

"I don't think either one of us are staying here tonight." He knows he's going in for questioning.

"Not ... here." She shifts on the shingles and squeezes him tighter. Digging her fingers into his ribs. "Here."

And he knows what she means. He slides a calloused hand against her neck. And slides it into her hair.

fin.

In Loving Memory of Phillip Michael Turner.
January 11, 1988.
August 16, 2006.
Wait for me, man.

How's Life?

Fri, 18 Aug 2006 07:44:16 GMT

At 10:45 tonight, Sue Romano rang my doorbell. I was in my room with my door closed - the way I am now. Checking my e-mail and taking the first bite of my dinner. I thought the ding from the doorbell was a ringing in my ear. And I ignored it.

My mother came halfway up the stairs, and yelled. "Sarah, Dr. Romano's here to see you!" I thought she needed help with the studio. I opened my door. I was on the staircase when I saw her - she was already sitting on the couch. I was sure she'd be standing on the porch.

"You okay?" Sue asked me as I entered the room. I had just gotten back from the studio. She'd seen me then; why was she here?

"Fine," I answered. I could hear my mother in the kitchen; she'd gone back to washing the dishes. "You scared me," I smiled, but my smile soon faded. She shouldn't be here. Something's not right. She's going to tell me somebody died. The last time the doorbell rang at night, and my mother called me down from my room, it was a policeman. Here to tell me that somebody died. And my mother was washing the dishes when he told me.

She patted the couch, and I sat. "I just got a call at the studio." She's going to tell me Angela died. She's going to tell me she got into a wreck and never made it home. "The call was from Kathy Watson. She told me that Phillip Turner committed suicide last night." All I heard was Phillip Turner. Suicide. I'd heard it in my mind before. "He got into an argument with his parents. He got a gun from somewhere, and he climbed up on the roof. They tried to get him down, but he wouldn't listen. And then he shot himself."

The dishes in the kitchen kept clanking. I heard the faucet running. I was in the living room, on a Thursday night. I should've been in a church. In a police station. In a movie. On a Friday. Or maybe a Sunday.

The first thing I felt was betrayal. We'd talked about suicide, over and over. We'd talked about living, and dying. We'd talked about the other side. I stand at the threshold; I'd felt comfort in knowing he was standing there with me. But there was always that unspoken agreement to never step over. At least, I thought there was.

Betrayal. I'd told him the time he ODed and ended up in ICU, "You scared me to death. Don't do it again." He said he hadn't wanted to die - only to know. To know if God existed. He said it'd be worth it to die, if only to finally know. I understood, but stepping over was not an option. So we embarked on a search for God on earth. Neither one of us truly found Him.

We were aimless. We'd talked about being aimless together. And every time he tried something new, he'd get online and tell me about it. How it felt. How it tasted. What he was thinking when he tried it. But he's not going to get online tonight, to tell me what it felt like when the bullet entered his skull. To tell me how scared he was when he realized what he'd done. To joke about the way he'd almost gotten his answer, and then say we should hang out sometime.

Still, I keep waiting to see his screen name. I waited last night as well. I was sitting here typing, and he was climbing on the roof. Throwing away his children and grandchildren. He thought he was only shooting himself - probably didn't think much before he did it. But he shot us all when he pulled that trigger.

And I thought of all the ways I could follow him. Across the threshold. So we could finally know together. But I don't have a gun that's large enough. I don't have pills that are fast enough. I don't have the guts to throw away my grandchildren to remedy the pain of existing with the truth. That he's gone.

We'll never get around to writing our book. I'll never teach him to swim. He'll never sign on and message me with how's life? again. Because the answer would be there is none. No body to swim. No water to swim in. I want to be shot - because he can't take it back; I want someone to mess up with him.

I hadn't known, on the ramp in 6th grade, that Phillip wouldn't make it beyond 18. I never would have stood beside him. Or discussed politics with him. Or gone to the movies with him. Or loved him.

Thu, 29 Jun 2006 03:08:19 GMT

6-24-06
A day with Byron
The 5th since he went to France

The day started off with him showing me pictures of his trip to Kenya and Norway. He said "I didn't forget you while I was in Nairobi," and handed me an elephant carved out of ebony. He apologized for cutting his long hair, explaining that he didn't know how often he'd be showering in Africa and didn't want long, sweaty hair. It's still gorgeous though. We played with his German Shepherd and then went out for ice-cream.

While at the ice-cream shop, he told me about a place in the woods he and his friend had found, and asked me if I wanted to go there. I did, so we finished our ice-cream and left. We drove down a country road before pulling off onto a little dirt path overgrown with weeds. Then we got out and walked, finding several abandoned, dilapidated houses on the way. We finally reached a spot where the river cut through and there were great slates of rock dipping down into the water from the forest. We took our shoes off and walked along the water, finding the stone ruins of a dam and a huge abandoned mill that was built over 30 years ago.

We sat on the sand and watched the river, talking about the past. Talking about morals. Talking about dragonflies. Anything that came to mind.

On the way back to the car, I decided to say something that would end up changing everything.

I asked him if he felt the tension between us. He asked me what I meant. I told him that I was comfortable with my other friends; nothing was awkward or uptight. But it was different when I was with him. He seemed to have no idea what I was talking about, so he asked me to explain it further.

The conversation carried into the car. I told him it was awkward to be around him, because I knew he would be gone soon. Every time I've been near him, I've been aware that it wouldn't last. And I told him I'd never dream of touching him. The tension would be too much. He was untouchable. Unreachable. Like he was living in a different universe, and his presence was too unreal. He said he hadn't known if I'd wanted him to touch me. But he could certainly change that. We soon began talking about 8th grade again - the original scene of the crime.

We talked about his pushing me away, right before he left for France. He'd told me back then - there were things about me he didn't like. And he doesn't remember them now. He wanted to be reminded; I refused to indulge him. I confessed to feeling insecure because of the things he'd said, and always fearing he'd reject me as a person a second time.

He said, "I know I didn't end things well back then. And I know that for a while after I left, it seemed that you hadn't gotten over me. I felt terrible, but the last thing I wanted was to lead you on. I didn't know when I'd ever be back, and I had accepted that we just weren't meant to be." There was a pause of silence. Then he continued. "I know that's in the past, and I know you've long since been over me, but it may explain the way I'm acting now."

