So This is Your Scrap of Dignity Part X
Author’s Note: Sorry for the wait. Last chappie. Thank you for the beta, Marti!
And this is how the world ends…
--TS Eliot, The Hollow Man
And so it goes. They dance and sing and their movement flows-together, separate, once more with passion. Down, down they spiral…where they stop, no one knows!
“Your view of the world is warped,” House tells Cameron, as they speed along (past trees, past houses, past happy families.)
“And yours isn’t?”
They both rely on their clouded visions-delusions and insinuations.
“The world view is subjective. Get your head out of your ass-nothing in this world is ever objective.”
(But isn’t love clean cut and full? Yes, of course, after it burns and scorches all that’s in its way-subjectivity and objectivity and cavities full of blood-beating veins and pulsing heart.)
She’s quiet now, because the dirty window beckons to be watched. He traces the patterns of dust and dirt in the side of her neck, mimicking the window, mocking the glass.
“Stop touching me.”
(Commands and retorts and similes and metaphors all somehow blend together. She and he disband their alliance against invisible foes and difficult deities because permanence is a word that they’ve long ago chosen to ignore.)
“What if I don’t want to?”
(And it’s a hand to her cheekbone, brushing blush, spreading shadows-down her face, across her forehand-it’s his hand, her face, time and space.)
She turns her head and his hand stops moving. She’s staring at him with tears in her eyes (and there aren’t any tissues available, so he does the decent thing and wipes them away. Because she wants him to stop touching her and he doesn’t like to listen to people.)
“Then don’t.”
So he does. She bows her head and he takes a bow. When she looks up, her eyes tear into his, ripping them apart, showing every bit of hatred, every bit of love, every bit of confusion that is skipping through her mind. He wishes he were blind. It’s his turn to turn his head and gaze out the window.
(Happy families are lies, he thinks.)
“Coward,” she enunciates the two syllables with clear perfection.
“And you’re an idiot, Cameron. You think I’ll propose to you in the midst of flowers and marry you in Paris. You think we’ll live happily ever after with a picket fence, three kids, and a dog. You think that when we’re old-when you’re old, because I already am-you think that you’ll take care of me and nurse me when I’m sick. You think, Cameron, you wish.”
(And they rush by these buildings, edifices in which they normally hide. Bricks and glass and steel-Superman couldn’t see through lead and they can’t see their emotions through building materials.)
“That was Stacy’s dream not mine, and don’t you dare confuse me and her because I am not like that!” She speaks in bitter tones and House looks at her now because she’s going to tunnel through his head with her eyes.
“Because you stayed with a man who was going to die? Didn’t he want to die? Didn’t it get too much for him? Didn’t he just hate you? Didn’t he hate the pity that you looked at him with? Didn’t he just want to kill you when you made all the decisions? Been there. Hated Stacy. And I’m starting to hate you.”
“If you’re starting to hate me, you must have liked me at some point. Hate materializes only in the absence of love.”
(The cab driver listens to the conversation and shakes his head every once and a while. He needs a new profession.)
House scowls at her and sees a car behind them. Cuddy’s Lexus he knows.
“Cuddy’s following us.”
“What?” Cameron gasps and turns around.
Behind them is Cuddy and Wilson trailing them, watching them, waiting for them. Cameron turns around again and slumps into the seat. There only needed to be two (three) witnesses to this melodrama-she and House (and the taxi driver.)
“What should we do?”
(Because she is, anatomically, a woman and thus it’s up to her to let the man save the day and gain the glory and the fame because the world’s a screwed up place. Men are the ones in the shining armor and the woman wear long and frilly dresses. Stereotypes remain the same.)
“Lose them and then drop you off. Mr. Driver, that Lexus back there is trailing us. I’d be most appreciative if you took some really crafty turns and lost them as you now take us to 80 Lafayette Street.”
The driver glances back at House who is leaning forward in the seat. Cameron is seated with her arms crossed looking sullenly at House.
“Gonna cost ya.”
House turns his attention to his pocket and withdraws a crisp, hundred-dollar bill.
(Ben Franklin made a name for himself in Philadelphia. Greg House’s legacy resides in Princeton.)
“Will Mr. Franklin work?”
(Asshole, the driver thinks.)
“You’ll pay the tab. If it’s a hundred bucks, then, yeah, Mr. Franklin will be fine.”
