Umm...There was something I was actually going to say, but naturally I can't remember what that was. Good on me.
Feel kind of...Blank.
Anyways, here's a House fic I wrote as a spur of the moment thing the other day whilst working on the fics I'm supposed to be working on, lol. Always the way. It's called "Sense Memory" and it's much like an earlier one I wrote about past abuse for our starring character. I think it's just one of my theories as to why House is the way he is.
Naked feet crossed at the ankles atop a dark wood coffee table. Long limping legs clad in denim. Hand on cane, the other curled around a glass of bourbon. A cough. A rough scratching of stubble. Blue eyes half-closed. Greyed head nodding.
A frightened start, just me alone. No one else is here, it’s not real. Don’t worry about it, Greg. Those words, they don’t matter. I can’t help but worry. I can’t help but give into the twisting and clenching of my terrified gut. Hallucinations of memories. It was a long time ago. I can tell myself that until I’m blue in the face but it doesn’t mean shit. I sip the strong dark liquid and swallow.
Blue eyes closed, seeking relief. None to be found. Eyes open, blue orbs alert. A scent on the still air. Too familiar. Musk strong. Anger swirls inside a trouble mind, crimson and dark.
He’s still in my head. He always will be. He poisoned me. Ruined me. Untouchable for anyone else. You wonder why I’m a failure, you asshole? You’re why. Fuck. I sip and swallow again. I can’t forget you; can’t forget what you did to me. I can’t.
Body pain. Sense memory. Not real. Not real. Not real. A long healed ulna break twinges. A head, no longer struck, pounds. Muscles burn and bruise.
I feel it. That pain. I feel it inside of me. I feel you. I smell you. That masculine scent, the same kind I can’t help but be attracted to now. Is that because of you? I feel my back spasm and I know it’s your weight on me again. I have to be still, have to be good, have to be quiet.
Hands shake, the one on the glass and the one on the cane. Long fingers tighten, jaw clenches, mouth set. Eyes tightly shut. No noise.
I can hear you.
Knuckles white. Knuckles crack. Teeth grind.
Gone. Alone. Empty. Dirty, always dirty. Never clean. Always broken, can’t be fixed. Permanent cracks.
A quarter full glass is thrown. It smashes against a gloss black piano, soaking the keys. A sob wracks a broken body. One tear leaves a tired blue eye.
Just another night with you. With me. Alone. Alone. Alone.