There was more silence. Always silence. Four long years of silence, and it was time he understood. I had to say something. So I did.

"Byron, are you completely oblivious? Do you notice anything that's going on around you?" I had never talked to him like that, and out of frustration, I smacked my hand to my forehead and just stared straight ahead. The only sound was that of the tires on the pavement as he continued driving, at a loss.

He finally said, "Are . . . are you saying that . . . you do still like me?"

"Not . . . like . . . No. YES. NO. I don't know!!"

"I mean, I'm trying to keep the ego at a low . . ."

"You're not . . . being egotistical."

And so he closed his mouth.

I'm not sure I've ever experienced a more profound silence than the one that followed, nor ever will again. We rode for a while, just watching the road ahead and the trees passing by, neither knowing what to say. I eventually announced that the tension was probably me. It wasn't his fault. It was my way of closing the conversation - brushing it off and aside. I had more than enough to haunt me already.

But it wasn't over. He looked at me, several times, assessing my expression. But it was always the same - vulnerable, cautious. And I couldn't meet his eyes with my own. They were penetrating. The finally knew me. I wanted to kiss them and run.

As we neared our destination, he began what I will always remember as the ultimate paradox in this thing between us - his confession. The best and worst thing I've ever heard him say. I fall asleep with these words on my lips.

"Sarah, I . . . I know I accepted that we couldn't be together. But I never stopped liking you. I just didn't dwell on it. We were an ocean away. This past year, it would have been great. To have a relationship with you. But I've always known we'd have to part again. I'm leaving in a month or two. And I don't want to do the long-distance thing. I want someone to be there, physically. And I want to be there for her."

We arrived at his 'property' - the 75 acres his family still owns in Rolesville. It was where he lived before he left for Paris. And as soon as we got out of the car, I knew that everything had changed. He now felt free to speak his mind. I had my elbows propped on the roof of his car and my hair down and the wind was blowing. We were talking about something, but he abruptly changed the subject with, "You look really pretty right now." I smiled and he said, "If there's anything I've learned, it's to say what you're feeling. Hold nothing back."

And he didn't.

We walked barefooted down a dirt path that goes straight through the woods and down into a valley with a stream running through it. There were huge rocks and mini waterfalls, complete with chairs and tables scattered around the area. It was beautiful. We sat in chairs beside the stream and talked. I admitted to missing him every single day.

"Every day . . ."

"Every day," I repeated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was quiet. Like he knew I was fragile. Like he knew he had the power to break me.

"I didn't want to subject myself to an attack from you." I looked at the stream, at the trees, spotted a rusty sign on the ground in the distance. Anything to keep from looking at him. But I was drawn to him. My eyes were drawn to his face. "It's pretty pathetic to admit to someone that you've been pining over them for four years."

"I wouldn't have attacked you." Still quiet. His gaze broke away and he too found solace in the stream. "I just can't imagine what I did to deserve that."

He said he used to lie there on the ground, with his face toward the sky, listening to the echo of the trickling water as it bounced off the bottom of the leaves. We both turned our faces to the sky and listened. It sounded like rain. And I thought of every cliche about love.

As we listened, I told him that just because I'd poured my heart out to him, it didn't mean I expected anything from him. And his response? "What do you mean expect something?" He pulled his chair up against mine and wrapped his arm around me. "Something like this?" It was either pain or pleasure or another dream. I couldn't decide. And I didn't care.

"I don't want you to feel obligated . . ."

"I don't feel obligated."

Almost on cue, it started raining. We sat there under the trees and listened.

Eventually, we headed over to the barn to get out of the rain. I followed him to the top floor, where he opened a door that led onto the roof of the lean-to. Sitting there on the threshold, with our feet on the tin roof, we had a perfect view of the sun setting over the neighbor's white house and field of horses. He said, "Have you ever heard the story of the time I went fishing in the Niger River?" There was something humorous in his voice, so I smiled and heard him out. "I wanted to catch one of those famous Niger fish. And I caught one fish, but it was only this big," he made a small gesture with his hands. "So I kept at it, and caught another fish, and it was this big," he made a larger gesture with his hands. "But I really wanted that Niger fish, so I kept going. And eventually, I caught a fish that was THIS big," he made such a huge gesture this time, that one arm ended up around me and he concluded with, "And then I was satisfied."

After telling him that was the worst pickup line, and to never use it in a bar, we laughed and watched the sun disappear, until a splash of orange was the only color left on the horizon. He took my hand from my lap to inspect it. "You're an artist." He turned it over and looked at the palm. "I've found that all artists and musicians have beautiful hands."

The sky began to darken and we began our journey back to his house in Raleigh. He popped popcorn and we hung out in his room - he played me his iTunes music, played the violin for me, played the guitar for me, broke out into a soliloquy from Henry VIII (complete with 4-foot, metal sword), and we looked at all his antiques and old maps. I ate dinner with his family and then watched some DVDs he'd made of Paris.

It was close to midnight, so I decided it was time to leave. He told me I could stay; I could sleep in the guest room and go with them to church in the morning. We then decided my camouflage pants weren't church attire, and he walked me to my car in the dark. "It's been an interesting day," he looked at me.

"Yes, it has. I had fun."

"So did I."

He told me to drive safely. And to keep in touch. I informed him that he also had to keep in touch - it was a two-way street. "Oh, I was wondering how that worked," he remarked. And then hugged me. He pulled away, only to hug me again, and then told me to give him a call sometime. He headed back into the house as I pulled away, and his porch light went off as his house crept out of my rear-view mirror. I missed him instantly.

Another day to add to the four long years I've been missing him.

Camp Joy

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 03:22:23 GMT

My best friend Mary has a passion for Camp Joy, a summer camp for the mentally-challenged and handicapped. She has worked there through many summers, and it's changed her life forever. What she said tonight really touched me, so I share it now with you:

Thank God for the gift of our special friends who help us realize how we can better ourselves and make us thankful for the gifts we have. I knew from the first time I saw all that happiness that I wanted to be a part of it. I waited with baited breath until I was old enough to go as a runner, and it was everything I'd dreamed of and more.

