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sick_wilson2007-05-04 03:58 pm
toolazytowork.livejournal.com) wrote in sick_wilson2007-05-04 03:58 pm
Entry tags:
Woe and angst and torment, oh my!
A sick!Wilson fic I wrote and as far as I know never posted in this corner of the interwebs.
I could be wrong.
It's short. It's not my usual style (whatever the hell that is--I kind of hope this isn't it).
Ahh well.
Here.
Have a thing.
Title: Human Conflict Number 5
Rating:PG-ish
Summary: The poets makes it all sound so romantic. Damn them.
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Word Count:~650
Silence shouldn’t surprise him anymore. Somehow, it still manages to come as a shock. As alone as he is used to being, he still expects to hear another person. Asleep and breathing softly, or shuffling around the room while concentrating on not causing a disturbance. He expects to hear movement. Life going on around him. Of late, there's no noise. There are mornings that it bothers him that he doesn't hear any life happening. Especially when his brain has accepted that he is not only still alive, but forced to face another day. After that realization he begins to adjust to the fact that soon he’ll have to begin the preparations necessary to be presentable to the outside world.
The length of the silence has gotten longer. When it had started, he would only wake up with the roar of the ocean in seashells inside his head. Some mornings he hoped he'd gone deaf. That would explain the silence. Something would jolt him into consciousness. The blowing of a horn, a knock on a nearby door, maybe even the tinny chime of the message announcement on his phone. Some random, previously insignificant sound would dig into the vacuum. Prove all of his senses viable.
All signs pointed to madness. As a doctor, he also knew there were more polite ways to describe what he was experiencing. Words didn't do the feeling justice. He liked madness. It sounded noble, Shakespearean. Madness was glory, a wild man standing on a precipice. Depression was a keyword, a target market for drug reps. He knew these things and didn't want depression. That was such a mundane diagnosis.
Such is life.
There were days, not always following the worst days, that he drew the silence out. Leaving the television off as he got dressed, conducting the drive to work without the dull roar of the car radio.
When the worst happened, he felt much more comfortable than on the days that went by without a snag. Defeat made sense to him. There were times he envied his patients' impending demise. That feeling did little to improve his self-assessment.
Redeeming qualities getting ripped away like calendar pages.
Assuming he had any redeeming qualities left.
Maybe he was the human equivelant of New Year's Eve on a calendar. Full of hope if you're feeling metaphorical. On the way to obsolescence if you're being realistic.
There are things, he told himself, that a man has to do.
He tried to convince himself he was persecuted. A laughable idea since he wasn't anyone's intended target. A guilty bystander, an easy mark, but no one's prize. Never had that feeling been less of a suspicion and more of an accusation.
He had always been able to find someone to distract him from himself. For years, despite outward appearances to the contrary, he had dedicated himself to one cause. A truly thankless cause. Just what he needed to distract him from the boredom of living twenty-four hours a day with the dullest of creatures. Just the sort of punishment he deserved.
Some might call it garden variety masochism. A simple need to suffer.
Reductive reasoning.
If physical pain could detract from mental he would wear the bruises. Who would inflict the damage?
There was no shortage of invisible damage.
House was a hands off sadist.
The worst kind.
How do you know the true sadist? When the masochist says "Beat me, hurt me," the sadist says, "No."
That old joke.
They were a pair. House ignoring the ripples of his actions on everyone around him. Wilson, resigned, bearing the brunt.
He loved the silence.
No tragic figure, James Wilson.
His life more a punch line than a moral tale.
At night, there would be a different kind of silence. The created, forced kind. Emptiness punctured by slamming doors, honking horns, and wailing sirens. After a time, those sounds became indiscernible from the morning sound of the ocean rushing into his ears. Perhaps, one day, the silence would drag him down.
He might get lucky.
He might stay under.
I could be wrong.
It's short. It's not my usual style (whatever the hell that is--I kind of hope this isn't it).
Ahh well.
Here.
Have a thing.