“Good,” House says and leans back into the seat.
“Is civility such a hard concept for you?” Cameron asks.
“Is having a backbone a hard concept for you?”
“Wilson’s in the car with Cuddy,” she states blandly and once again turns her head.
(Marriage is symbolized by gold bands and engagement rings studded with diamonds. Shame such a strong material is so soft.)
“Good for him. Maybe he’ll get laid tonight. He’s a big breast man, that Wilson. That’s why I just can’t believe he flirts with you.”
She slaps him. He deserves it.
“I think we lost them,” the driver declares.
(He won’t take them to the hospital. He’s so not in the mood for fighting spouses; he’s never seen a man be slapped before. This is a first. Perhaps he doesn’t need a new job…)
“Great. Nice job. Your tip went up.”
The taxi cab driver speeds up and Cameron clutches at the strap hanging from the ceiling and he clutches to her. His mouth moves to her ear and he tugs on her earlobe with his mouth.
(Sex is power and money is power. Power is money and power is sex. Such a strange word-power. Such a strange word for such a strange idea.)
She gasps and she’s all his now. The bag that she’s been carrying all day is curled in her lap and he slips his hand between her legs to remove it. He leans back against the seat and as he does, Cameron leaps across him to grab at the plastic, but it’s no use. He peaks inside.
“Ben and Jerry’s? Did you know this wasn’t going to end well? You know, if I had known you had ice cream I would have hurried this little escapade up. I’m not a complete bastard.”
“Give me my bag,” she hisses.
“Aw, you’re not any fun. Bet you’re terrible in bed. Can’t believe Chase ever found you interesting enough to screw.”
“Shut up,” she says and grabs the bag. The taxi comes to a stop.
“We’re here. Tab is $45,” the man tells House.
House flings the hundred-dollar bill at him and grabs Cameron’s wrist, dragging her out of the car.
“Keep the change.”
(The driver knows he should stay and make sure neither one hurts the other, but somewhere in the hundred dollars of cash he’s just received is the motto stay quiet.)
“Thanks,” he says instead and drives off.
They stand side-by-side for a moment and he flings her wrist from his grasp. She totters and almost falls to the ground. He stands there and then he hears a cell phone ring.
(He hates telephones.)
She looks offended. She’s a woman and she’s weak and she’s supposed to look like this-helpless.
“You wanted me to fall,” she whispers as she holds her wrist close to her body. It’s been chafed by the contact with his skin-more chafed than it ever was by the plastic bag.
“Yes.”
(Declarations and long-winded statements-emotions persist and sometimes it’s not simple enough to just want to exist.)
They stand there now. There are tides, ebbs, and spider webs. He slings glances; she shoots looks. Caught in between ephemeral and evanescent, they know the time but question the end.
Emotions ricochet through their minds-cold, empty, and fake. They’re two people-hes and shes permeate history. This is Puccini’s greatest opera, Mozart’s best sonata-life and love and the empty spaces they yearn to fill in between. Take me to the moon-land me on a star. This is nothing they’ve ever known. It’s everything they’ve suspected. Pins and voo-doo dolls-cells and tissues-the things they do to make themselves human. Scars abound on his liver; they criss-cross like valleys over pink mountains. They live-they die. The acts balance themselves, but no one’s ever sure how “the end” is a fair trade off for breathing. They’ll fall down until they fly-they’ll rise until their wings stop their tremulous pattering. Things in abstract and ideas in concrete blur themselves in funny contrasts. Laugh and cry, wipe and dry. They’ll live again some other day.
“I hate you,” she says.
He looks at her and starts walking away.
“So this is your scrap of dignity?” she shouts as he retreats. He waves no white flag. He walks with a purposeful stride.
“Yes it is! This is my scrap of dignity. You own all the rest. Keep tearing me limb from limb, muscle from muscle and there’ll be nothing left,” he shouts and the sentiment carries on the wind back to her. She cannot kill this messenger.
(It’s the first question he’s answered all night.)
He leaves and she dissolves. There are pieces of her that he covets and there are pieces of him that she clasps. They’ll never be whole unless they come together. But they’re two puzzle pieces soaked too long in water-their ends are no long crisp and neat and their shapes are cleverly distorted. Some puzzles never ask to be solved.
(And, as they retreat, two telephones start to speak...)
END