There's barely any water pressure. Smells like heaven to me, but most people hate the smell. It's clean, but old; the mattresses are fairly worn down. But I love it. Just the smell of it. What happens in Memorial Hall is worth more then the building itself. It holds memories that make me want to stay there all year long, not just two, maybe three weeks a summer. That's what Memorial truly is. Not leaky faucets, faulty plumbing, squeaky mattresses, and that distinctly aged scent. It's . . . Camp Joy's essence to me.

Very few people come and never return. Even the strongest skeptics - nothing could stop them from going now. They have a passion for Camp Joy. It changes you, it really does. And you don't have to love the mentally-challenged to get something out of it - aye, and there's the rub. I can't explain it. I really can't. It's just the atmosphere. It's . . . liberating, in every sense of the word. The ability to be completely free from who people think you should be and the ability to be yourself, truly yourself. To not have to worry about acceptance, because everyone accepts you for exactly who you are. And they love you unconditionally.

To be honest, I've never felt God elsewhere. Sometimes I feel God so acutely it's as if He's standing right next to me and I can reach out and touch Him. That's Camp Joy. What you take home with you is the knowledge that He IS there, and that he DOES love us. If you come to Camp Joy with an open and expectant heart, you will change forever. Don't you remember the last paragraph of my paper?

Friday was by far the most emotional day at Camp Joy. We had our closing program and, at the end of the program, something very special happened. Anthony Sprowl, a cerebral palsy camper, sang "Angels Among Us". Anthony is unable to talk, but he struggled to grunt the words with such heart and determination that there wasn't a dry eye in the entire sanctuary. As each counselor looked at his camper's shining face, we all knew that there truly are angels among us.

It's that knowledge, that belief, that sticks with you. And even in the dark times when you're completely alone, you recall that feeling, and know that this world - your existence - it is purposeful. It is not for naught.

The Canvas Awaits

Tue, 21 Feb 2006 06:02:45 GMT

A blank piece of paper. A story untold. A life unpainted. Blank and white and waiting.

This canvas - it waits. There is an obligatoin of the painter to be true. To present the world as it is. To paint all the colors that will reveal some secret. Free some prisoner from his dark and dusty basement. A rug-maker on a cold, hard floor in Egypt. Seven years of age. No parents; nothing to live for. To die for.

But a smile on his face when he looks at you. He wonders what it would be like to wear clean clothes.

Or so you imagine when you fall asleep that night. The smile in your mind and the cold, hard floor in your memory. Soft, warm blankets make you sick. Food makes you sick. Every breath of clean air makes you sick.

And yet the canvas awaits. There are no colors to fill its void. A purple. A red. A green. Even the brown is too brown to be true. You walk away from a little boy, seven years of age. His fingers still weaving away. One. Two. Three years later. His fingers still weaving away.

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 05:19:04 GMT

Happy yet sad with all of the pain. Joyful at the sight of a rugged terrain. Rocks and hills and a sharp drop of sun. Biting leaves and calming winds that beckon me; so I run. Straight for the place where I've always been. Back home and back to a life I've never invited in.

I'm here and I can't see the walls before me. A different color and a different voice reflecting off the glass that lures me. Who's curiosity looking back at me? Who's past and present and future do I see? A different tune; a scary song. A river that winds and pulls me along. A cold drop of dew and a forrest of brown; winter cracks with a hollow sound. And spring nudges through with its long, purple train. Curiosity painted in a rainbow of pain.

Fri, 30 Dec 2005 08:17:31 GMT

Does love have a tangible strength? Some infinite pattern of fabrics entwined. Unbreakable. In-severable. Or is it all just the dream of a dreamer?

Some luscious words; some famous speaker. It flows well. Pleases the ear. And we've all fallen for it.

No...

Always harping on strength and in-severability. What is love in its purity? Virginity is love. Snow is love. A sunshine on the backs of wandering men. Tired, hungry. The comfort of always wanting home.

Is love.

It's not the pie in the oven. No. Not the smell of pine on the porch. Or Mama's lap. Or the smoke of Papa's cigars. All those fanciful things I've never experienced. It's the loneliness of the keyboard thumping in its rhythm. Loneliness is love.

Self-reflection is love.

If all the chirping birds and cute puppies and poems were gone... Darkness would be love. And a hand on my back would be love. Imagined. Or real. It's the touch that is love. It's the want of love, that is love.

Innocence.
The common element of all those wandering. Tired, hungry. A place called home on the horizon.

Tue, 27 Dec 2005 07:21:24 GMT

Avoiding. Avoiding. Avoiding.

Who has made an impact on my life? Must write about it. Must send it in. Must hope and pray for a scholarship.

Essays are pulling teeth. Reminiscing is opening the wounds. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Avoiding.

It shouldn't take me a month to hammer out 50 words. Punch them in. Send them in. Hope and pray for the best.

But no.

The person who affected me the most. Moved on. Moved away. Never said goodbye.
The person who knew me the best. Kicked me out. Moved on. Hasn't spoken since.
The one who I loved, and never knew. Moved away. Moved on. Across the ocean. The world.

The Eiffel Tower will top in beauty the tears of any lonely girl.

And sitting here wracking my brain about it. The screaming in my headphones serving to muffle my own. The clock on the stereo: 2:03. I'll sleep 'til four tomorrow. And then the next day. And then I'll sit here wracking my brain about it.

Go to bed. Drown the voice in my head. Pull a trigger and sleep until I know it's a dream.

The screaming in my headphones. Louder. Growing softer - in my brain, in my soul. Has feeling escaped me? Have I left it behind? Did I forget to take it with me that day I knew I would die? I would claw and beg to stand on my own. I would never be the same. I would sit here at two a.m. (later, later, ignore the clock on the stereo) and beg my mind to forget. The past. The present.

The future has faded with it.

Type on, because you know you can. There's nothing to embrace you when you stop. Nothing to crawl to, nothing to care. Black and white letters on a blinking screen at two a.m. in the dark. Plunking. Plunking. Of the keyboard. Loneliness sounds like a strike without an echo. A strike I never hope to make. Plunking, plunking. (Echo, echo!) On the walls, on the screen, in my skull.

