... und so weiter

Someone please enlighten me...

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:49:32 GMT

WHERE did House and Cuddy meet? At Hopkins or Michigan?

And WHAT is their age difference? And by that, I mean less than four or closer to ten?

As per S3, House was 45, which would make him 47/48 now. Last season, Cuddy was 38 (I know, it's nebulous). If we follow this, they have an age difference of around seven years. Assuming that neither House nor Cuddy skipped like, five grades, (or had to redo five of them,) Cuddy should have been an undergrad when House was a med student at Hopkins. However, it seemed like the book list she handed House was one for a med student, which would mean they were in med school at Hopkins together BEFORE House got expelled and went to Michigan, where he was a "legend" in grad school while Cuddy was an undergrad??!!!

Could someone PLEASE explain to me what I'm not getting here? O_o

I am...

Sun, 05 Jul 2009 12:52:52 GMT

This looks old, but is new to me. ♥

A nice departure from RL right now :)

Will get back to THAT asap. *gets dragged away by unknown force, kicking and screaming*

A great big "thank you" to my flist. Thanks for being here. *group hug*

Macros, anyone?

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 11:16:46 GMT

;)

It's the how, not the what.

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 16:17:19 GMT

For my f-list, in case some have not yet seen this. And also, in case it's already been posted elsewhere and I am just that blind (which is quite a possibility ;)).

House @ Paley Center

Fri, 19 Jun 2009 05:26:48 GMT

House@Paley

♥ ♥ ♥

I'm pretty sure I have a Webshots account. I just cannot for the life of me remember what it is...

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 04:06:24 GMT

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

*takes breath*

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

ROFLLLLLLLL

I'm sure most people have already seen these in some form or another, but, OH, KIDS. XD.
Personally, I thought the six=6 one was just genius. ;)

In which JMo asks what we know and Hugh's hair is adorkable :)

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 12:34:27 GMT

LOL. And...

Dr. Cockroach on Regis and Kelly.

Again, public post is public. Hugh!Lisa!love pimpage welcome. <3
(Because I need to stop speculating over who's gonna die. Nerghe.)

Tue, 24 Mar 2009 15:45:30 GMT

Hahaha, so I've been away for a while, 'cause I was hot-blooded, got a fever of 103 and ended up in the ER. Whoo! Go me.

The fever's gone down, but I'm still all nauseous and meh. Called my resident friend today, said it was taking me a bit longer than was normal to recover. Not really surprised, as I gather my immune system is pretty shot. Anyone has ideas how to beat this thing? It's been a week, and I'm sick of feeling seasick on dry land (while walking, go figure). Apart from the nausea, I'm also light-headed most of the time. I would even say it feels like vertigo, though I don't have a fear of heights so I'm not quite sure what exactly this IS. I just know that it feels weird as duck and I'm so sick of being sick, already. Blerghe.

Anyway, because my f-list is awesome (esp amy_119 and jillmeister , thank you guys so much for helping me out), I bring you even more awesome in the form of HUGH LAURIE. <3 The man is lovely, even if fandom is confusing at the moment, lol. I'm definitely going to see Monsters vs. Aliens at IMAX asap, because why, yes, I am a total dreamworks fan. :)

So, here we are. Public post is PUBIC, so spread the Hugh!love. Haven't made a public post in eons; feels like I'm doing something naughty...

ENJOY!

</lj></lj>

Hugh on Conan.

Thu, 11 Dec 2008 06:54:00 GMT

Many thanks to the original poster. <3

And part 2, here:

Enjoy!

Thanksgiving (and fic!poast)

Thu, 06 Nov 2008 06:51:16 GMT

Mmm, not quite, but it is good to give thanks, no?

I just thought I should take the time to be thankful for all that I have instead of griping about all that I don't. Of course, once the emo bug bites me, who knows what I'll be like? But right now, at least, I'm feeling thankful. So, ehem! *clears throat*:

A big, fat THANK YOU to lissie_pissie , for being a sweetheart.

Another to jillmeister , for keeping me sane and functioning. (No easy feat, I promise you. She manages because she's a GENIUS.)

And, last but not least, many thanks to melissaisdown , my new partner in crime, who has miraculously managed to put my pen (fingers) back to paper (keyboard). Without her prodding and efficiency (puts me to shame, my god,) I 'd probably still be drooling all over my shiny new Macbook (yes, I finally upgraded!!!) doing feck all, bwuahahahahaha~

Speaking of, new collab fic: Joyless. (Post ep for 5x06, spoilers, blerghe-dy blerghe. Already posted by M over at comms and her LJ because, hai, read note on efficiency above, and I FAIL. *weeps* This time, she's House, and I'm Cuddy.)

Joyless

House

Here.

He was here, standing at her door, knocking. A creak and he glared, or stared, standing still, not knowing if he'd see the same woman as earlier that day.

Not knowing if he'd ever see that woman again.

She opened the door but stayed at a distance. He wanted to say I was wrong. He wanted her closer. Optimism, or his best attempt, came first. She sank, blue eyes bloodshot, quiet and still as he heard the slow, spiritless beat of her broken heart.

You're quitting?

It wasn't really a question. It was why he was here.

He made her smile with a weak hollow patronizing remark. He knew she wasn't

ready for resignation. He knew this was his fault in some way but discouragement was a side effect, not a symptom. House could never accept her having a stranger's child. He wished he could say that instead of sorry, say something that would make a difference.

It's too bad, you would have made a great mother.

Honesty hurt, but he was here, his initial intentions eclipsed by the sight of her. She looked lost and alone, always alone, a solitary stature striving to be a single parent now a joyless soul in a dark corner, alone.

He wanted all of her pain to rise; it'd mounted since the IVF, he knew if she never released it she'd never recover, she'd never try again. He knew.

Anger came first and after it escaped he saw there was nothing left but an empty space. Her eyes were filled with the tears of every loss of every year: all emotion she might have felt, all words she might have uttered, would have seemed inadequate beside the adequacy of her silence, ineloquent against the eloquence of her beauty—and of her body, close to him finally, small and strong. Sad and susceptible.

He wanted to console, he wanted to confess, he just wanted her.

I don't know came as a somber sound but the silence seemed ceaseless, she stared at him suspecting but uncertain. There was a pause that seemed about to shatter and was only brought back to oblivion by the tightening of his arms around her and the sense that she was resting there as a caught, clutching gossamer feather, drifted in out of the darkness.

House tried to smile but his lips acquiesced, half in an overpowering rush of triumph, half lest he expose his exaltation and spoil the spontaneity, the power and purpose. The kiss was their kismet—fate and the confrontation of fear, the defeat of what they've always felt but could never express, except here, like this. A kiss, impossible to describe, never to be repeated; as though her pain rose, revealing everything she'd suppressed for so long, then settled transiently and dissolved upon his own heart.

The foyer fell away in melted shadows, the hallway was heaven, it was hope. The door was open to the unlit nursery, an open door, an empty room, their future.

The lines of her body were familiar under the soft texture of fabric, she was uplifted, coming to him on tip toe as her fingers grazed the rim of his ear. He brought her closer, held her tighter, with the strength, the desire to never let go.

It was true, if nothing else. The way her damp hand held him to her, the salty taste of tears across her lips, the relief and the warmth, the reciprocity of remembering when they'd done this before, of forgetting why they waited so long to do it again.

It wasn't pity or remorse, it wasn't impulsive either.

It was premeditated passion.

He wanted to relieve, release and never relent; to reduce her misery by being here.

Here.

And so they stood, their mouths annihilating doubt, resurrecting possibility. He claimed her pain without admitting his own. The love, the loss, the regret, he wanted everything to be different between them and it was, for a deep devouring declaration of devotion, unconditional, inescapable, theirs.

He wanted her, here and now and more than ever. They hovered, vulnerable, breathless, wavering and in that instant she asked with her eyes:

What happens next?

He wanted her, but more than anything he didn't want her to give up.

So he told her the answer in a glance, as he caught his breath and let her let go.

"Goodnight," he said, meaning another time, not knowing if this was it.

"Goodnight," he heard her whisper as the door closed behind him.

It was a better night, a glimpse of good and a brief denial of the bad. The day had piled terror upon the ache and yearning but now she had a tomorrow, a hopeful dream born out of an unfair nightmare. He gave her hope, he thought, limping back to his bike.

House wondered if he gave her a reason to reconsider.

Cuddy

Yellow.

Lemon, cream, amber, saffron.

Mustard.

Mustard seed, sow and ye shall reap.

Reap, reaper; he who taketh away; a breath, hitched.

No air; cold feet.

A gasp, wordless; a knock—

(Who’s there?)

Not the time for gloating. (Is it ever?)

Click.

Pause.

Blue.

Dark blue; midnight blue, sapphire, navy; dark blue.

Just like that?

Yes, just like that.

There you go again.

A puff of air, falling.

(Yeah.)

Another breath, still cold.

Fingers wrapped around sweater sleeves. Make a fist.

That’s too bad,

(Yes, it is.)

You would have been a great mother.

(This isn’t happening.) No.

No Joy, no air, no air, no—

You son of a bitch.

(Bitch’s dog, dogs bark, bark’s tree, tree’s nature, nature’s beautiful and—)

Why do you need to negate everything?

(And so am I, everything is.)

Inhale; freeze. Shards of ice, freezing on the way down, down; cold as steel; steel blue, denim, cerulean.

I don’t know.

(The son of a bitch.)

Pause: static, white noise.

Damp—cerulean, cobalt; royal, electric—

Drowning in a sea of blue; lifted, let lips do what hands do.

No air, warm hands. Sleeves: too long.

Still no Joy, but—

What?

(I don’t know.)

Red under your eyelids, red in your fingertips, red, red, all red, flowing, pumping, deafening. The embrace, the taste the touch (bright light with closed eyes) every color at once.

Stop.

(Why?)

Because.

Back again, a swing; balls of your feet.

(Red mist, dissipating.)

Cold leather on damp fingers, black and. Blue, eyes a sad azure.

Inhale, exhale; soles of your feet.

Goodnight.

Pivot, turn, walk away.

Shadows by the doorway, outside in; backlit, unseen.

Midnight blue, closes—

A beat; goodnight. (Good night?)

Cream walls, too empty; joyless, overflowing.

Slide back down; breathe out, breathe in.

Wet eyes, full lungs, full heart, cold feet.

White.

A crib, a wedding gown. Begin again, no.

It never ended.

