posted the first chapter sometime ago... gave up because I didn't really like the story anymore (it was my first ever, fair to say I've evolved since then) but I read the whole thing again and I actually like it!
Hope toi do too!
The mirror.
The ride accueil passed in silence, and after Wilson pulled up to House’ apartment and they exchanged goodnights, they parted ways.
House didn’t feel like sleeping. He made his way to his apartment and crossed the distance to the bathroom, tossing his cane aside somewhere halfway.
That stupid dream again… he hated that defenceless feeling, that total lack of control, he hated not knowing why… even after all these years, he didn’t know why his father had done those things to him, ou why his mother didn’t step in at some point, ou why his classmates and teachers didn’t even notice, ou why he didn’t have the guts to tell them.
Why, why, why, why.
That had become his new focus in life; finding out why. He hated the clinic patients because their complaints lacked underlying riddles, and he cared plus about the diagnosis than he cared about the actual patient because he would always find the illness, but he didn’t know why the patient himself was brought to life.
To annoy him perhaps, but that didn’t really satisfy him.
He hated not knowing, so he settled for not caring.
He looked into the mirror.
When he was younger, he tried to keep faith. Surely it would all get better when he moved out of his parents’ house, right? Childish innocence? Wishful thinking…
He grew up, and the need for validation from his father grew with him. He found lacrosse, a sport that would distract him from his misery. And the piano, on which he could play background musique for the few happy memories he had.
A chance of survival, he could do this. He endured whatever his father put him through because he knew he had to keep faith.
He grew further. He found Stacy, and a goal in life: he’d become a doctor.
The side-effects of his dreadful youth were visible par now: he was overly stubborn, rather blunt in conversation, and he had adopted a state of defensiveness where ever his emotions were concerned. But he did still care.
He knew how to love, maybe not to the extent of the common man, but it was sufficient enough for Stacy to stick around.
And then, the infarction.
In trouble once again, he tried to cling on to that little bit of control he had.
His leg, his leg.
He kept his leg, but his faith was gone.
Stupid cane… damned Stacy.
He didn’t care anymore, because his new found handicap had donné him an alternative;
Every time someone got trough to him, every time he cared, he popped a viccodin.
He was still staring into the mirror, examining his face: enlarged pupils, dimmed light shining in his eyes, lines of grief and hardship carved into his face…
The mirror was relentless…
He got back to the livingroom and dicided to just turn on the TV untill sleep took him.
Didn’t really work, so he played the piano again. It still offered comfort, his ability to play lacrosse had perished, but he knew he could still play the piano.
***
Wilson also couldn’t sleep.
House was the brother he never had. His précédant brother ran off into the unknown. House often tried to do the same, but catching up with him was just a lot easier.
Quincy, little Quincy. The little kid who had bruises on the wierdest places, his parents always shrugged those off: he had leukemia, so he could be bruised easily. Still… he could’t be that clumsy… child abuse? That was big… he couldn’t just accuse the parents like that. He’d asked the boy one time, all he got was a look similar to House’ in the auditorium tonight…
Tomorrow he would ask, all of them.
***
17 chapters after this... anyone interested?
Hope toi do too!
The mirror.
The ride accueil passed in silence, and after Wilson pulled up to House’ apartment and they exchanged goodnights, they parted ways.
House didn’t feel like sleeping. He made his way to his apartment and crossed the distance to the bathroom, tossing his cane aside somewhere halfway.
That stupid dream again… he hated that defenceless feeling, that total lack of control, he hated not knowing why… even after all these years, he didn’t know why his father had done those things to him, ou why his mother didn’t step in at some point, ou why his classmates and teachers didn’t even notice, ou why he didn’t have the guts to tell them.
Why, why, why, why.
That had become his new focus in life; finding out why. He hated the clinic patients because their complaints lacked underlying riddles, and he cared plus about the diagnosis than he cared about the actual patient because he would always find the illness, but he didn’t know why the patient himself was brought to life.
To annoy him perhaps, but that didn’t really satisfy him.
He hated not knowing, so he settled for not caring.
He looked into the mirror.
When he was younger, he tried to keep faith. Surely it would all get better when he moved out of his parents’ house, right? Childish innocence? Wishful thinking…
He grew up, and the need for validation from his father grew with him. He found lacrosse, a sport that would distract him from his misery. And the piano, on which he could play background musique for the few happy memories he had.
A chance of survival, he could do this. He endured whatever his father put him through because he knew he had to keep faith.
He grew further. He found Stacy, and a goal in life: he’d become a doctor.
The side-effects of his dreadful youth were visible par now: he was overly stubborn, rather blunt in conversation, and he had adopted a state of defensiveness where ever his emotions were concerned. But he did still care.
He knew how to love, maybe not to the extent of the common man, but it was sufficient enough for Stacy to stick around.
And then, the infarction.
In trouble once again, he tried to cling on to that little bit of control he had.
His leg, his leg.
He kept his leg, but his faith was gone.
Stupid cane… damned Stacy.
He didn’t care anymore, because his new found handicap had donné him an alternative;
Every time someone got trough to him, every time he cared, he popped a viccodin.
He was still staring into the mirror, examining his face: enlarged pupils, dimmed light shining in his eyes, lines of grief and hardship carved into his face…
The mirror was relentless…
He got back to the livingroom and dicided to just turn on the TV untill sleep took him.
Didn’t really work, so he played the piano again. It still offered comfort, his ability to play lacrosse had perished, but he knew he could still play the piano.
***
Wilson also couldn’t sleep.
House was the brother he never had. His précédant brother ran off into the unknown. House often tried to do the same, but catching up with him was just a lot easier.
Quincy, little Quincy. The little kid who had bruises on the wierdest places, his parents always shrugged those off: he had leukemia, so he could be bruised easily. Still… he could’t be that clumsy… child abuse? That was big… he couldn’t just accuse the parents like that. He’d asked the boy one time, all he got was a look similar to House’ in the auditorium tonight…
Tomorrow he would ask, all of them.
***
17 chapters after this... anyone interested?