Type on, because you know the emptiness. It stands alone in the corner. And you'll lay your head in its hand. Drift off to a foreign land and imagine you'll never come back. Yet it's always the sweeter when you do. Because the day you never come back, will be the day you meet every nightmare you've spent the nighttime ignoring.

Avoiding. Avoiding.
The pillow, the dark. And a foreign land.

The playground of restless souls.

Christmas

Sun, 25 Dec 2005 23:33:30 GMT

The giving is no longer exciting.

Expectation. Kills the Christmas. Even those who remember the meaning forget when they open a gift. It's tangible, and Christmas is not. Humans need to touch and to feel the joy.

But the joy is unseen. All true things are.

Five Quirky Habits

Thu, 15 Dec 2005 04:00:40 GMT

I've been tagged by princessklutz04.

Ground rules: The first player of this "game" starts with the topic "Five Weird Habits of Yourself" and the people who get tagged need to then write a LJ entry about their five quirky little habits as well as state the rules of this game clearly. In the end, you need to list the next five people who you want to tag.

1. I have to be in a corner when I eat.

2. I can't sleep unless I'm next to a wall.

3. I feel naked without a necklace. I can't even take it off to shower.

4. I've been popping the bones in my right wrist habitually for the past five years.

5. I not only cannot pee in public, but I can't pee in my own house if someone is closer than two floors away.

Now, for the game of tag! anamin, i_heart_cameron, morbid_veracity, you're it! (Yes, I only chose three. I cheated. Beat me. And then friend me. And then I'll tag you. And then we'll all be happy.)

Tue, 13 Dec 2005 04:07:31 GMT

Too much soda. Too much life. Too much dancing on the edge.

Too much soda tomorrow. Too much life awaits me. I'll be forced to dance on the edge.

Twenty years, twenty days, twenty minutes later... I'll know what it's like to fall.

Blindly clawing my way to the cliff. I'll turn around and go back home.

Twenty, twenty, ticking away. Seconds, minutes, hours. A day. When will I know the beginning?

The end.

The edge and the start of what's really to come. Beautifully broken and trudging on. Twenty will come and go.

Soul of the Sufferer, a House/Cam angst in 4 parts

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 05:59:41 GMT

Rating: M
Summary: Like a baby crying on another floor as a leg slowly rots to nothing.
Spoilers: Anything up to episode 2.7 is fair game.
Disclaimer: House isn't mine.

i.

He hugs her tight and she cringes. She doesn't hug back; she plays with the keys in her hand. Let go, let go, please let go of me. Please. But he doesn't seem to notice and it doesn't seem to matter.

"Mmmmm!" he tightens his grip around her arms. "Where have you been all day?" And his voice is playful. Calm. It repels her. It's almost endearing, yet it says to her oh-so-much more.

She makes sure her resentment is obvious. "Same place you've been . . ." she mumbles. It's meant to sting. It's meant to hurt. But her father hugs on and she thinks she'll cry if he doesn't let go sometime soon. She can only cringe for so long.

He hasn't seen her all day, and she hasn't seen him all year. Yet they live under the same lonely roof in the same lonely house on the corner.

*

"Where have you been?" His voice is deep. It's not calm, it's not playful, not endearing. It's pointed and it's gruff and it lulls her in.

"Sorry I'm late," is her small reply, and she settles herself into a chair. White board full of writing. Foreman eating a bagel. Chase like he's half asleep. "New case?"

"Not an answer." He's rough with her. More rough than he was with her yesterday. He stares, and so much (oh-so-much more) is meant by it. And she sees it. Enough to make her tremble inside. Curiosity, possession, a broken promise of whispers and promises. Of roughness followed by gentleness. Of two bodies moving and panting and someone screaming that someone is dying. Of lies that will never be anything.

"I was . . . my car broke down." There's a pause of dead air as Foreman drops his bagel and Chase stops fidgeting with his pen. Cameron looks at Foreman. It seems like he's tried this before. It didn't work with him.

"How many excuses did you mentally scan before landing on the oldest, most stupid one?" Staring with those marbles of fire and ice. They melt her and freeze her and burn her. Hold her wrists while they ravage her.

"Why do you care where I was?"

"Oh, did I give you that impression?" He looks back to the board. "I was actually going for the whole I-should-stop-paying-you-if-you-can't-show-up-on-time effect. Guess I missed it by a hair." He knows. He knows - oh, does he know. She looks at her shoes, at the table, at the desk. At the clock on the wall and the coffee on the counter. He knows. "Tell me where you were."

"Home," she says with an sudden defiance. The only one she can muster.

"Doing what?" he presses and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Brushing my teeth. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters. I don't pay you for brushing your teeth."

"Oh, but you would pay me for, say, picking your coffee up at the store?" She's trying. She's failing.

"Brushing your teeth while picking my coffee up, maybe." He takes another sip and pins her to her chair with his eyes. "But that's not why you're late, is it?" And he holds her there, selfishly, cruelly.

Let go, let go, please let go of me. Please. She doesn't offer an answer.

"Well why stop there? I noticed we were low on sugar." He begins looking all around the conference room. "Muffins. Oooh, and those little chocolate thingies, what are they called?" He props a hand on the top of the white board. "Actually, I think the nurses' station could use some more paper clips. And file folders - they're always asking for those. Make sure you get the blue ones; they're prettier. Oh, and antiseptic; you know, every time we restock that stuff, the hospital uses it up again. Something's wrong there." He scowls and uncaps the marker, then turns back to the board. "When you're done with that, I need a back rub."

The anger flushes over her face and she's looking around for something - anything - to distract her. To keep her from slapping him. To keep her from loving him. To keep her from strangling him and then kissing him back to life.

His marker makes a squeak across the glossy white surface. "Who did you sleep with last night?"

So casual. So easy. All eyes are now on Cameron.

"Can we get back to the differential?" Foreman interjects, never one for mixing work with personal matters.

He knows. House knows that she's hiding. That she's falling. That she's dying. A self-satisfied smirk and it's back to the board. Writing. Pretending. But it burns and they all feel it coming. And no one wants to be there when it does.

