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Days blurred together.
The acidic burn in the back of my throat and the burning sensation of fabric rubbing against the parted skin became an anchor.
Everything is too much. Others. The world. My own existence.
Their faces keep twisting in worry. Their mouths are moving, probably requesting any kind of explanation. I can't hear them. I can't really see them. I know they're there,but I can't make them out. It all just swirls together into a spiral of colors,until everything turns black.
I can feel hands on me.
Sometimes they're on my face,light,as if afraid that too much pressure would cause me to shatter into pieces.
Other times, they're on my shoulders,and I can feel the tremors that wrack his body,as he begs me for answers.
I try to focus on his face,and I see how tears roll down his cheeks, before it's all gone again.
Then there are times when they're on my chest, pushing down,over and over again, occasionally reaching for my neck.
Sometimes, one is shoved into my mouth, fingers down my throat,as the acid and bile covers them. And then I look down,watching them shake.
They're noticing.
Foreman, Chase, and Cameron try to solve the cases on their own.
Cuddy doesn't comment on my appearance or lack of presence in clinic hours anymore.
Wilson...
He's always there. Watching me. Talking. Touching. I know he was just trying to make me feel better,to help.
It started as little favors. Coffee by my desk. A granola bar here,a sandwich there.
Then it got worse. He was always by my side. Gripping my forearm,nails reopening the barely scabbed over wounds. I welcomed the pain.
He started coming to my place. And soon,short visits turned into a permanent stay.
What's wrong?
That's what they keep asking despite me never answering.
And how am I supposed to tell them,if I don't know myself?
I can't recognize the person in the mirror.
My name Is Gregory House.
I work at Princeton -Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as head of diagnostics.
I can't recall anything else.