My apologies for lack of posts and comments. I do read all your entries, just sometimes days after they're posted, so, um, yeah. I keep telling myself I should comment more, so I'll get right on that. (RL: ORLY?) (ME: *glares*) This journal will probably also start getting less personal, just because I REALLY feel bad about dumping all my crap on you guys. Plus, I'm pretty boring. Oh, and RL is really getting on my nerves so I have no desire at all in the universe to write about it. Nerghe. Total crapcakes. *makes face* OH, BUT BUT BUT!!! (I just thought of something happy to post about: I GOT A PAY RAISE!!! Granted, it was only a smidgen, but at times like these, OMG!!! *twirls*)

FIC: Re/action(s)

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 13:48:20 GMT

What? Fic? From moi? *gasp*

But I had help! (Who would've guessed? *thud*)

Eh, a short introspective interlude before we trample all over eljay like a herd of elephants in heat ;)

TITLE: Re/action(s)

PAIRING: House/Cuddy

RATING: PG

SUMMARY: Comparative POVs for scene at the end of ‘Lucky Thirteen,’ the adoption reveal.

DISCLAIMER: Disclaimed.

A/N: House’s POV written by ashley_west, Cuddy’s POV written by melissaisdown. Please comment.

Re/action(s)

House

She didn’t want anyone else to know, she said, with a glisten in her eye and a curl over her ear.

She didn’t want anyone else to know.

Else, meaning that there is a one to the else, a one that is an exception; special, not included with others; other elses, other ones.

He always thought he was a one.

He knew he probably wasn’t ‘the’ one, having been Stacy’s one, or so she said.

But, he thought he might have at least been ‘a’ one.

He was wrong.

The moment that he came to this realization, realized his mistake, his naivety and that was never a word he associated with himself before, ever—

The moment it happened—

It stopped.

It; the moment, the bounce of her curl, the lift of Wilson’s lips, the tinkling over the door that echoed in the stale air and vibrated on the breath he has yet to release causing resonance pitch perfect—

A lonely oboe before a practice; a single breath pushed, shoved, squeezed through reed to bounce off the walls of the auditorium to lodge between his ears and behind his eyes and he was dumb.

He closed his mouth without realizing he’d left it open. He opened it again without meaning to say a single word.

Paused.

The air was still even though he knew it wasn’t, like the change that he should have seen coming but didn’t.

Too late now, he thought, too late for shoulda-woulda-couldas and asphalt flowers where the sidewalk ends. He could turn on all the lights in the attic and change would still come; but he was not ready, damn it, he was not prepared.

She smiled then, her whole face lighting up with happiness, and he wasn’t prepared for that, either.

He wanted to look away, but found that he couldn’t see very well, anyway. When did that happen?

Oboes, he thought. Middle A.

Aren’t you going to congratulate me? She whispered, as if afraid.

Afraid of what, he wanted to yell, you have your one next to you and your dream in front of you and what about me? He wanted to ask. What about me? What about the air that is too thick and the thickness that is too loud and the painted walls he couldn’t reach even if he wanted to?

But then, he reminded himself, Wilson could. Wilson could, and maybe Wilson had. Nice, safe Wilson, who always knew what to say and when to not and how to wrap others around his finger instead of the other way round.

Yellow, he thought. Yellow. Neutral; safe. Like Wilson, he thought. And why was yellow neutral, anyway?

But Cuddy was looking at him, waiting for a reply, waiting for the congratulations that she maybe thought she’d never get, waiting, always waiting—

If you’re happy, I’m—

And he turned, pivoted, missing the glance between her and him, the pastel suddenly too bright for his eyes.

He slipped the shades back onto his nose, and walked away.

____________________________________________________

Cuddy

House.

House?

It was his voice. It was his shadow cast gray and skewed across the crib. It was him.

When she looked up she cringed, still ebullient and relatively relieved. Her secret leaked, but the fact that Wilson told him meant that they were truly reconciled.

Tension mounted beneath relief.

'Finally,' was the last thing she thought before she heard that voice, before she saw his silhouette enter her field of view, her life, complicate the composition, her moment, complicate it all. She's finally been approved, she's finally shopping for her son or daughter, she's finally going to be happy, a little closer to completion.

He made a joke, that sardonic, acerbic mechanism of wit that masks everything he's thinking, everything he's feeling.

She shouldn't have cared how House felt, not really. But she did.

She saw the shock, the utter disbelief on his face.

I'm adopting a baby.

Surprise? Not exactly. She wished she could say blank, but she knows him too well. The man looked bewildered, like she was speaking a different language, saying something profound that went past his pastel pink ears and was a struggle for his mind to interpret. Cuddy liked her ability to still usurp his suspicion. She liked knowing that she could still keep a secret from House. He never suspected, he couldn’t deduce her ongoing pursuit of maternity, there were no clues, no evidence, or there was but he was too conceited, too obsessed with a case, or his best friend.

Regret.

That's what it was, she finally realized as he gaped a little, speechless, staring, trying to not feel sad, pathetic, alone. But he was. He regretted not paying closer attention. He regretted not being the one entrusted with her secret, again. Wilson was a character reference, sure, but what was he? No confidant, not even a friend, House didn't see this coming. He always pictured her pregnant with her own progeny or not at all. She knew he liked it when he had proof (for his conscience and ego) that she trusted him. Trust means something.

Regret means he had expectations.

Of course part of him probably thought she gave up, part of him wanted to be a donor, but not a big enough part.

She knew that part still existed and a part of her wished it had grown. But he just stood mute, his next words masked by sarcasm and clouded by confusion. He looked at her, looked at Wilson, the crib and back at her.

Maybe she was wrong.

She shouldn't have cared how House felt, though. She got approved. It's certain, it's going to happen. There’s no more hoping, no more rationalizing unhappiness. It's definite, it's reality. She's going to have a baby.

She's going to be a mother.

Yellow. The room should be yellow, she thought in the stale silence, waiting. She always waited for him. But now she’s stopped waiting, she took the initiative, she did something to make herself happy instead of him. If joy were a color it'd be yellow. A bright beautiful shade, so she smiled. The walls of the store were her joy and he was overwhelmed at the sight.

Today I did.

Three words, four life changing syllables and House didn't react. Not really, not any way she was expecting. But he was still happy for her, wasn't he?

Aren't you going to congratulate me?

She encouraged the proper response concealing her doubt and he finally blinked. Then she saw it, it wasn’t just panic, shock and regret.

He was hurt.

Hurt that she didn't tell him, hurt that she didn't ask him, hurt that she didn't trust him, his pain was always her pain, even in a moment of making plans for a perfect, promising future.

As she watched him walk out, the pain receded. His or hers, it was a blurred border.

She looked at the crib again, her hand on it and her smile contagious. Wilson was still there, standing beside her with a sincere grin. She had him at least, and the crib--tangible, real--it was all her choice and she knew she’d make the right decision. House was just an irritable interruption as his sad shadow drifted away, out the door and out of her life. For a moment her stomach sank, fearing she’d lost him for the last time. But soon her mind and heart were consumed again by the thought of every little heartbeat and every little breath of the baby that will soon be in the crib, her baby.

Finally.

LE in Monte Carlo

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 07:32:06 GMT

I'm supposed to be working. But I saw this, and just HAD to share.

Not sure if anyone has posted these at cuddelstein yet. Can't check. (I'm posting from facebook.) If not, feel free to x-post for me and share the pretty :)

Link: http://bauergriffinonline.com/2008/06/lisa-edelstein-brings-smile-to.php

CLIPS: House's Head

Sat, 10 May 2008 12:13:27 GMT

The official site updated, with a clip of the behind-the-scenes from House's Head. (The bus scene.) Could someone with posting privileges please repost at house_daily? Thankies. (Also, the facebook link is invalid. Waddup widdat?)

Second, cutest Chase scene in forever &hearts; I'VE MISSED YOU, JESSE. Wilson is done talking now. LOLOLOLOL.
Here: (let's see if the embedding works this time *facepalm*)

Let's all be thanking Chase for fantasy!Cuddy now, yes?

SPAM AWAY, PEEPS.

I just got fired by my tutoring student, what.

Fri, 02 May 2008 17:01:30 GMT

And I am finding it absolutely lolarious.

So she wanted a tutor to help her prepare for IELTS (sort of like the British TOEFL). After the first lesson, I told her straight out there's no way she can hope to apply for schools this year, because her English is just not good enough. After the second lesson, I asked her if she'd consider going to language schools instead. Last week, she told me the material was too hard so would I mind having an extra class this week? I said okay, no problem. Then, about an hour ago, she texted me saying that her family agrees that she'd be better off going to language school, so she doesn't need to have lessons anymore. LOLOLOLOLOL. See? I am a retard when it comes to stuff like this. STFU, ME. STOP BEING SO GODDAMNED HONEST *facepalm*

But really, I am kind of relieved I have my weekends free again, so i don't really care that I got fired. Am sharing this so you guiz can have a laugh at my expense and dance with the banana. It's finals week for a lot of people, so laughs are good, yes? ;)

Also, some people asked for a commentary for my trouble-making lovechild Apostrophe. So here it is. Sort of. ;)

I'll start by answering some questions merlynnod left for me, which were:
What happened to Cuddy?
Where is she?
What happens to the kitty? ;)

(SO. SYNOPSIS AS FOLLOWS.)

Cuddy had a good friend when she was little, called Kat. Kat was physically abused by her father as a child. Kat jumped off the top of her block of flats when she was 12, right in front of Cuddy after Cuddy failed to talk her out of it. (See: prologue.) After she fell, a cat from the neighbourhood licked her (Kat's) face, but there was no response. The cat walked over Kat's back, leaving behind bloody paw prints all over her white shirt. Soon after this happened, Cuddy forgot all about it. Present day, a 14 year old jumper was brought into the ER at PPTH (P3). The girl reminded Cuddy of something, a person, but the memory was foggy and she only knew she had to get away. In a dissociative state, she saw a cat jump out in front of her in the parking lot and froze, almost getting hit by a car. After she got home, the memories hit her in a flood (trigger one: girl in ER; trigger 2: cat in lot), and she couldn't deal (P4). She then went to an institute to recover. The rumination did not improve, and she withdrew deeper and deeper into the past. She wanted to end it all so that she could escape from the images and the guilt, but this time, unlike how she was unable to stop Kat from taking that step, House managed to pull her back. (And yes, this is actually the part I am most dissatisfied with, because it was abrupt and deus ex machina-ish but it was so near the end I couldn't help myself. Bad writing habit, I know. I am repenting as I type *bows head*.) The final part is of them looking at the stars, House making up a story of the constellations mentioned in the Nursery Rhyme Hey Diddle Diddle that can all be seen in the April night sky. (Which is why I tried to get this up before April ended, but failed by a day *g*.) As for the cat in P1, weeeellll...it got tired of peanut butter and left for better trash cans to roam :)

I wrote this because I'd always wanted to write about dissociation. I chose to base the story on Cuddy because I feel there is so much more to that character than what we see on the show. Her guilt complex had to have come from somewhere, whether she is conscious of it or not. And I wanted to try writing a House that is not a jerk, because we all know he cares, in his own way. So I borrowed them and played for a while :) Strange plot? Not believable? I CLAIM POETIC LICENSE, LOL. Feel free to ask me any questions concerning the plot or otherwise :)

All right, this post has somehow turned into a Lisa!love spam fest. I have no idea how that happened;) Please be joining us in sharing the love? *g*

Apostrophe (Part 5/5)

Thu, 01 May 2008 09:48:53 GMT

Title: Apostrophe (5/5)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You remember. That is everything.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed.
A/N: Comments please. (Do I need to beg? I will beg. I have no shame *facepalm.* Last chance to laugh at my craziness? LOL.)