Please let go of me. Please.

*

Cringing. She wants to melt. She wants to disappear. It burns and she tries to get away. It doesn't work. It never does.

His hand is on her back and it's supposed to be comforting. But all she can feel is the five tiny shards of his fingertips, piercing through her mind, through her back. Her heart is racing and she's holding her breath. She will never be close to a man.

"How was your day?"

Crying inside. Biting her lip. Muscles clenching and releasing and clenching again.

"Fine," she manages shallowly. Tries to lean away. But he only seems to get closer. The room is spinning, the light is leaving, the world is darkening. Faith is draining and she prays, she prays for unconsciousness.

Never does receive it.

Five years later and her father is lying in a hospital bed. He's cringing, he wants to melt, he wants to disappear when she's not beside him. She only gets farther away. His hand is on his heart and there's five tiny shards piercing through him. He never knows what he did to her, and she's down in the cafeteria when the light leaves the room and the world goes dark.

Six months later and she's married.

ii.

Suffering. Struggling. Breathing. No air.

"How was your day?"

And she's lost when he's there. Falling and crashing and burning and breathing. And living. She just wants to leave.

"Anything interesting happen?"

Heart in her throat. Five tiny shards - on her leg, in her brain, in her soul. A man who gave her everything now takes it all away. He pretends he doesn't see the way she cringes.

He's bound to notice it, some day . . .

"Do I bore you?"

Cameron tears her eyes from the rain and twists around in her chair. Calm blue water washes over her. The calm, lapping lake of his eyes on her soul. The fire is gone. The ice is gone. He is human again, for the moment.

She returns her gaze to the rain. "I'm just waiting for results from the lab."

"Really?" He limps a little closer and stops. "I could have sworn you were brushing your teeth this time." And he fidgets with a figurine at the front of her desk.

She watches him - watches his fingers. Mesmerized. Taken by their length and agility. They are rough and gentle and curious. Every movement is sure and brilliant. She follows his veins up the smooth of his hand and into the cuff of his sleeve. They betray the man - they whisper of time; they beg to be touched. They tell a story Cameron longs to read. And she longs to touch them, to heal them. To soothe them and nurse them to life.

He is staring again. Still calm and gentle and lapping on the shoreline.

"What?"

"You're amazing at dodging questions."

Oh, the irony. "Like you are?"

"See," he points out smugly. And it's back to the fidgeting with his fingers. Cameron could swear he's caressing her desk. Caressing his way to her. "Do I bore you?" He keeps his eyes on the figurine.

"You give me a headache," she offers.

His fingers stop moving and his head rolls back up. "Not what I asked."

"No one is bored with you, House."

"I'm asking about you." Suddenly rough again.

Cameron opens her mouth but no sound comes out. Just a tiny hitch of breath as it dies in her throat, and calls his attention to this disaster. It comes to a standstill. This. Them. The world. The conference room. The sound of House's breath against hers . . . A desk in-between, yet it's far too small.

He is throbbing. He doesn't know where, and he doesn't know why. All he knows is his body is throbbing. It is painful (welcome) aching. It spreads throughout him as he shifts his weight and inches his hand off the desk. His pants are too tight. The room is too small. The girl is too broken and forward.

She is asking him questions with her eyes.

He ignores them.

"Do I bore you," he repeats, more patient and cautious this time.

He touches her knee. It's a simple gesture, like any other father would give, but she jerks her leg away. He notices. This time he notices. And he says something.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm tired and cranky."

And that's as far as the conversation goes. Farther than it ever went.

But his hand is back there tomorrow. And she's cringing again while looking for escape. Her childhood is spent in a prison.

Never. She will never be close to a man.

"You know, I think it was Plato who said that if you close your eyes, you can't see the man standing in front of you. Great escape method."

Cameron opens her eyes, unaware she had even closed them, to find House still standing in front of her. But he had moved closer. Much closer.

"Efficient," his gaze trails over her, "but also very stupid. He forgot to mention that the man can still see you." He can see her. Oh, can he see her. And he owns her; he knows he owns her. He marks her with blue for his keeping. "Then again, what do you expect from a guy who thought the earth was the center of the universe? He was clearly egotistical anyway."

"No," she breathes.

"No?"

"You don't bore me."

Silence. Calm, understanding. He nods his head. "Okay." And then he walks toward the coffee pot.

"That's it?"

"That's it." Then why did you sleep with Chase? is implied. He wants to ask her. He wants to yell at her. He wants to pin her to the wall and make her scream her response in his ear.

"It was a mistake."

"Damn right it was." He rinses a cup out and reaches for the coffee. "Thank goodness for people like Galileo. Plato could not have been wronger." He pours the hot liquid and wonders if Cameron knows he won't drink it. She didn't make it. It's old and stale and without her touch. It's disgusting when made by a man.

He's startled when her breath warms his neck.

iii.

He hadn't noticed her standing there. He hadn't even heard her get up. But he sets his cup on the counter as he turns into Cameron's glare. Glaring. Staring. Challenging him to love her. To hate her. To feel something when he swims in her eyes. She is far too close and she knows it. Throbbing. Oh damn, he's throbbing.

He does the only thing he knows to do.

He smirks at her.

"I'm guessing you're in my face for a reason." He refuses to look away; she almost seems to get closer. "Right," he says, and his voice becomes sultry. "So, do you want it hot and sweaty, or slow and gentle?" His breath seems to mix with hers. "I vote for a meth binge and then you across my desk . . ."

"There's nothing between Chase and I," she asserts. And she can't believe she's ignoring this. Him. His breath. His mouth. His scruff, his cologne, and . . . (trembling) his words on her lips.

House is the first to look away. "Chase is young, he's rich, he's British – "

"Australian."

"And he has great hair." He's back to pouring his coffee. "He fucked you when you were clueless. You like it like that?" She doesn't answer. "I'll have to remember that. In fact, you want to go grab a drink? I've got time right now."

"Stop it!" She yells, and he almost spills his coffee. "Stop it! You ignore it! You pretend you're oblivious!"