Title: Human Conflict Number 5
Rating:PG-ish
Summary: The poets makes it all sound so romantic. Damn them.
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Word Count:~650
Silence shouldn’t surprise him anymore. Somehow, it still manages to come as a shock. As alone as he is used to being, he still expects to hear another person. Asleep and breathing softly, or shuffling around the room while concentrating on not causing a disturbance. He expects to hear movement. Life going on around him. Of late, there's no noise. There are mornings that it bothers him that he doesn't hear any life happening. Especially when his brain has accepted that he is not only still alive, but forced to face another day. After that realization he begins to adjust to the fact that soon he’ll have to begin the preparations necessary to be presentable to the outside world.
The length of the silence has gotten longer. When it had started, he would only wake up with the roar of the ocean in seashells inside his head. Some mornings he hoped he'd gone deaf. That would explain the silence. Something would jolt him into consciousness. The blowing of a horn, a knock on a nearby door, maybe even the tinny chime of the message announcement on his phone. Some random, previously insignificant sound would dig into the vacuum. Prove all of his senses viable.
All signs pointed to madness. As a doctor, he also knew there were more polite ways to describe what he was experiencing. Words didn't do the feeling justice. He liked madness. It sounded noble, Shakespearean. Madness was glory, a wild man standing on a precipice. Depression was a keyword, a target market for drug reps. He knew these things and didn't want depression. That was such a mundane diagnosis.
Such is life.
There were days, not always following the worst days, that he drew the silence out. Leaving the television off as he got dressed, conducting the drive to work without the dull roar of the car radio.
When the worst happened, he felt much more comfortable than on the days that went by without a snag. Defeat made sense to him. There were times he envied his patients' impending demise. That feeling did little to improve his self-assessment.
Redeeming qualities getting ripped away like calendar pages.
Assuming he had any redeeming qualities left.
Maybe he was the human equivelant of New Year's Eve on a calendar. Full of hope if you're feeling metaphorical. On the way to obsolescence if you're being realistic.
There are things, he told himself, that a man has to do.
He tried to convince himself he was persecuted. A laughable idea since he wasn't anyone's intended target. A guilty bystander, an easy mark, but no one's prize. Never had that feeling been less of a suspicion and more of an accusation.
He had always been able to find someone to distract him from himself. For years, despite outward appearances to the contrary, he had dedicated himself to one cause. A truly thankless cause. Just what he needed to distract him from the boredom of living twenty-four hours a day with the dullest of creatures. Just the sort of punishment he deserved.
Some might call it garden variety masochism. A simple need to suffer.
Reductive reasoning.
If physical pain could detract from mental he would wear the bruises. Who would inflict the damage?
There was no shortage of invisible damage.
House was a hands off sadist.
The worst kind.
How do you know the true sadist? When the masochist says "Beat me, hurt me," the sadist says, "No."
That old joke.
They were a pair. House ignoring the ripples of his actions on everyone around him. Wilson, resigned, bearing the brunt.
He loved the silence.
No tragic figure, James Wilson.
His life more a punch line than a moral tale.
At night, there would be a different kind of silence. The created, forced kind. Emptiness punctured by slamming doors, honking horns, and wailing sirens. After a time, those sounds became indiscernible from the morning sound of the ocean rushing into his ears. Perhaps, one day, the silence would drag him down.
He might get lucky.
He might stay under.
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They both work. Depending how your view of this thing.
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Thanks, also, for clarifying it's not the writing that sucks.
It's so...damned miserable. Course, we go for that sort of thing around here, don't we?
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It's a downer. But it can be fun to be a downer. When Wilson's getting tortured everybody's happy. Except Wilson. Luckily he doesn't exist. Or it would totally suck to be him.
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Hopelessness is about as bad as it gets. Too tired to do anything else. That's no way to live.
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Nice job on conveying Wilson's depression. Not weird and emo, like depression fics can be from time to time. I liked it! Thanks for sharing :).
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He wouldn't cry. Probably wouldn't even tell anyone there's anything wrong. Not until things had gone far beyond simple sadness.