I'm actually slightly apprehensive about this ending, but this was all my brain could come up with. (Shortest chapter yet. SHUSH. 'TIS A SEEKRIT.) I tried to wrap things up the best I could. TRIED. I needed to end this to pave the road for bigger and better things to come *pokes pokeitlikejello.* (I may be able to do something tonight. I cannae be buggered with work anymore. My time is my own, what.)

As usual, regular font: House; italics: Cuddy. Many, many thanks to the awesome tag beta-ing of gidget_zb and alias424, without whom House would be speaking to spatulas and random pigs would trot onto the page like nobody's business. The best line in here also belongs to Gidget. It is quite easy to spot I think, because I am NOT that coherent ;) (And we all know I am just pretending to write this thing, really. *headdesk*)

The Dish and the Spoon

I need to walk, you told him. I need to walk.

Rain.

It traveled down the glass in drops that ran into rivulets; breaking down and separating into bits of this and that like tiny globular spores of liquid mercury. (Merge, divide, interwoven fingers clasped desperately together; holding on—stop. Glisten. Wait.)

Rain.

You stared at it, past it, through it, waiting for it to seep into your skin, chilling your core temp, screaming; freeze—like a Slurpee on a hot humid afternoon while the baseball bat swung against your legs with a thump, thump, thump and left smudges along your calf; rusty, flaky; muddy streaks.

Rain. How you despised it.

It fell in a mist and covered you like a shroud. You felt like the fly about to be the spider’s next meal.

It was not always like this, you remembered. A long time ago, the smell of the rain had exhilarated you and you’d bounce on the balls of your feet, wanting to be out there in the downpour so you could taste the scent of summer about to end (hairs breaking loose from pigtails bouncing in anticipation of fallen apples and roasted chestnuts); until one afternoon when you did slip out and summer ended in the clatter of ice cubes against scorching skin—too hot for ice, too dry for rain and so they stuck to you, like cube-shaped ticks on cowhide sucking blood. You don’t even remember the pain.

You felt like you were choking, drowning in your own downpour of thoughts as they trickled down your neck and curled there like fingers. (There, just as you’d expected; a squeeze.) You gasped, and spluttered, and tried to regulate your breathing—in, out; in out—but the signals had gotten mixed up somehow, and you knew, knew this was not how it was supposed to be. Her existence should not have been reduced to mere seconds of struggled breaths on your part, and a smattering of bloody paw prints on hers. You could feel the rough tongue scraping against your cheek (not yours) relentlessly, even now, the hooks reddening skin (or was that your imagination?). The light faded, and you squinted into the back alley, the fire escape, toes to toes, knees to knees, and after that—

Darkness took over a short time after, and you slept with your eyes wide open, dreaming away the years with blessed ignorance.

Sleep, perchance to dream; and you wished you didn’t, hadn’t, or that you’d never woken up in the first place. (But then, of course, there is the guilt that comes with self-denial—never works, does it? You try to persuade yourself, but it never—) and you wished that you’d gone blind, wished that you’d stopped, or time had, one or the other, and had followed her down into the back alley, grown a pair of wings and taken that step. But you were afraid, you were just a child, you didn’t know any better. (Better?)

You just didn’t know.

But that was—is—no excuse, never will be; not good enough, no, make it right, make it right. Make it right?

Please.

She looked at you with sadness in her eyes that trickled with a sliver of bewilderment. I don’t want to fall, she said. I want to feel the ground beneath my feet, the wind in my hair. I want to be able to cry and know for a fact that my face is wet. Not for me, not anymore. I don’t want to cry for me anymore.

You told her that sometimes it was ok to slip, just a little; a misplaced step on a narrow ledge. (The world won’t stop revolving, you know. The hospital won’t collapse, Wilson won’t take up Scientology.) That when you slip, just sometimes, once in a while, you catch yourself before the fall and it does not really happen—the falling that is.

She blinked.

And sometimes, you said, sometimes there is a net at the bottom, a net that catches you in an undignified heap when you plummet, so it does not really matter, you know, if your reflexes are just a tad bit out of order, and instead of fight—or flight—it tells you to fly instead. But you can’t really fly, can you, she asked. You can’t fly if you’re not Icarus. And anyway—there was a pause and maybe the subtlest of whispers: or is it the leaves—Icarus fell. He didn’t have a net, you said. But it should not have mattered, and her hair wrapped itself around her ears and cheeks and caught in her lashes; he had wings.

But you don’t, you pointed out. Look: scapula. No hollow bones protruding from the skin, no nasty feathers and stinking bird grease; no wax. (Ok, you thought. Ok. Sometimes walks are good. Sometimes, walks should be banned.)

You could detect the warmth leaving you as she left your touch on her shoulder one micro step at a time, and the pads of your fingertips tingled from the loss of contact, retracting like the tentacles of some deep-sea mollusc. You panicked. You hesitated. She took another step forward. You yelled.

And (to your surprise), she stopped. Turned, looked at you through the mist—or maybe it was the rain, clinging onto everything like a second skin—not fall, she said, with a wistful smile like rainbows and pots of gold. I don’t want to fall. And so you watched her as she didn’t fall, and you smiled (grimaced) like Cameron and cough syrup, and said you’d be her wings, and it’ll be ok, sometimes, to slip a little, because I’ll catch you, you said, don’t worry. Remember the net, you added, even if you don’t have wings. Remember the net.

But you never see that net when you take off, it’s too far down, and the depth is too dark, and the wings will only take you to the sun. And then it comes to you, almost as an afterthought, almost but not—not really, for it’s probably been there all along; like the way you knew the wax would melt, and the thought that comes after (was there before) is no longer thought but fact—the net has holes. And you start laughing then, because it is all so ironic, because you were never Icarus in the first place, were you? And there were never any wings and the net, the net—oh! you exclaimed. I think I see it now (mixed together with flashes of red cobwebs on pale, pale skin and paw prints across a canvas.)

See? And you almost grinned, giddy in relief, drunk on carbonic acid, fingers jabbing the air in a comical fashion. See? I am nothing. You are nothing. She was nothing, until you remembered the smell of rosin and the sea of pink. Your memory is her existence. However painful, however you wish you didn’t remember. You don’t, not really, because that would negate all that she stood for, all that she was, all she could have been. A life might as well never have lived if it doesn’t leave behind somebody to mourn. And that, that—and you looked at the precipitation all around—pain, that feeling of loss, that wrenching so brutal you pray, beg for numbness, that; is everything. You took a step closer and added in a smaller voice; you remember. That is everything. That is all anyone could ever ask for.

You are not sure if you convinced her—she was still looking at you like you had too many secrets and spoke in code, and you couldn’t be sure if she saw the holes or the net—so you reached out and grabbed, first things first, away from the edge, enough with all the flying malarkey, opposing thumbs should stand for something, at least. She fell against you with no resistance, and you were not surprised, you told yourself. Not surprised at all, and you knew better than to tell her that she should lose a few pounds to make it easier for your leg, you know, remember my pound of flesh? (What would this make her? Shylock? And you almost smirked at the image, you’d been saying she was really a man for years, and hey, Shylock was a Jew!) But you didn’t, because it was not time to let your guard down, not yet. (But the giggles were threatening to burst like bubbles and froth on the waves in a stormy sea, and since when did you giggle? Not now, at least.) Not while she was staring blankly and unblinkingly into the fall of rain.

Did it hold? she asked you.

The net, did it hold?

Yes, you told her. (And swallowed your mirth. Back, foul beast!)

Yes, it did.

And so she didn’t want to fall. And you didn’t want to see her fall, but you told her that, sometimes, it was ok to slip, just a little. So she slipped, and you caught her, because the net was really there, just like you said it would be.

A few hours later, after the drizzling finally stopped and the moisture on your face disappeared along with it, the stars appeared in the night sky and you played connect the dots. You’d forgotten how much she loved the stars; she’d beaten you on pointing out that Cassiopeia had risen—and you made up another story (version 18, many Aprils had passed since you first spotted her stargazing on the roof of the library) about the torrid affair between Leo and the Lyre and Taurus and the Moon—fetishes are so wrong—and how Canis Minor caught them in the janitor’s closet and took pictures and laughed his ass off as he sent them to everyone in email attachments.

You felt her laughter more than heard it, and you measured her wakefulness by the flutters of her eyelashes. By the time you got to the part where the Crater and the Big Dipper lived happily ever after, she was already asleep.

And to celebrate the end of my first fic ever, HERE BE SOME SUICIDAL BUNNIES. (By Andy Riley. People who have not read the books, go read. It is the most lolarious crack ever, for srs.)

Apostrophe (Parts 3 and 4)

Mon, 25 Feb 2008 13:32:08 GMT

Ta-dah!
*crows fly by overhead*

So, uh, remember 2 MONTHS AGO there was this fic called Apostrophe? (Probably not)
HERE BE THE NEXT INSTALLMENT.

Title: Apostrophe
Rating: PG13
Summary: At least he got to fly for a while. At least, for those few moments, he could do what he wanted.
A/N: Many thanks to applepiesunday and alias424 for the encouragement, and cryptictac for helping me make sense of my thought process. I owe this to them, and especially ellixian, who took time out from her extremely busy schedule to beta for me. I've made some changes since then, so all mistakes are mine.
My analness has also prompted me to go back and fiddle with the focalisation of P2. It is here if anyone is interested. Does not affect the plot, just makes it smoother to read, I think. Finally, Roman (Arial?) still House, italics still Cuddy. Flashbacks abound, may be more confusing that the previous chapters IF THAT IS EVEN POSSIBLE. I tried, really I did *headkeys*
CONCRIT VERY WELCOME. Come on guys, tear me apart.

The Cow Jumped Over the Moon

A word, Dr. House?

No, you wanted to say, but stopped anyway. What word?

Rumination, she said, trying to stand directly in your field of vision so she could be sure you were listening. You have to try and break the cycle, or her instances of dissociation will not get better. Dr. House? Are you with me?