"To what, Cameron?" He matches her tone for tone. "To your girlish fantasies? To your – "

"To this! To this, House!" as she gestures wildly with her hands. The hallways outside are beginning to still as people stop to witness the outburst. "And you run away! You hide behind words, words, words . . . . words! You're a coward!"

"If I wanted a sermon I'd go to Wilson – "

"Stop it! Stop it, Da –" And she closes her mouth before the rest can spill out.

Silence. Complete and utter silence. She can't believe what she almost called him.

Dad. She hadn't said it in years. It seems so right, but it seems so wrong. Her face flushes red with the knowledge.

The people in the hallways turn away and keep walking. They're alone (never alone) once again. House's eyes seem to burn straight though her, but she refuses to acknowledge him now. Him. His eyes. This mess she's created.

Finally, it comes. "I remind you of your father." And he's quiet after that. Waiting. Watching. Interpreting. He interprets every move of her lashes. Angry. Embarrassed. Afraid and alone. (Never alone.) "Interesting." He won't let her live this one down. "He's sarcastic, gruff, sexy –"

"He was nothing like you."

His eyes roll over her features and then down to the floor at her feet. "So, not gruff and sexy." She doesn't respond, only stares at the counter, and he swears he hears her breathing grow thicker. "He was a good man," House concludes, looking back to her face.

"He was a man." She offers him her eyes. Begs him to take them and keep them safe. But she knows he won't. No, he will throw them in his pocket and find them days later, spent and on the floor of his bedroom.

"And I'm a man." He steps a bit closer. His voice is low in his throat.

Yes . . . Breathe, breathe. Choking on the words. She ends up nodding instead.

"That's the correlation?" He's a rumble of still air on her cheek - a question, a demand, an abusive caress. He's miles away and far too close.

"You're . . . " too close, she almost manages. But it's wispy, and quiet - more fuel for his torture. And he takes it like gas on the flame.

She's dizzy. His eyes are purple, his mouth is red. The air between them is black, the unsaid. White as her mind goes blank.

She can taste his words as his tongue rolls them toward her. "He hurt you," he finally decides. "Your father."

"No," she takes a step back. His words are too good and too bitter. She can swallow them and never look back. And they will kill her. He will kill her. She will thank him to kill her slowly . . .

House watches her retreat from the counter in her attempt to escape toward the hall. But he halts her with one simple phrase. So truly and jaggedly spoken:

"You are beautifully damaged." And she suddenly stops in mid-stride. He takes the opportunity to limp up behind her, but she refuses to turn around. Just stands there with her hands on the table. "Somebody hurt you."

"My father didn't . . ."

He's taken by her airy response; she'll fall over at any second. He will fall with her when she does. "Turn around."

"No."

"Turn around."

"House . . ." It's almost a whimper. A plea. Don't hurt me. Hurt me.

He takes a step forward and Cameron's whole body goes stiff. She was supposed to melt onto the front of his shirt. Her back to his stomach. A layer of thick air in-between. House tilts his head to the side. He will drive her to the edge and then whisper, jump. And the girl will obey him, willfully.

She feels his hot breath on the back of her ear.

Pounding. Panting. Screaming. Biting her lip, her heart is racing. Color! Color! But all is white and this is a dream she's chasing. The world is blank, and the man is speaking. Hot (hot!) breath on her neck.

"Who hurt you?" She's never heard his voice like this.

"No . . ." It doesn't make sense and she knows it.

He steps forward again, and this time he's finally touching her. His chest, his stomach, his aching member. She responds like he never thought she would, letting out a squeak and gripping the table even harder. She closes her eyes and pants for water. For air. For escape, and (regret) for him.

"Yes," he insists with a whisper in her ear.

What is he trying to do? Recreate the experience of the trauma she's suffered? Arouse her, seduce her, make her hate him, bite him, give in to him?

All of the above is working.

Throbbing, aching. He pushes it down, but the feeling only rises again. A stab of something, of pain, of guilt - that he might actually feel, if only he were a different man. But he doesn't feel. He only wants to.

"What are you so afraid of?" he asks. And it's enough irony again for the both of them.

"Men." She swallows. She leans over the table even further. "You're all the same." She can't believe he's touching her. She can't believe she's letting him. Breathe. Breathe. The feeling is too intense. "You want . . . " she pushes against him slightly, "you want to . . ." She can't finish. She can't.

"To feel?" It rumbles against her back. It pulses through her blood - poison on its way to her heart.

Her silent panting grows quick as he responds to her pushing with shifting.

"To use . . . use us." She's trembling beneath the intensity. "You take, and take, and take . . . . and this," oh damn, oh damn, "you never give back."

He's trying to be as still as possible, to listen, to hear her. But it's all becoming a blur and he doesn't know what to think of it. He's not used to being a blur.

"You've got one thing . . . . one thing on your mind. Always." She feels it when he stops responding to her trembles. "I learned that early on."

He's no longer trying to seduce her. "You're afraid of me." To Cameron, he sounds amused.

Only House knows the pinch in his soul as he moves away from her warm body and returns to the stale pot of coffee.

iv.

Few secrets can escape an investigator, who has opportunity and license to undertake such a quest, and skill to follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his physician.
(Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter)

She followed him.

She knows she shouldn't have. She knows she should leave it alone. But she can't, and she never will be able to.

Thump. Thump. Thump. All the way across the garage. It echoes. Some mellow harmony of all things broken and beautiful. Of life and death and of a few things worth it in-between. Like a baby crying on another floor as a leg slowly rots to nothing. Like a wine glass and a picture of a flowing white dress. Of a smiling man who's six feet under, and a frowning one a few feet away. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each echo tells a painful story, of a past that is long-since dismissed.

But it never does go away. It haunts them at night in a hollow garage. Reality thumps its way to her soul.

"I'm sorry," she says when she sees him. And columns of cement bear the message. So much for the wings of eagles . . .

He already knew she would be there. It's in her nature to want to set things right. His satchel on the roof of his car, he leans on his cane and he turns.

She continues. "Earlier. I shouldn't have spoken."

His eyes blaze a path to hers pitifully. She is so young. So naive. So . . . damned beautiful when she stands broken before him. She thinks he's going to catch her when she falls. Even now. "I shouldn't have hired you." House is no one's salvation.

