WHO: House and Isabel WHAT: Attending to House's suffering. WHEN: Tuesday Evening WHERE: His apartment WARNINGS: Maybe high. Language. STATUS: Closed/Ongoing
Scattered on his apartment floor were empty vials of Vicodin. House had fingered every bottle of chalky remnants and had rubbed it into his gums in a pathetic attempt to achieve some sort of relief. But that was almost an hour ago, an hour before he had taken the blades out of his razor and started to cut his forearms. It wasn't an act of suicide, the cuts weren't near his wrists or any vital veins. He needed the release of those oh so delightful endorphins but he was running out of space on his arms and the blood was making a mess. He had lightly wrapped a bandage around his them to prevent any infection, but not too tight that he couldn't open it up. A small bottle of vinegar sat at his feet, prepared to inflict more pain on his wounds when he was ready. House now laid beside his toilet seat, the nausea taking its toll on his weak body. Every move he made felt excruciating. His head flopped side to side as beads of sweat dripped down his temple. He had been through all this before but this time, he felt completely and utterly alone. He couldn't call Wilson or Cuddy. There was no one he felt he could trust in the slightest. What felt like a blissful hallucination was now turning into a nightmare.