Your eyes shifted this way and that, trying to sidestep the annoying clipboard holder with the bun of doom sitting on her head like a nest of twittering birdlets.

Stop, step, pivot. (Damn leg.)

Depends what you mean, you said. Would that be the concept of Cuddy chewing the cud? Or the concept of cud-chewing in general? Wait a minute, are we saying Cuddy is a cow now? Because I've always thought of her as more of the canine variety, if you know what I mean. (And you leaned towards the bird nest perched on her head and stage-whispered conspiratorially and started counting: one, two…)

Bird Nest's nostrils flared while she let out a breath. You know very well that's not what I meant.

You sighed, and made a mental note to ask Brenda when you got back to PPTH if she feeds the ducks in the jogging park on her way to work each day. Yes, I am familiar with rumination. So let's just skip forward to the part where I ask 'why me' and you answer and we both forget that your feathery friends ate your sense of humor this fine morning. AH AH AH, you added, wagging a finger to and fro as she opened her mouth to ask what was undoubtedly going to be twenty questions, we're skipping along merrily now, don't ruin the mood.

Her mouth opened and shut a couple more times before she seemed to come to the conclusion that argument would be futile (smart bird lady, who could have known?) and then with resignation; she is not talking to anyone else.

You noticed her shoulders sag slightly, because you are observant like that. You also put a mental tick next to your mental whiteboard because you'd been thinking rumination might be one of the reasons depriving you of the daily viewing pleasure of PPTH's finest assets—Wilson's man-boobs just don't do it for you—and you wanted to congratulate yourself on your genius but couldn't, because the thought of Cuddy stuck in a ruminating rut made you want to swallow a couple Vicodin too many.

You are still trying to piece the pieces together while forwarding and rewinding the sounds and smells in bursts of Technicolor. The scenes were like snapshots of a Polaroid that got blown away by the wind and you're not really sure if you've managed to grab every single one back.

What do think of Icarus? She asked you when you walked in.

Do you think it was anyone's fault?

You weren't sure what she wanted—or needed—to hear, because Icarus was just a stupid over-excited puppy if you really had to voice an opinion. And anyway, wasn't that the moral of the myth or something? But your gut told you the eye-rolling was not what was desired, so you sat down and propped your leg on the coffee table. The clipboards can glare all they want.

The point, you started, as you rubbed your thigh absent-mindedly, is not whose fault it is, but that he shouldn't have tried to fly in the first place. If God had wanted us to fly, he would have given us wings. Last time I checked, our feathered friends were still not buying wax in bulk.

You don't believe in God, she said.

I said if.

She looked away, and it felt colder, all of a sudden; (and the blue flame dwindled and died and come back, you wanted to shout, but) the window, you thought, glancing to the other side of the room. Somebody had left the blasted window open.

So it was all pointless?

'Course not; and you put on an exaggerated look of shock; it gave us a lovely story to scare little children with.

You sighed, and rubbed your forehead.

Yes, it was pointless.

She didn't say anything for a long while. You started to fidget. The silence clogged your ears and you didn't dare look at her (though her hair had fallen and covered her face so you couldn't have sneaked a peek even if you weren't so worried she won't ever speak again).

At least he got to fly for a while. At least, for those few moments, he could do what he wanted.

She lifted her head and looked at you (thank God) and her eyes turned the statement into a question so you found yourself nodding, though you didn't quite know why.

Right, you said.

You could say that.

On your way back to Princeton, you thought that maybe it was better this way, and you hoped you'd convinced her more than you'd convinced yourself.

The ER doors crashed open, and a gurney sped past surrounded by medics calling out stats and basic information to your staff. You headed over to get a better look.

Fourteen-year-old Jumper, unresponsive. Multiple fractures.

Stop.

Fourteen-year-old Jumper, unresponsive.

Turn back. Turnbackturnbackturnback—

Fourteen-year-old.

Jumper.

Fourteen.

Take a breath. Not fourteen. She was twelve, not fourteen.

(Breathe.)

You congratulated yourself on unfreezing, though you were puzzled that it happened in the first place. It was so long ago, and you hadn't thought about it in years. You decided to take the rest of the day off anyway, because your hands were shaky and you couldn't very well walk around with them stuck in your pockets for the rest of the day. You needed your hands. A hot bath would help, you thought, and headed over to the parking lot

You'd almost reached your car when you saw the cat. You didn't notice the car coming round the corner until you heard somebody (Wilson? Why was he here?) squeak your name in an unnaturally high pitch while smacking your body backwards until it hit the concrete and you found yourself staring up into the sky then nothing at all.

The longer hand on your watch moved to four with an audible click, reminding you that you'd been here for a while now, observing the dust on the floor and the way they rearranged themselves as people walked past and their footsteps expelled gusts of air. She was staring at you as if daring you to ask, blue eyes gray in the semi-darkness.

You'd never backed away from a dare before. She should know better by now.

Tell me something I don't know, House said to you. And remember, there isn't much of that, so you'd better make it personal.

Why? You asked.

Because. And he crossed his arms, like that was all the explanation you needed.

You stared at him, not about to just do his bidding. For that would upset the equilibrium, the house of cards you had built together, each placed with painstaking precision and the slightest tremors, waiting for the faintest touch to collapse and fold. There would be no giving without taking. No balancing a card against thin air. So you waited.

After a while, he sighed.

I'll tell you something you don't know. About me. Something I've never told anyone else.

You didn't know if he was lying, but you thought that was as good an offer as you were going to get, so you wet your lips and decided to tell him something that even if he went through all the trash in the world, he would have no way of knowing—something that up until a few weeks ago, had been a memory you hadn't even realized you'd lost.

You chose Michigan because Hitomi was there. She told you, when you asked her about sharing an apartment, not to be surprised by anything you might hear during the night. You shrugged and told her that you were an insomniac, so it's not as if it'd disrupt your sleep. She nodded, and you moved in the following morning.

You were late for school on your first day, which made you unbelievably nervous. You didn't want to make a bad impression, so you ran, making it to the classroom before the bell the only thing on your mind. Which was why you ran into somebody and dropped your bag, spilling the contents all over the pavement. You were horrified, and apologized profusely, but the girl just grinned up at you and handed you your stuff.

Haven't seen you around before, she said.

I'm new, you replied, noticing for the first time that you were wearing the same uniform.

First day.

It was only after the girl waved and left that you realized you'd forgotten to ask her her name. So you were pleasantly surprised when, after introducing you to the class, the teacher pointed out your seat to you and you found yourself staring into a grin you'd just seen minutes ago.

Hello Lisa. I'm Kat.

The Cheshire Cat?

No. Katherine, with a 'K'.

It was almost dawn when the screams started.

(You tapped your fingers on your cane while you played connect-the-dots with the specks of dust to link your flames to the smokey gaze burning holes in the back of your skull.)

Soul-yanking screams, screams that put the listener in pain, so much pain, just wishing it would all stop, please stop; stop screaming. And then it was almost as if it were no longer a scream, but a song, in a pitch so high you'd start doubting yourself that maybe it hadn't been screaming in the first place; but your insides would still ache where your heart should have been.

(There was a sudden flash of blue in the fading light and your flames burned your hand. You lifted your gaze from the heat; shrugged.)

The idea of sleep became most unappealing.

We were sitting like this, that night.

One of House's knees was touching yours, his other leg straight and his foot by your hip. You put your chin on your knees and grabbed your forearms, locking your bent legs close to your chest.

Which night?

It was PE class—you continued as if you hadn't heard him (and in fact, you hadn't, not really)—when I saw them for the first time. She was always last, so I insisted I'd wait and walk out with her. They were all over her back, jagged and rainbow-colored. It was mesmerizing, almost like art the way the lines merged and separated. She asked me if she scared me. I told her no.

"Oh, lookit, G."

Hitomi laid on the floor, one arm pointing at something in the distance only she could see. She had screamed in pain for almost a day before you could stand it no longer and gave her morphine. And still she screamed, for one dose was not enough, nowhere close, and she begged until you gave her another, and another.

"Everyone must look at the pretty."

Her face seemed to have relaxed somewhat, her eyes less feverish, and her body had stopped the spasms and twitching in pain. But still you had no idea what she was talking about, or where you were supposed to look, or what it was that was so pretty. So you smiled, because she was smiling; again, finally, after so long, and told her yes, you see it, and it was indeed very pretty.

Reassured, Hitomi stopped pointing, and closed her eyes.

And didn't stop smiling.

You had expected to feel the loss the moment it happened. You'd expected to pass out from lack of oxygen, from the anger that was surely gripping your brain at the absolute superfluity of it all. You'd expected to look down and find a gaping hole where your heart was; because surely, she meant more to you than this. But she flatlined and the number turned to zero and nothing happened. And then they called it. And took off her oxygen mask and pulled out her IVs and still nothing happened. Then they turned off the monitor and laid a sheet over her face and you felt, for sure, that now, now it would hit you.

But it didn't.

So you went home instead, placed a scotch on the piano, and played.

OMG GMAIL, I FRAKKING HAYCHTOO. The format just took me half an hour wtf.

EDIT: WTF is up with my font size?

Title: Apostrophe (P4)
A/N: Thanks to alias424 who entertained my plot bunny and gidget_zb whom I borrowed Alias from in her absence. Major thanks to them both for comments of win that made this part such a joy to write. Without them, this would not have made half as much sense. All mistakes and lack of coherence are mine alone. They are geniuses, and I love them both :)
A/N 2: Regular font: House. Italics: Cuddy.
A/N 3: For ellixian, whose work sucks more than mine does, and pokeitlikejello, who shares my confusion and writes it so much better *hugs*

Hey, she said, a breath down the line, a line of smoke threading through the wires to reach you. You inhaled that exhale, sucked all the air in then let it out again. (Smoke-infested lungs notwithstanding, foul breath, the stench of the aftermath still, even now, festering against your skin)—

Hi.