She wasn't expecting to hear it. "What?"

"We all make mistakes, right? It doesn't mean we can change them, or even that we'd want to. You don't regret saying those things to me." He slouches against his driver's side door. "You only regret my reaction." But Cameron's still gawking at him stupidly. "The same way I don't regret hiring you."

She has no idea what to say now. She thought she'd follow him out here, spout off an apology, and be back to normal tomorrow. Oh, he would make fun of her. He always did. But this? She hadn't prepared for.

"What . . . ." she grips the bottom edge of her vest, "What is wrong with me as an employee?"

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with you." He makes a move to open his car door, but Cameron starts walking briskly toward him. She's clenching. That's never a good sign for him. But he presses on. "I should have let you go that very first week." And he opens the door with a jerk.

"Get tired of the artwork in the lobby?" she spits at him angrily.

"I didn't expect the artwork to be pissy," he returns, and closes the door with a bang. He meets her glare for glare. If it's a fight she wants, who is he to deny it? "You're supposed to look good, not speak, not offend, not apologize. And certainly not expect me to pamper to your neediness." Now he's just trying to hurt her. It's his reckless moment of freedom.

"I can't believe you!" she shouts. "How – "

"Yes, Cameron. Yes, you can." And he gets in her face to emphasize the point. "You believe everything I say. You hang on to my words like they mean something. Like you can taste them. Like you can change them. Like you can heal me by picking me apart."

"I don't want to heal you!" But she does.

"You wanted to heal your husband. Look where that got you." He really wishes she'd stop shouting.

And she does. No sooner than her palm hits his cheek in a smack that echoes around them. It echoes in squares - the walls resounding of her action. A different harmony than before.

His eyes are closed and his face is turned to the side. His cheek is growing red and raw. She can see the shape of her hand through his scruff. It hurts. She knows it hurts. But he doesn't open his eyes.

She thinks she should feel ashamed of herself. But the only thing she feels is relief. No more anger. No more hatred. Just relief and the need to say something.

"I married my husband . . . ." she begins, and still he doesn't turn back to face her, "because I wanted to heal myself." She waits for him to speak. He doesn't. His cheek is redder and she wonders if she hit him too hard. "My father was in the hospital," cautious; she doesn't know if she should tell him this. "I knew he was about to die, and I left the room. To punish the both of us."

House opens his eyes, but he keeps them trained on the pavement beside him. With his lips slightly parted in the aftershock. Glowing red heat on his cheek.

"I married my husband to make up for that." Like she knows exactly why she did it. Like she's sorted through it all and knows her exact intentions. "I was in the room when he died."

"Congratulations," escapes from House's parted lips. "Now they're both dead and you're twice as broken."

He doesn't quite face her, but he rolls his eyes around to hers. His expression isn't amused. It's contemplating, as always, but something more . . . Cameron winces when she realizes her hand is burning. She hadn't been aware of her strength.

"Why'd you leave the room?" he asks her softly.

This is who they are. They jump from topic to topic; never standing still. Never any method to the madness. Yet such gentle . . . rough . . . painfully soothing eyes on her soul, hands on his heart, beauty in this dangerous downfall.

She's surprised at the tone of his voice, but buries it beneath her response. "I told you – "

"And none of this crap about punishment."

"My father touched me every chance he got." She regretted saying it, instantly.

"Wrongly?" he asks, like he doesn't believe it.

"It didn't need to be. I knew what he was thinking, every time." She's paralyzed by the look in his eyes. Something akin to tenderness, mixed in with the curiosity that's him.

After a long enough pause, "Then what was he thinking?"

"The same thing all men think when they put their hands on a woman. I learned at a young enough age - it's never pure. Never."

"He was your father."

"He was still a man." She can't decipher the look he's giving her.

"Ever think that maybe you just thought that was what he was thinking?"

"What?" she scrunches her face in confusion.

And he ignores her. "What am I thinking?"

A standoff. A thousand words pass between them. There's an eye fuck; she swears he means it. It'll happen in the parking lot, smashed against his car, cold pavement and metal and wood; hands on her thighs and his words in her hair. Something sharp, something smooth, something she'll scream when he touches her.

Silence.

"Right now?" she asks.

"Right now. What am I thinking."

"That I'll never guess what you're thinking."

"Cute. If you're going to proclaim omniscience, you might as well make it interesting."

There's a sudden noise in the garage and they both turn to look for the source. But the lighting is dim and the darkness has thickened. Nothing. They're alone (never alone) in the cold cement structure and Cameron wonders how she got there. They'll pretend this didn't happen tomorrow.

The noise forgotten, they both turn back, and House turns his face to Cameron's. Finally. The shock of the smack has worn off, but his face holds a hint of the damage. Both in expression and flush of his cheek.

In her own moment of reckless freedom, Cameron reaches up to touch it.

He pulls away. Her fingers never make contact. And looks at her. Just looks, saying nothing at all for what seems like forever. "Everybody lies," he muses, peering down at her figure, her hand still suspended in the air. And she sighs before lowering her arm. Another change of topic. Bouncing. Back, forth, back, forth. Old, familiar territory. "What will it take?"

She thinks she must have missed something. "For what?"

"You try to run away, you push against me; you tell me I'm a man and a pig. You corner me in the garage just to slap me. Yet, here you are, trying to touch me." Truth. Or something like it. Somewhere they've never been before. "Your mouth says no, but your body says yes." And his tone becomes an accusation. "You want to feel." Dark. Deep. Relentless. "So what will it take? To get your mouth to say yes as well."

"You want into my pants that badly?" Cameron tries her best to be angry. She thinks somewhere in the back of her mind that this is only going downhill. She can't admit that she wants to roll down it and hit the rocky bottom below.

"Does that surprise you?" Flippancy is the only way out. But his soul is squeezing. Hurting.

He seems to get closer as she thinks about leaving. Almost like he (always) read her mind. "No." And she says it: "Are you accusing me of running from my feelings?"

"Maybe."

She smiles a sad smile up at him. "This all sounds . . . vaguely familiar."

