Greg House had clearly made up his mind about one thing: God made sand to mock the crippled.
My ideal beach, he thought bitterly to himself as he stumbled over yet another dip in the sand, is grass that goes right down to the water. Where there's no need to look like a cinnamon donut every time you lather your body up with suntan oil just before a mini sandstorm hits the beach. What kind of a moron is God to make something like sand, anyway?
With each trudged, stumbled step he took, he could hear the faint rattling of the last four remaining Vicodin pills in the pill vial, in his pocket. Step-step, rattle, step-step, rattle. Like each step he was taking -- each pained step he was taking -- was reminding him of the fact that he was screwed once the last of said four pills made it into his mouth. Which was going to be within the next twenty-four hours. And then what? Then what the hell was he going to do?
Not that House was on a mission to score himself some other means of pain medication. Not yet, anyway. No, the only thing that helped somewhat with the pain in his thigh was walking; walking the pain out, keeping his leg moving because if he kept still, the pain seemed to radiate and resonate through his thigh at a much louder and fiercer level.
Scarring from the surgery was minimal, that jackass of a so-called psychic -- what was his name? Kid? Scott? Who damn well cared about his name; ‘kid’ would do -- had told him. Minimal. As though all the pain he was feeling and the entire infarction -- the four-day blockage he’d endured in the lateral circumflex femoral artery, and the extensive muscular debridement he’d gone through as a result of that -- was nothing but a joke. Like it was all in his head.
He’d been so focused on trying to keep his balance, keeping his eyes trained to the ground as he hobbled along with his cane, that he didn’t really notice Sawyer or the other lady. Well, not until he’d got near enough. Thoughts of how much of a jackass God was for making sand, and how much better the world would be if House ran it, were keeping House occupied. That, and the chronic pain in his right thigh. And the sound of the pills rattling. Though, he just happened to look up, happened to see the darkened outlines of Sawyer and the woman discussing something before they both evidently decided to head towards the jungle.
Well, well, what have we here?
Because House wasn’t one to care about drawing attention to himself (unless he was trying to be stealthy), he stopped in his tracks and opened his mouth, and announced loudly and cynically, “You don’t happen to know if there’s a drugstore down in the direction that you’re heading, do you?”
[OOC: Eek, I hope I'm doing this right. Feel free to, you know, slap me into line if I'm doing anything wrong here.]
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
[House] God made sand to mock the crippled (tag open)
Date: 2006-07-26 12:53 pm (UTC)My ideal beach, he thought bitterly to himself as he stumbled over yet another dip in the sand, is grass that goes right down to the water. Where there's no need to look like a cinnamon donut every time you lather your body up with suntan oil just before a mini sandstorm hits the beach. What kind of a moron is God to make something like sand, anyway?
With each trudged, stumbled step he took, he could hear the faint rattling of the last four remaining Vicodin pills in the pill vial, in his pocket. Step-step, rattle, step-step, rattle. Like each step he was taking -- each pained step he was taking -- was reminding him of the fact that he was screwed once the last of said four pills made it into his mouth. Which was going to be within the next twenty-four hours. And then what? Then what the hell was he going to do?
Not that House was on a mission to score himself some other means of pain medication. Not yet, anyway. No, the only thing that helped somewhat with the pain in his thigh was walking; walking the pain out, keeping his leg moving because if he kept still, the pain seemed to radiate and resonate through his thigh at a much louder and fiercer level.
Scarring from the surgery was minimal, that jackass of a so-called psychic -- what was his name? Kid? Scott? Who damn well cared about his name; ‘kid’ would do -- had told him. Minimal. As though all the pain he was feeling and the entire infarction -- the four-day blockage he’d endured in the lateral circumflex femoral artery, and the extensive muscular debridement he’d gone through as a result of that -- was nothing but a joke. Like it was all in his head.
He’d been so focused on trying to keep his balance, keeping his eyes trained to the ground as he hobbled along with his cane, that he didn’t really notice Sawyer or the other lady. Well, not until he’d got near enough. Thoughts of how much of a jackass God was for making sand, and how much better the world would be if House ran it, were keeping House occupied. That, and the chronic pain in his right thigh. And the sound of the pills rattling. Though, he just happened to look up, happened to see the darkened outlines of Sawyer and the woman discussing something before they both evidently decided to head towards the jungle.
Well, well, what have we here?
Because House wasn’t one to care about drawing attention to himself (unless he was trying to be stealthy), he stopped in his tracks and opened his mouth, and announced loudly and cynically, “You don’t happen to know if there’s a drugstore down in the direction that you’re heading, do you?”
[OOC: Eek, I hope I'm doing this right. Feel free to, you know, slap me into line if I'm doing anything wrong here.]