It is not certain, if she heard you. Because there was nothing to suggest it one way or the other, but you held on anyway, and watched the smoke wafting out the receiver through half-hooded eyes; threads dancing and weaving against the silvery light of the moon, playing tic-tac-toe and no one ever loses—

The night was quiet, as it always was, bringing with it silent instrumentals that only you could hear. You, and maybe her; maybe, though the wisps of smoke were now losing the battle against the pitch dark, swallowed by the change in density. Buoyancy; you yearned for it like a—and you looked for the webs between your fingers, webs that you couldn’t see, because the fog had obscured your vision and seeped into your thoughts. Smoke that had, by now, long cleared—

Your breath caught, or maybe hers; a shift in the patterns enough to alert you; pay attention. Breathe, you commanded yourself, while your brain forgot how and it hurt to think. You closed your eyes and tried not to see the way her phone must have been slipping out of her fingers, coated in stickiness, grasping at nothing, an eel writhing for freedom, and—

That, that you were sure you heard, that little “thunk”, a soft gravitational drop; the trickle of tears. How loud is a teardrop? You asked yourself. How many does it take to sound a glockenspiel in the night, to strike a clock and say, time—

Before time itself runs out and your lungs begin to clear and still, you cannot breathe. Speak, she asked of you. So you spoke, about this and that, about the old naked man across the street, never closes the curtains, would you believe it? The birds in the tree and the chestnuts, falling. About guitar strings and football fields and obnoxious teachers in organic chemistry. About the day you first met, and you thought to yourself, this girl, I will NEVER—

She chuckled, and coughed, and you chuckled with to cover up the coughing. And then you were laughing; laughing uncontrollably because it was all so funny, dusty knees and freshly cut blades of grass smelling like the sun after a rainy afternoon and you didn’t need to explain it to anyone, anyone at all. (But then there was a shaky breath and a hitch—no, hiccup, an air bubble, caught in the froth of the raging sea, white foam blinding and you weren’t ready for it to end, not just yet—) so you talked about tennis, and tennis balls and short shorts under short skirts and damn, that was some ass—

You stubbed your toe while trying to stand in the dark, flames flickering shadow puppets on your face—the dog chasing the bird as it flew away—a stumble, a spasm, and you braced yourself against the wall, the floor. (Up again, come on, move it.) Unhooked your cane, picked up your pants with it (can’t do this with one hand) fell backwards on the sofa and thanked God (whoever and wherever) it was a soft landing. Clamped between your cheek and your shoulder, you started a running commentary: pulling my pants on now, can’t find the belt so never mind and keys- keys- keys- shit! Before bending with a grunt and swiping them off the floor and cursing yourself for forgetting the helmet.

You saw squirrels and rabbits scurrying up trees and into burrows as you sped past, your shadow a long streak stretched thin by the rising sun.

On your way out, you’d dropped your phone and it’d disconnected with a jarring thud. You’d pressed redial, but there was no answer. The sun was a rusty red, a big, pumping heart, bleeding into the horizon peppering the trees with copper flakes that clogged up your arteries like egg yolk. You tried not to see the glint of wetness or hear the squelch of fluid, so instead you closed your eyes and inhaled smoke while you tried to tread water with one leg, a mean feat in itself and you hadn’t practiced in a while so there was no perfection. Please—and since when did you beg? But there was a sharp burning in your throat that prompted you to struggle for your next gulp—

The door opened effortlessly beneath your hands that shook from the cold, the too-long passage of time since your last pill, or your last intake of air—you weren’t sure which. You saw a wisp, maybe, floating out of reach, taunting you and pulling you ahead, so you followed it, breathing in its scent. (Your own skin tingled from recognition, déjà vu—silly rhymes and monkey shines—a calling from way back; you were familiar with this, and your fingers ached to scratch the itch forming boils threatening to burst just beneath the surface.)

It led you to the bathroom.

You were reminded of the sun, its bullying fingers probing, making jabs that bruised and left its mark. You slid down the tiles until her head reached your shoulder and you moved so it rested there, and the scene would have seemed a tad domestic if it wasn’t so off somehow. (The comfort of smoke had been sliced open by bleach, the molecules lodging themselves in the non-existent cracks.) You removed the phone she cradled in her hand, cradled like it was something precious, smudges and smears all over but concentrated on speed dial one. There was a roaring in your ears, like the time when you were a kid running along the shores of Okinawa holding seashells against your ear and what was it people said about oysters? You swam, back in those days, and trod water until the sun took the skin off your shoulders and still you wouldn’t run out of air.

You wanted to press the red button so you could no longer hear proof of your failure—you had never hated your leg more—but you couldn’t bring yourself to disconnect the call even though, technically speaking, you’d ended it (you!) the moment you dropped the phone. You wanted to say you were sorry (but you never do), that it was unintentional (it never is), and your fingertips grazed her cheekbones and down to rest against her pulse—

And your heart skipped a beat.

Maybe you didn’t fail, not this time. Maybe the sun was more golden syrup than liquid rust, and maybe you won’t run out of air just yet, because there was an exhale that you inhaled (sweeter than eighty percent nitrogen), and the smoke that you’d thought had gone stung your eyes and settled over you like a blanket.

You smiled, and your face was wet.

What is more important, you asked, to live for a reason or to die for one?

He leaned his head back and you let yours fall to rest on his shoulder. Gravity, you told yourself. The head is extremely heavy after all.

You’re asking me to compare the importance of your parents having sex to being hit by a bus? Because you know, snuffing it in your sleep is so not cool.

You promptly decided that as your neck had held its own thus far, it could continue to do so for a little longer. Your cheek felt cold without the rough wool scratching your skin, but you told it to deal. He sighed and turned to face you, his puff of air making your curls dance treacherously. You pretended not to notice.

You thought about Kat instead, how her back reminded you of an artist’s canvas, splashes of colour and broad, liberal strokes. A flick of the wrist, some added pressure; watercolour, oil and acrylic running and swirling to settle and fade in a sea of pigments. (The artist washed his brush in the bucket provided, dabbed the pad next to it and moved once again to the palette.)

She told you, when you had failed to hold in the gasp that escaped your lips, that it was not as bad as it looked, not really. (She shrugged as she spoke; tugging her white gym shirt over her head in one fluid motion, and underneath the cotton, you imagined the scabs cracking and blood clots breaking with the stretching of muscle and ligament.) Later, it became much easier to keep your eyes locked on hers as she changed or rolled up her sleeves. Muscle memory, you told yourself; because practice never led to perfect anything.

The waves rolled away lazily from the shore and took with them an abundance of sand and footprints distorted by saturation. You picked up a seashell and put it in your pocket for safe-keeping. Lap, and recede. Lap, and recede. Rinse before you dry, and repeat as needed.

She loved the ocean, you remembered. You’d lie with her on the grass under the trees while cherry blossoms brushed against your eyelids in a gentle caress—cotton balls and candy floss and whispers of palest pink. And you’d pretend, the two of you, that you were lying on the beach, floating away to where azure meets cerulean and the sand slipped away no matter how hard you tried to grab on to it.

You’d lost her, you thought, as you looked at her profile half hidden in shadows. She was right there and nowhere at all. So you sat, trying to disprove the existence of telepathy, until your leg started to ache and made you shift your power of the mind to the muscle that was neither here nor there but everywhere else instead.

There was a soft clicking sound, like the popping of bubble wrap. You sighed your annoyance (or was it relief? The two are so similar, these days) and pretended not to listen or stare at the way her lips glistened in the semi-dark, tongue flicking out in anticipation of speech—

I promised her we’d go to the beach together one day. Summer vacation. Get away for a while, swim in the sea, jump the waves. Listen to nothing but the wind. Run till the sand burnt our feet. She said maybe next year, because salt water and open wounds didn’t mix and she was no masochist. Sure, I said, the sea isn’t going anywhere. She’d smile and say, promise? I’d nod and smile back. We’d plan in detail and joke about fake IDs and plastic surgery so we wouldn’t get caught. That would be a disaster, she’d say. Can you imagine? To get that far only to end up right where we started.

We’d talk about the things we’d bring. Violin? I’d say. I can’t imagine not being able to play. I can, she’d answer. It’s not mine, anyway. And all that salt can’t be good for the wood. My mother would weep in her grave. Not that I can be sure of that, either—

No, you thought. You can never be sure what it is that parents expect of their child. The living were hard enough to figure out, never mind the dead. Or whatever albatross they’ve chosen to hang around their child’s neck.

You didn’t get to keep your promise, because next summer proved to be too far away and the dead body draped across her conscience too heavy for her to carry.

But it wasn’t your fault! You’d told her more than once; to which she’d smile and you’d see her eyes die a little more with every blink and tear that didn’t fall. You came to realise, over time, that as much as she appreciated your words, they just weren’t enough, could never be, because her father still mourned her mother in every drop of amber liquid and vibration of the bow across strings. So she played every day, each note more beautiful than the next, trying to make up for the gaping hole her mother had left behind, the mother she’d never known.

I think she heard me cry, she told you one day on your sea of pink. You know—that god-awful noise that newborns make. I’m not sure she got to see me though.

You kept your eyes shut and your face turned away so she wouldn’t see you cry over something that you could never understand anyway.

She told you how Kat had once had to have her arm re-broken because she’d kept playing when she shouldn’t have and it had set itself all wrong. She then told you about the black stray with blue eyes that kept licking Kat’s face with its rough tongue long after she’d never wake up again, ever, and the bloody paw-prints like rosettes that added to the canvas on Kat’s back.

Her head had somehow once again found your shoulder; heavier than the silver smoke that the light left behind on her gossamer threads of hair.

You swallowed the gratefulness you felt for that simple fact and grabbed your thigh harder in reply.

A GAME FOR YOU GUYS ^^

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 14:34:25 GMT

My friend's brother recently went for grad school interviews, and he got asked the same question at more than one institution. I found this question quite fun, so I'm posting it here for you guys *g*

A little background, my friend's brother majors in Civil Engineering, though the question itself is a basic physics question and has nothing to do with Civil Engineering. It's actually not that hard, I'm sure a lot of you will get it ^^ It just sounds a lot more confusing than it actually is. Okay, here goes:

There is a shut room with three light bulbs. Outside of the room, there are three switches, one for each light bulb. You can do whatever you want to/with the switches outside, but you can only walk into the room once. (And you have to close the door behind you.) With this in mind, what will you have to do to be able to tell me which switch lights up which bulb after going into the room only once?

AND NO, YOU CANNOT CALL YOUR FRIEND WHEN YOU ARE INSIDE THE ROOM SO S/HE COULD TURN THE SWITCHES ON/OFF FOR YOU. (ok, I admit, that was the first thing I thought of and I got called a rottten cheat *evul cackling*)

THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 05:48:01 GMT

YOU GUYS.
MY COMPUTER.
IT DIED.

First it wouldn't connect on to the internet, so I turned it off.
BIG MISTAKE.
NOW IT WON'T TURN ON, AT ALL.
I think I am in shock or something. I'm not even processing it properly, but my God, I have the possibility of losing everything. All my films, HOUSE EPISODES, MUSIC OMG, NO. JUST, NO. NOT AGAIN.
AND ALL OF MY PHOTOS, FUCK.
My writing I've saved somewhere else, but GOD. NO.
THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.
NO.

I am so calm it is freaky. I should not be so calm. Not when the earliest I can get it looked at is on Monday because it is the damn holidays and everywhere is closed.

SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT

'tis a lovely afternoon

Sun, 20 Jan 2008 07:40:02 GMT

It has finally stopped raining. FINALLY.
Perfect day to wash furballs. (I love the winter sun)
I now have dogs that smell like lavender and cats that smell like strawberry oatmeal.
YUM.
*GLOMPS*

Why We Write

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 06:25:03 GMT

If anybody is still following the writer's strike, Nikki Finke has just put up the first in a series of essays written by WGA writers titled "Why We Write". Here is the link: http://www.deadlinehollywooddaily.com
Go read. It is fucking awesome. (You'd need to scroll down the page.)

I also have a little something cooking in my brain, has been, for three weeks. (But it has only had some sort of form for the past two days.) I have not had time to write it down as yet. Later tonight, if I do not roll on my bed and die of exhaustion, there will be a piece up. It will not be fanfiction, but it will be fic, as in it will be fictional. It will not be self-insert, and it will not be based on any one person. But there will be truth in it. Because all stories start in truth, even if most of them end in lies.

not funny.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 06:13:20 GMT

I am so pissed right now it is not funny. Not in the crappiest. Not really in the mood to go into detail, but just thought I'd vent. Because hello? No venting combined with twenty odd screaming kids for 4 hours? Not good. So. This is me venting.

There.

Done.

If anyone is there, please vent with, so I can stop obsessing over my pile of crap that is seemingly growing right in front of me. Ugh.

ETA, if this pile of crap does not go away then it is possible Apostrophe will have to hibernate a while longer. Me no happy bunny. Not at all.

ehn. stuff.

Sun, 06 Jan 2008 04:37:21 GMT

I'm finally awake, as in, awake because I want to and not because I have to. So. Two kitty icons for applepiesunday
here:
and

hope you like, dahrlingks^^ one more to come...

And I am still lacking pics to icon. So if anyone has spare pics floating around and would like an icon, feel free to throw them my way. I don't promise fancy stuff, but I will try and make them look pretty. Nergh~ at least I hope they look pretty. *twirls thumbs*

If I am still feeling productive after my little college reunion this afternoon, I will go play around with Apostrophe.

Meh. I have more stuff to talk about, but they will be in a separate post. And locked, methinks.

King's College Choir

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 14:22:11 GMT

I went to see them yesterday, at the Royal Albert Hall.
Before I ramble on to my totally-subjective-and-not-that-credible account of events, let me just brag my mobility in almost-zero temperatures WITH NO COAT. THE ENTIRE DAY. I MUST BE INSANE.

******insanity below******
I left the house at approx 12.30pm, ran some errands at the bank and Post Office. Then I got the bus to Picadilly and went to sort some CELTA stuff out. Then I went to Tottenham Court Rd for McDs. Then I started to head for RAH, on foot. So. All the way down to Marble Arch then down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner. So far so good. But THEN, I decided, ooh, Hyde park at night, big and spacey and NO LIGHTS, CREEPY. So instead of walking along it like I should have done, I walked to Knightsbridge. Still good so far. Then I decided to walk to Harrods. NO. BAD. Brompton, as I later found out, was NOT parallel to Kensington. ARGH. So I ended up arriving at RAH at 6.50pm. Great timing, (show started at 7.30), but was so stupid. What could have been a half hour walk around the park turned into 90mins. I woke up today all achy. NARGH!!

Did I mention I had no coat? I think I did. But I will say it again. I. HAD. NO. COAT. Just a tshirt and a fleece. And a skirt. And I was not cold. I must have known when I left the house that day I was to do a lot of excess walking. Talk about premonitions...

OK. The Royal Albert Hall. WOW. I wish can go back 12 years so I could be there for the 10th Anniversary of Les Miserables, which is probably the most influential performance of my life. And the BEST VERSION OF LES MIS FOR ALL ETERNITY. I dare anyone to say differently. I do. If I hadn't watched that performance (fine, on TV, but hey, it was live), I would probably have never gotten into theatre, or considered becoming an Arts major; literal or otherwise. Yes, I'd always been interested, but I was so set on becoming nothing but a vet, or a biologist, or a zoologist...that any other interests were always just that; interests. Without that performance, I wouldn't be who I am today. Not to discredit anything else that has happened since then, but Les Mis was what set the ball rolling. (And I totally fell in love with Lea Salonga's voice because of it.) Sitting there, watching the orchestra tune their instruments, I got steamrolled by nostalgia so bad. I miss it all so much, and I didn't even realise how much until that moment. I miss blisters on my fingers and flipping out over codas. I miss fighting for music stands. I miss getting sunburnt and drenched in sweat then baked dry only to have the process repeat itself over and over. I miss roll steps and crab steps and no time for lunch, the tears of frustration and tears of joy. I miss being a kid with nothing but music to fill my summers. And I resent myself for having the concentration of a fruit fly, but I digress.

Onwards to the performance:

Friday, 21 December, 2007 (copied from cache of RAH website)

The world famous Choir of King’s College, Cambridge makes a welcome return with a beautiful concert full of Christmas joy.

Vivaldi: Gloria
Tchaikovsky: Waltz of the flowers
Rutter: The twelve days of Christmas

With a special 150th anniversary tribute to Elgar, Lift up your Hearts, Te deum plus a heavenly selection of carols sung by the angelic voices of the cathedral choristers and carols for all.

Sarah-Jane Davies - soprano
Laura Parfitt - alto
Philharmonia Chorus
Philharmonia Orchestra
Stephen Cleobury conductor

I LOVE STEPHEN CLEOBURY. HIS CONDUCTING OF VIVALDI WAS MESMERISING. Especially for the 3/4 parts. And I say this not because I had a limited view so I could only see 3 quarters of the stage.

However, 'Waltz of the Flowers' fell a bit flat, I thought. I kept waiting for the climax, and it felt as if it got there, but not quite. It also felt a bit out of place following 'Gloria' for some reason. But, there is nothing like Nutcracker to remind us of Christmas. And throughout it all, the percussion section bugged me big time. OK, I know percussion is not a big part in any of the scores they played, but come on. The acoustics of the hall were great; the crash cymbals should not have sounded like that. And WHY did they lug out the xylophone (vibraphone? I can't remember if it had tubes) if they weren't gonna play it? (And got me all excited for nothing. Boo.) Or they did and I went temporarily blind. But the wrist action on the triangle was awesome.

As for the singalong at the end, I was amused by how it once again reaffirmed my supposition that any Christmas choral experience always wraps with either 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' or 'Come, all ye Faithful'. And the five spotlights that swept the hall whenever we reached the line 'five gold rings'? Had me LOLing something awful in my seat.

By the time we got out, the nearest tube entrances were already closed. So there was more walking. It was after 11pm when I finally got home. (I DON'T ACTUALLY REMEMBER IF IT WAS CLOSER TO 12 EVEN THOUGH I DID CHECK THE TIME BECAUSE MY HIPPOCAMPUS IS JUST SHOT LIKE THAT.) Not that I'm complaining, though, it was a good performance. The kids were cute, LOVED the acapellas. The music was great ~~apart from the percussion bits but I will shut up now~~, the Hall was awe-inspiring, and I am now much more familiar with the streets of west London than I used to be.

...♪and a partridge in a pear tree~ ❤

Apostrophe (Part 2)

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 20:30:47 GMT

NARGH!
GO FORTH, FOUL BEASTIE,
and let the confusion grow...

Title: Apostrophe
Rating: PG13
Summary: Some things were clearer in the dark
A/N: Italics still Cuddy, Roman still House. Return of the first-person from prologue. Still dotted with total abuse of punctuation marks. Bit of a filler chapter, pace picks up in the next part. (ehn?!) Gekkou/Moonlight is by Onitsuka Chihiro, a hauntingly beautiful song with piano accompaniment. Romaji and English Translation of lyrics can be found here
I am thinking about writing a commentary for this piece, as I am aware my style can get very confusing. Hopefully things will start making sense in the next part, ~~maybe~~, but if I fail, I would still like as many people to understand as possible, as the subject of this story (there is one? *headdesk*) is something that is very important to me. Please enjoy and concrit; comments are endorphins with form.

The Fiddle

He couldn't be older than six, was the first thought that crossed your mind when you sat in the overlarge sofa with the cushions in that room with the TV set that had Spongebob on mute. You wondered what he was doing in a place like this. You wondered what had happened to his hair, or lack thereof. (But some parts were more hairless than others, and it reminded you of a soccer ball. Or more precisely, a soccer field.) You tried not to (who are you kidding) stare as a few minutes later, a man walked up to him and took his hand. He exchanged a few words (you think you heard McDonolds) with the nurse standing next to the boy (had been, all the time) and smiled at her, then at the boy. She smiled back. The boy didn't.

You want to know why the monkey jumping up and down in your brain will not stop jumping up and down so you can concentrate on something like a complete sentence without going off in a different direction every five seconds which really drives you nuts like monkeys like nuts as you cannot seem to remember the reason why you are in front of a desk holding a pen staring at—something—making your eyes water and your headache worse which is probably the stupid monkey’s fault again providing the reason why you told it to stop jumping up and down but it wouldn’t and now your brain is like a walnut acting as a squash ball ricocheting off the walls of your cranium making splat noises like a pot of gunge that little kids stick their fingers into and then laugh hysterically at the farting sounds that come from the pot when the air bubbles are crushed ruthlessly by bullying fingers against plastic even though the plastic of gunge pots are not really all that hard they are hard enough for air bubbles which are, when you come to think of it, really fragile.

You would like to think about the fragility of air bubbles, but there is a monkey in your brain jumping up and down and it will not stop. You do not know why.

Did you know, she said to you, face towards the setting sun, sheets of orange and yellow and rusty red in a merry dance across the planes of her face, that you do not learn the second position after you learn the third?

You gawked at her, eyes bulging out of your sockets. The sucker would have dropped out of your mouth if you’d been sucking on it, which of course you hadn’t, because it was confiscated on your way in. You shut your mouth with a snap, and tried to come up with a response that did not give away the fact that you’d just taken a roll (uncomfortable and awkward) in the gutter.

So, ah, how many do you reckon there are? You know, positions.

Your voice cracked slightly and you wondered if you should go for seriousness to match hers or leer and waggle your eyebrows. But then you remembered how inappropriate that would be (like that has ever stopped you before) so you waggled your eyebrows and leered at the cleavage you know to exist beneath her long tee. A few seconds later you think you really shouldn't have bothered because she said “fifteen” and frowned at your ignorance and she wasn't looking at you anyway.

When you left today you saw the boy with clumpy hair again but recognition was a little slow as all you saw at first were stripes of red and brown and purple all the way up both his arms as Spongebob sang in the background too softly for you to hear.