"Maybe." Again. His response is quick. His breath becomes hot on her own. "But I don't deny my physical needs." His eyes are sure and unwavering.

"Needs, or wants?"

He almost smiles in return. "There's a difference?" His voice is low in his throat. Almost gravelly. Almost as sad as he feels. (Almost.) He wants to say something. He needs to. But he finds the door handle with his fingers once again, and Cameron backs away as he opens it. "Men are pigs." And he looks at her. "Selfish, isn't it?"

Cameron is waiting for something.

She's waiting for him.

One hand on the door, the other on his cane. He lets go of both as he takes a pinch of her vest and pulls her slowly toward him. He doesn't even think. Just leans in close to her and tries, tries to be human. To tell her. To show her. What he wants. What he needs.

But she can't keep up with his movements. She's trying, trying. But he's pulling her in and she's stepping toward him - the force of his fingers on her vest. Too fast. Too slow. Too sudden. She braces her hands against the car door beside him, and the door falls closed with the pressure. They're both surprised by the resounding thud and they stumble backward with the motion. House ignores the stab in his leg.

He watches. She watches. Neither of them touching or holding. Just blue on blue and a baby crying on another floor. A wine glass, a dress. A smiling man six feet under.

A frowning one.

"Are you going to kiss me?" she breathes.

"If you'd stop talking," he chides. And he waits. For her. To knock some sense into what he's doing. Into what he's going to do. She could sing. She could yell. She could smack him again. "But there's one tiny stipulation."

"Stipulation?" Of course. Nothing is normal with him. With them.

"Don't kiss me back," he orders. But his voice is soft on her lips. She's confused; he can tell by the quirk of her brow. The tiny twitch of her mouth. Anticipation, curiosity, fear and desire; neediness. But none of that matters now.

Her whisper is almost inaudible. "Why?"

Curious.

"I want you to feel." Every bump, every word, every nuance. Every ridge in his lip; every wrinkle. Every taste that is way too bitter; scruff that is way too painful.

He doesn't hold her face up or tangle his fingers in her hair. No. She's going to feel what he's doing, what he's saying. The only part of him touching her is one little pinky finger, looped through her button hole. He hasn't let go of her vest. He doesn't plan to, either.

"Open your mouth."

Edge of the cliff. Don't look down. Just jump, jump to the ground. And Cameron does as she's told.

As soon as her mouth is just barely parted, her eyes just barely opened, he nestles his bottom lip in between both of hers and thoroughly enjoys her reaction. And then he begins to move. Dragging his lip over the underside of hers. He makes sure he does it slowly. Intertwines every ridge in his lips with hers. Fitting the pieces together.

A broken and a beautiful puzzle.

She squirms and grabs a fistful of his blazer. But he pries her hand loose and drops it to the side. She isn't allowed to touch him. The more he moves against her motionless mouth, the more helpless she becomes. The more she squirms. Faster. Harder. She wants to scream. To wrap her arms around the back of his neck and force him to kiss her deeper. Faster. Harder.

He captures her bottom lip in his teeth and gently, slowly, tugs on it. Raping her with every sensation.

She can't pull away for air. She has to breathe in the air he provides her, hot and moist and relentless. Sparks play across the back of her eyelids when his tongue slips inside her mouth. She can't wrap her mind around what he's doing. What she's feeling. How they got here to begin with. He slips it further inside.

She's tasting his tongue. Warm, wet. He's making love to her now. You take, and take, and you never give back. In circles. Lapping. He's taking her. All the same. Selfish. She wants him to take her harder.

He's throbbing. She's squirming. They're sliding down the car. Pain. In his leg. In his heart. She feels the hot burn of his cheek. She had certainly smacked him too hard. "I'm – "

"Not sorry," he mumbles against her lips. And his arms finally snake around her.

She takes it as a sign that she can kiss him, and House does nothing to stop her. They're making love in harmony now.

He can't resist saying it. "Your mouth says yes, your body says yes . . ."

"Shut up."

The puzzle pieces fall into place.

– then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark, but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight.
(Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter)

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 04:19:11 GMT

I stand by my goal on the street and wonder what others are doing. Are they sitting down for dinner? Are they flipping through channels on the TV? Are they finishing their homework? Maybe they're lying in bed and thinking. Maybe they're thinking of me...

I've done it countless times. I've stood there and stood there and looked out into nothing. But oh, do I close my eyes. Because too much more than nothing lies just beyond my eyelids. And if I open them, maybe, maybe I'll be responsible for what I see. I'll be one of 'those' people - who see with their eyes, but turn away with their hearts.

I'm fighting for the ball. Two of my guys are fighting with me, out in the street, in the only way we know how - in the only way where nobody dies. Over the head, under the legs, around the back and down. He rolls across the ground and I follow; and I laugh, we all laugh. And nobody dies. We live. We play. We're children.

And then a car drifts around the corner. Tinted windows, low to the ground. Rust around the edges, yet the hub caps are chrome. And the car slows down even more. Creeping, crawling. Toward us. The ball stops bouncing and we stand to watch. But not for long. My guys are stepping in front of me, I'm confused, and they're telling me to stay there.

It's dark, and we can't see a thing. It was a joke - "Can't see the goal, Forte?" - to excuse all the shots that were missed. But now it isn't so funny. I recognize this - I remember a similar picture, of me, of them, of that street and that goal, of another car and another driver. Another gunshot in the distance. Another night where I cried for another soul, dying just a few doors down...

The car creeps past us. I swear I saw a window roll down. But it moves and moves, and turns back around, and comes back to creep by again. We hold our heads up, we clench our fists, we are fearless in the face of (shaking, pounding, want roses when I die) danger - all those things we want to remember.

But that night I still sleep to the sound of gunshots. To flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the walls. To the sound of somebody's mama, crying to the merciless nothingness. I close my eyes. I'll wipe blood off my shoes tomorrow.

Sat, 12 Nov 2005 02:56:05 GMT

My desire to write in pretty pictures drains me of my will. Writing has become a task. Expression has become a task. And yet, that can't be.

Because expression is the string holding onto me. I count down the seconds 'til it breaks. I wait and watch and smile at the thought of falling . . .