misanthrope_md | for Phedre

House was starting to wish that Phedre wouldn't come. It was a terrible idea, suggesting that she look after him while he was detoxing. He didn't know what he'd been thinking... oh, right, he was stoned at the time. All he had to do was suck it up for a few days. If he could get through the worst of it, then he could at least make his way to the compound for food.

He'd told her that it would start when the island changed back, but in reality it had been a couple of days before that since the last time he'd been to the opium den. He'd woken up itching for a fix, only to realize that he was in his own bed again. He'd felt like sobbing.

Now, a day later, he could tick off the symptoms, the ones that he'd told Phedre to look up: watery eyes, runny nose, dilated pupils, loss of appetite, panic attacks, chills, nausea, muscle cramps, insomnia, stomach cramps, vomiting, shaking, sweating. And of course, the normal pain in his leg was magnified by about five, maybe ten times. He could barely move.

He was dreading that she would come. Praying that she would. No, no, she didn't need to see this, no one should see this. It was his own goddamn fault. Clad in pajama pants and a tshirt, he sprawled on the bed with the sheets tangled around him. Fucker was barking at the door. Oh right, House had left him outside. That was better.

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House let his eyes close for a moment, and then finally nodded. "Okay. Sure. I should warn you it's not really pretty but you probably already guessed that."

"And I have told you, I've seen terrible things in my life. I will survive this."

I slid off the bed and went back to my bags. There was some massage oil there that I had found at home. Undoubtedly Alcuin's but I was certain that he wouldn't mind. It had a pleasing, calming scent and I hoped that it would help relax him. Aside from keeping him as pain-free as possible, making sure that he's eating and drinking, I had few ideas of how to help him through this.

"You'll need to remove your pants."

"What, no foreplay?" House managed the joke pretty weakly as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his pants and pulled them down. He was wearing boxers underneath, but they just barely covered the ruin of his right thigh, scar tissue mottled where the muscle had been removed. He winced.

"Not this time, Greg." I chuckled as I brought the oil over and joined him on the bed, examining the leg closely and schooling my expression. It truly looked painful, but no more so then the wounds of soldiers I'd seen on the battlefield. Just as they had to endure in order to live, so must had Greg.

"How did this happen, if you don't mind my asking?" I poured a little of the oil into my hand to warm before I began to work on the abused limb.

House looked at the ceiling, not wanting to watch her.

"Infarction," he said, voice clinical. "Blood clot. Undiagnosed, for three days... by that time there was too much dead muscle. They wanted to amputate my leg, I wouldn't let them, this was the compromise, though not one I agreed to."

I didn't understand most of the terms he used, but is sounded familiar enough. A wound, left untreated, resulted in rotting tissue that had to be removed. I'd seen enough soldiers face amputation to understand that much.

I started slowly, not wanting to cause more pain in my attempts to relieve it, gently finding my way in the unfamiliar landscape of his remaining muscles. "Why did you not agree to it? If you would have died, was this not the only remaining option?"

House was clearly tense as soon as her hands went to his leg. Which he knew was more psychological than due to the pain, so he just took a breath and kept looking up at the ceiling.

"I've never been one for compromise," he said, which he knew was not a good answer, but it was the one he had. "Someone else made the decision for me, in the end, when I was in a coma. I was... on Vicodin - it's an opiate - at home. It kept me able to function. Here... here, it's been miserable. I've been through this more than once because when I can find drugs, I take them. Every time it seems like it'll be worth this, just for some amount of relief."

As my hand moved slowly over his ruined leg, I couldn't help but wonder. "Might I ask, if this causes you so much anguish, if it causes you to do this to yourself over and over..." I paused, hands stilling for the briefest moment. "Why do you keep the leg? I've seen a man here, who's had his removed and while it is difficult he has a replacement of sorts. He can move so well as I didn't notice it at first. Does the pain mean that much to you?"

"I like my leg," House said, a note of insistence in his voice. "I've had it as long as I can remember."

Then he swallowed hard and added, "Besides, it doesn't matter here. There isn't the kind of technology available for a decent prosthetic. And I've been living with this now for a decade."

"Does it matter? There are scientists on the island who have created marvelous things so I hear. Ones who understand engineering, medicine, and things do have the habit of showing up. you say that, but have you really explored the option?"

I let my fingers dig a little deeper, looking for the knots in the stressed muscles. "I understand the need for pain, you know I do. The reminder that we live, that we exist, that we feel. But the ending of that pain is a reward of its own. There's no shame in admitting you've had enough, you need it to stop. There are some pains even I can't take for long." The image of the Mahgrkagir's little toys and how they made me scream, begging for mercy in a game in which I knew there was none to be had made me shiver a bit as I spoke. "You have the option of ending yours."

House looked at her sharply. "I don't need the pain," he said. "And I don't want it. I never have. If there was an actual way to end it, I would. Cutting off my leg is not an option, especially not here."

He felt a wave of nausea and closed his eyes again with a moan.

Yet he clung to it like a child, his pain, used it to excuse everything he was suffering now, every action that led to this moment. And he would do it again, I had no doubt. Perhaps it was too late for him, the had lost the hope and stayed in the darkness inside himself. There were those like that, I knew full well.

"Greg?" His moan pulled me from my reverie and I paused, looking to the side for a bucket in case he should need one. It was a difficult and painful process, weaning oneself from these drugs. I had seen those that had killed themselves rather than face it.

"Phedre." Suddenly House grasped her hand, an almost pleading expression on his face.

"Thank you."

Leaning forward, I pressed his hand to my lips. "It will get better. Just a few days and you'll be right again." As right as right was for him at any rate. He worried me in a way I couldn't define, perhaps didn't want to, but for now all I could do was stay with him, try to ease his pain as best I could.

House relaxed a little, and closed his eyes as he waited for the nausea to pass.

"Right is an interesting word for it," he mumbled.

for Phedre

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