Kat’s face was pale when she answered the door. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes so puffy and red it wasn’t funny. Her hair was a mess, and her clothes didn’t match. You couldn’t help but think you had failed her miserably. She turned and walked off, leaving the door open. You took the silent invitation and followed her in.

The interior of the apartment gave you the impression that she had been living alone for a while now.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Out,” she said.

It was already dark outside and the heavy drapes kept out what little streetlight there might have been.

“Mind if I, uh, turned on the lights?”

She didn’t reply. You took that as a ‘yes’. You flicked the switch and light flooded the room, highlighting the shadows in the corners. Maybe you should have left them off.

The uneasiness you had felt on your way here did not fade upon seeing her. In fact, it only threatened to reproduce and spew forth little uber-alarms that would not stop ringing. You knew, as soon as you stepped through the door, that whatever happened was Very Bad, and you wondered why she let you in at all, and why you didn’t stop by yesterday. Or the day before that. Something about her right arm did not look right, making your wish for a Distinction suddenly extremely humorous.   You decided then not to ask her why she didn’t turn up for the exam.

The bitter taste of self-loathing was nauseating. You took gulps to swallow it down.

Some things were clearer in the dark.

You went into her room and sat on the ledge by her window. It was box-like, a five-sided box with a see-through face that showed things maybe not supposed to be seen. You sat, backs against opposite sides, toes to toes, knees to knees. You looked down at the view below, a back alley, a fire escape, sheltered in the makeshift cocoon. There was coffee, somehow you had managed to make coffee, and you sipped while you didn’t talk and the steam misted up the windowpanes as the heat pulsated through your fingertips where the mug was gripped so hard you’d expected the blisters to burst and turn into calluses overnight.

There is something to be said about midnight cups of coffee, and the people who drink them. It is, after all, a moronic gesture. Except when you want to keep not sleeping, because there are more pressing issues; and maybe that issue is sleep itself, because with sleep comes growls in dark places and monsters under the bed. And one does not make nice with monsters.

I had a friend once, who played the violin.

You blamed the end of Daylight Saving for the repeated hour and the lack of sun to read her face properly. Lies, you thought. Everything lies, even time. Yellows and oranges and rusty reds turned into browns and grays and black and whites. The dancing stopped, and with it, your attempt to make this into something it’s not.

She should have gone to Julliard.

Are you talking about yourself? You asked, because you were confused.

No, she replied. I wasn't half as good.

So what happened?

There was a pause.

I changed to the flute.

You wanted to grab her and shake her, because this conversation seemed to be changing tracks every few seconds and you had no idea where it was heading (but you knew that would not be the smartest thing to do and if anyone saw they won’t let you back in here with her again) so you busied yourself bouncing your cane up and down and tried to conjure up your Magic 8-Ball by thinking about it really, really hard. And tried to channel Wilson.

(Concentrate and ask again.)

(Fine. OK then.) So, you began.

This friend, mommy and daddy didn't approve of the lifestyle of the starving artist?

(You told yourself that maybe Wilson was having a bad day.)

She shrugged. Then, I don't know, as if the shrugging needed clarification.

So what is she now? A lawyer? An accountant? Doctor?

She shifted slightly, and for the first time since you started talking, looked you in the eye and whispered—so softly you might have missed it—a memory. Her curls were in the way and the light was fading so you shouldn't have been able to tell the difference between an apple and an orange but there was a spark there, a small spark, and you became submerged, once again, in a sea of blue.

How are you today? She asked.

She looks familiar, you thought, and, I’m fine. And to your surprise, you are. At least compared to the days before. Maybe because you could once again close your eyes and hear music—music you hadn’t even realized you’d forgotten until that day—though in fragments and tainted with a coppery taste. Maybe because you saw somebody (her!) cry who was not supposed to; even if the exhilaration you had felt was splashed with guilt from the fact you weren’t supposed to be there. Maybe it was simply because the leaves were still orange. But this is the finest you’ve felt for days. And of course it had nothing at all to do with House.

So you decided to push yourself just that little bit further.

Can we talk? If you have time, that is.

She turned around and sat on the edge of your bed. Of course. And gave you a smile.

You licked your lips, aware that if you said what you wanted to say you might as well be confessing to wandering the halls after hours and that would cost you. But you reminded yourself that you couldn't give a crap if you couldn't see House (Ass) and so you swallowed and decided to go ahead, and that your mouth was NOT dry and your heart was NOT thumping a little too hard and the thought of not seeing the limping twerp did NOT just bring on a sudden onset of migraine.

Everybody lies.

Shut up.

Take a sip of water.

Why were you crying last night?

She turned to look at you, a sudden movement, and you twitched slightly because of it; sat up a little straighter.   How do you know?

You blinked rapidly, once, twice, and wet your lips again. I’m sorry, you said, pulling your knees up towards your chest. I’m sorry, forget it.

She turned back so she was no longer looking at you, and said nothing. So you waited, for the ‘you shouldn't have’, and a minute later, or maybe two, you got a sigh, and a not ‘you shouldn't have’, but a ‘he couldn't eat’.

Couldn't? And your forehead instantly bunched together to form frown lines as something took over and started listing all the possible reasons for inability to consume solid foods and what you could do about it.

Has this been going on long? Is he weak? We should give him an IV. Can we do that here? Will he need to be moved?

And then you stopped, because there were more fundamental questions, like: He? Who? Why?

She turned her face upwards, hands braced on your bed, palms flat.

David. Have you met him? He’s ten. He has severe OCD.

Her eyes closed.

He couldn’t eat, but he was so tired. He wanted to go lie down on his own bed. But he knew he couldn't do that without finishing his lunch first, you know, rules. So he tried, so hard, to finish his lunch and go to bed, but he couldn't, and it was killing him. And he was killing me. We gave up at lights out. It wasn't what he wanted.

Do you ever get tired…you started, then stopped. Do you ever get tired?

All the time. She smiled. Everyday. Sometimes I just want to walk away from it all and tell everyone to go to hell and stop making my job so difficult.

At that, your heart jumped and lodged itself uncomfortably in your esophagus, and you wanted to feel surprised and outraged but found that you couldn't. So you smiled back and told her, I know what you mean.

Have you cried since you’ve been here?

You cocked your head and then shook it. No.

Maybe you should.

You thought about it. Maybe.

On your way out of the office you turned back and picked up the Magic 8-Ball, shoving it deep into your pocket. The heavy weight felt reassuring and for some reason, the lopsidedness of your jacket made you feel alive. As you turned to leave, (again,) you paused and caught sight of your reflection in the glass walls of your office. (GREGORY HOUSE, M.D.) You wondered if this was what it felt like to look into the Mirror of Erised, though of course you had no idea what that was (or the boy who didn’t die and had a name that rhymed with ‘rotter’). You wondered if the kid with the scratches had a jacket to cover his arms today. You wondered if there is a possibility you have more hair than he does. You wondered if you’d be happy if you do.

The cat was nowhere to be seen that night, when you finally got home. You felt a little something tug at your heart that was definitely not disappointment. You went inside and sat down at your piano, fingers resting lightly on the keys. Gekkou flowed through your mind and through the windows, and you played the first few bars without meaning to.

Konna mono no tame ni umaretan ja nai.

This is not why I was born.

Hitomi? Does it hurt?

Of course it does. It’s supposed to. It’s also supposed to heal. But how can it heal if it was never bleeding in the first place, right?

Right, you said. Chicken and the egg.

And she beamed at you. Exactly.

I am God’s child, and you thought of Cuddy, all sparkles and brilliant blue in the moonlight, clacking after you in the staccato of her 3-inch heels and too-tight skirts. What happened to the egg, Cuddy? Did it fall?   (Set down upon this decayed Earth.)

How do I live on such a field?

Apostrophe

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 17:44:34 GMT

I don't do fandom. No, I don't. I mean, ok, I'm rolling around in it and all covered (gladly) in its schmuck, but I don't do fandom. Not because I don't want to, but because I can't. i don't know why. Seriously, whenever I think about laying my hands of doom on it my mind just slams on the proverbial brakes and then combusts or something. Having said that, I do feel guilty sitting back and drooling over everyone's wonderful work without making any contributions of my own except for the occasional comment of no worth.

So here it is. Because I want to know what happened to Cuddy when she was twelve that made her start lying to her mother and want to be a doctor. (And I post this with excess trembling and nail-biting because the talent in this fandom boggles the mind.)

Title: Apostrophe

Characters: House, Cuddy
Pairing: Gen (?)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: (Stay. Fight. Live. Don’t fall.)
Disclaimer: Disclaimed.
A/N: Unfinished, unbetaed, with a lack of quotation marks, total abuse of parentheses and weird switches in perspective that only get worse. My first foray into second person (after prologue). Concrit very welcome and much desired.

- - - - -

Hey diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed
To see such fun
And the dish ran away with the spoon

(Stay. Fight. Live. Don’t fall.)

She looked at me with sadness in her eyes that trickled with a sliver of bewilderment. I don’t want to fall, she said. I want to feel the ground beneath my feet, the wind in my hair. I want to be able to cry and know for a fact that my face is wet. Not for me, not anymore. I don’t want to cry for me anymore.

I told her that sometimes it was ok to slip, just a little; a misplaced step on a narrow ledge. That when you slip, just sometimes, once in a while, you catch yourself before the fall and it does not really happen, the falling that is.

She blinked.

And sometimes, I said, sometimes there is a net at the bottom, a net that catches you in an undignified heap when you plummet, so it does not really matter, you know, if your reflexes are just that tad bit out of order and instead of fight—or flight—it tells you to fly instead. But you can’t really fly, can you, she asked. You can’t fly if you’re not Icarus. And anyway—there was a pause and maybe the subtlest of whispers: or is it the leaves—Icarus fell. He didn’t have a net, I said. But it should not have mattered, and her hair wrapped itself around her ears and cheeks and caught in her lashes; he had wings.

And I didn’t know what to say to that.

(Stay. Fight. Live. Don’t fall.)

And so she jumped. Not fall, she said, with smiles like sunshine and puppies. I don’t want to fall. And so I watched Icarus, as he—she—didn’t fall, and I smiled also, like moonbeam and kittens, and said I’d be her wings, and it’ll be ok, sometimes, to slip a little, because I’ll catch you, I said, don’t worry. Remember the net, I added, even if the wings don’t work. Remember the net.

But you never see that net, when you take off, it’s too far down, and the depth is too dark, and the wings will only take you to the sun. And then it comes to you, almost as an afterthought, almost, but not, not really, for it’s probably been there all along, like the way you knew the wax would melt, and the thought that comes after but was there before is no longer thought but fact that the net has holes. And then you start laughing, because it is all so ironic, because you were never Icarus in the first place, were you, and there were never any wings; and I cast the net, but I shouldn’t have bothered, should I, because the net had holes.

And so she didn’t want to fall. And I didn’t want to see her fall, but I told her that, sometimes, it was ok to slip, just a little. And the net was really there, like I said it would be, but it didn’t work.

So she fell anyway.

And I cried for her.

The Cat

The trees on both sides of the street seemed to have turned orange overnight. Either that or you have been extremely oblivious to the changing of the seasons. You pulled your coat tighter against yourself, and were surprised when the wind sifted through your hair and chilled your scalp. A black cat, seemingly out of nowhere—or was that another sign of your failing perceptions—jumped onto the low brick wall in front of you and started to purr. As you stared into its blue eyes, you wondered if this was a bad omen or a good one and you shook your head to clear the sea that had crept into your subconscious to stop yourself from drowning. You reminded yourself, that while scratching a black cat behind the ears was all very well and comforting, you had a cab to catch (you’d left your bike), and somewhere to be. And as that thought formed, the cat seemed to sense your ambivalence and left, disappearing into the approaching night. It seemed to happen in a blink, and as your eyelids fluttered you were left wondering if the cat was ever there at all; though the fallen apple that now rolled a little ways onto the gravel gave indication that maybe you weren’t so out of it, not this time.

The tip of your thumb brushed over the pads of your fingertips in memory of the soft fur that was there a few moments ago.

How are you today? She asked. She made a mark on a clipboard that she always carries, all the time, scribbling numbers and big words that held no meaning. Not to you, anyway. You saw the branches shake outside the window and watched the leaves fall, marveling at the blanket of bronze that shone. It looks so comfortable, you thought, and edged closer. Or you started to, and then found that you couldn’t. You frowned. This shouldn’t have happened, shouldn’t be happening.

Not when the leaves are falling so beautifully.

The window displays were filled with Halloween themes; full of jack o’lanterns and bats. The department stores and supermarkets were having a blast with last minutes sales of chocolates and masks and costumes. Orange, you discovered, was everywhere. Even on the asphalt, with imprints of leaves plastered by the heavy rain that fell during the night, or so you think, as you faintly recall the splattering outside your window when you were, couldn’t, sleep. The orangeness was fading under all the passing feet and rolling wheels. Soon, there will be nothing but skeletons left. That made you feel sad, somehow.

You remember—while watching the people hurry past your bus window—when you were nine, and went Trick-or-Treating for the first and only time in your life. You were a vampire in a group of witches. There was nothing better that night, than the giddiness when you got your first chocolate bar or the raspberry you blew into some cranky old bastard’s intercom because he had told you and your friends to bugger off. Did he not know Halloween belonged to the kids? “Blow him a raspberry,” Hitomi’s mom had said. So she blew the biggest raspberry you had ever heard and you joined in even though you couldn’t stop laughing at the spittle that was flying out from her mouth.

And you wonder what the black cat is doing now.

Time for dinner, she said. But you’re not hungry. You rarely are, these days. In fact, you can hardly remember what hungry means. She cut the chicken into smaller pieces, and you felt nauseated. You tried to remember if it was because you are a vegetarian, but you are almost certain that you’re not.

She hasn't been eating, Wilson said.
I know, you replied. What are you gonna do about it?
Wilson stared at you like you’d just sprouted chicken wings.
Here’s a thought, why don’t you do something about it?
You shrugged, because it seemed appropriate.
I already am.

You turned and walked into the conference room, leaving Wilson, boy, in your office, in some state or another. (Not now, Wilson.) You didn't bother looking back to check. (No time, Wilson.) You slapped your cane onto the table, and the little gnome with the funny hat living inside your heart—yes, it exists—danced a little jig at Kutner’s nervous twitch that he tried to cover up by sticking the pencil back behind his ear.

“Thirteen,” you called, just a little louder than necessary.

“Look after my markers. See that Kutner doesn’t use them to get high. And stay away from Cameron, all of you.”

How are you today? They asked. Not just her, no, today there was more than one. The Clipboard, and the White Coat. Stethoscope? Maybe. You couldn’t be sure. In fact, you tried to think back to the last time you had seen a stethoscope, and you couldn’t remember, not exactly. You think it may have been just before…what exactly?

Your head hurt.

You wondered why.

It rained that day.

A faint drizzle that caught around your face like cobwebs, silky strands tangling in your hair (reaching in through the tiny gap differentiating your helmet and you) as you sped along the road. Past pins and needles, past numb. Past the cold seeping into your nail beds (gloves?) and the condensation of the mist-like vapours behind the visor (lifted) as they fell through the slits between your lashes and onto your cheek.

The rain. It was everywhere.

You rode a bit faster, regardless. Your One Hour will start in twenty minutes, and Wilson had held you back for five.

You saw a woman—she has a clipboard too, you reminded yourself, even though it was a different one—crying in one of the lounges way after you should have been in bed. This is not right, you thought. People with clipboards didn’t cry. Crying was what happened to the girl who sleeps in the bedroom next to yours, the one who wears a gown just like the one you have with a sash around the waist that you always forgot to tie. Crying was what happened to the people you sat in a circle with in plastic chairs you couldn’t get up from however hard you tried. Crying was what happened to people with wristbands.

You have a wristband too. (And you tried to dismiss that voice.) Not clipboards (and you shook your head). People with clipboards didn’t cry. But this one is, you said to yourself. She’s crying. And so you went back to bed, quiet as a mouse (you wouldn’t want to get caught) after your little walk because you can’t sleep, (and it was one of the good days because you managed to find your way back) and thought about the woman with a clipboard that was crying and why. And when you happened to look outside the window, you noticed that there were less leaves on the branches than the last time you looked and you couldn’t be sure if they were still orange because it was too dark and everything was in shades of grey.

Suddenly, nothing was more important to you than making sure that the leaves hanging on the branch outside your window were in fact, still orange.

The nurse at the reception desk showed you in, frowning at the way you drip, drip, dripped all over the linoleum floor. You pretended not to notice. She led you down the hallway into one of the big rooms with a TV and sofas. (Always the same one, you know your way by now.) You stopped next to one with big throw cushions.

She’ll be out in a minute.
I know.
Please, take a seat. (You already have.)

You let your eyes wander around the room—walls, people, clock (15:58), people (kid crying, fat tears falling into his lunch tray). Lunch? (Sandwiches, juice, a banana.) Yes, it was lunch. A woman (white coat, clipboard; next to him) trying to get him to eat something, anything. Come on, you can do it. No worries, it’ll be okay.

Noitwon’titwon’titneverwillbeeveragain and Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t and you think how wrong this all is, this room, this place, and the smile on that woman’s face as she watched him (not) eat. You wiped your hands on your jeans and swallowed (too dry) and told your heart to shut up (too loud) and looked back at the wall, the clock (15.59) and the boy who must be so tired from all the crying.

There was this one time, when you were a kid, bigger than a nine-year-old vampire, but a kid nonetheless, and you stayed over at a friend’s (Hitomi’s) house because you really didn't feel like sleeping in your own bed. Still, you didn't sleep any better than any other night when you had shivered under your covers and pretended not to cry, so you went to get a drink from the kitchen. Turning on the light, you noticed a picture done in charcoal stuck to the fridge door. You went closer for a better look. It was the picture of a foetus, but mummified, and instead of the umbilical cord, it had a single stemmed rose growing out of its midsection. The flower had wrapped itself around the foetus and was somehow sucking it dry through its thorns while the rose petals spread to form the amniotic sac. You were so fascinated by the picture that you failed to notice your friend (Hitomi) walk up behind you.

Her arm shot out from under yours to tug the picture off the fridge door then started to fiddle around the drawers for a piece of charcoal that had no right to being there. She came up with a fruit knife instead.

“Aha.”

She bent stiffly over the dining table where she had laid her picture and before you knew it, the foetus, the rose and the thorns had all disappeared into a sea of red. She mussed it a little with her fingers and came up with a smudged effect. Satisfied, she turned back to you and held the picture to your face.

“God is dead.”

The muscles between your brows bunched together to form a frown.

“So Nietzsche says.”

“I didn’t ruin my picture.”

She stared at you with the blackest eyes, and you felt as if you were being sucked into their depths. The lack of whites around her irises was uncomfortably discerning. You saw yourself, staring back.

And you saw God.

And you saw that he was dead.

So you said to her, “No, you didn’t.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and they took on a mischievous glint.

“Cool, huh.”

You couldn’t help but agree.

A few days later you moved to Japan and didn’t think about Hitomi again until your fingers brushed against fur and you saw nothing but blue.

You were in a plastic chair again today, in that circle where people were sent to talk. You never did talk, because you never quite knew what they were talking—humming—about. You tried to listen, a few times, but it just didn’t work. You would get tired, then feel dizzy. So it was easier to simply let yourself be wheeled there, then sit like a good girl for the hour, or two, or three. And if you were lucky, nobody would ever know you didn’t have a clue what all that humming—speaking—was, and you would then be taken back to your room where you didn’t have to sit on the chair anymore.

This is, of course, when you were lucky.

Then there were also days like today, when you still didn’t know what they were humming—talking—about, but then some guy with a clipboard (there is always a guy with a clipboard) started passing round this picture and it landed on your lap as you sat on the chair and couldn’t move. And so you lifted your hand to pass it to the next person, (it seemed the right thing to do,) but before you could drop the thing (because it burned you somehow), you caught a sight of it and saw that it was a picture of somebody’s (his) cat (child).

And you promptly threw up all over yourself.

And the chair.

And the cat that wasn’t.

You again.

You prodded the trashcan by the door of your apartment with your cane, watching as it made clanking noises and wobbled slightly. The black cat continued with its face washing on your front doorstep, unperturbed.

I don't have anything to feed you, so out of my way.

The cat gave a few more swipes to its ear then looked up at you with an expression that seemed to say it was not the least bit interested in your stale pizza or jelly—you’d run out of peanut butter—it had better taste buds thank you very much. You raised your cane again and jabbed the rubber tip at the cat, halting one inch (barely) in front of its nose (and it didn't even flinch).

I’m not an ear-scratcher. That other day was a temporary lapse of judgment, now scat.

The cat stood up on all fours and arched its back in a stretch. It gave you one last, very long (very blue) look then leapt on the trashcan and out of sight. You gave a disgruntled snort, and couldn't help but feel you’d just been beaten by a feline in a competition you weren’t aware you were having.

You went inside, shut the door behind you, and slumped back onto the couch with a sigh and took a swig of cold beer, rubbing your thumb along the bottleneck and feeling the dribble of cold sweat soak into your jeans where the bottle was rested.   And you tried to blink away the sensation of soft fur (that you’d forgotten already) against calloused fingertips.