You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave
House stood in the corner of the betting agency, staring up at the TV screens which were showing the latest jockey race in progress. Race number 9; he’d placed a bet on horse number 7, Peals of Laughter. He had the ticket in his pocket and a foot-long hotdog in his hand which he’d barely eaten. By the end of the race his so-called freedom was probably going to be over. It was approaching the twenty-four hour mark with less than half an hour to go and House wasn’t sure whether he was glad that he was going back or terrified.
He didn’t know what to expect by returning home, but one thing he hadn’t anticipated was the state of his apartment when he got there. He arrived by cab, seeing his bike was… he had no idea where his bike had got to. And when he got out of the cab he saw a large ‘For Sale’ sign up outside his apartment.
That was absurd, he’d though to himself. His apartment was up for sale after only being away for a couple of few weeks? Except it wasn’t a couple of weeks -- he’d picked up one of the newspapers left on the stoop and looked at the date. Two months had passed. Two whole months.
After staring at the date for a long moment, he discarded the paper and tried to get into his apartment but discovered that the locks had been changed, which probably meant that all his belongings had been moved out. By whom, he had no idea. And where to, he also had no idea. But after wrestling with his key, trying to get it to turn the lock and angrily kicking the door with his foot in defeat when he resigned himself to the fact that it was useless, he stood on the footpath for a while, just gazing up at the ‘For Sale’ sign. There were only two things in this world that gave him security, and that was his home and his job. And he’d lost his home. Which meant…
He’d caught a cab to the hospital, and he honestly didn’t know what he was going to find when he got there. A part of him hoped that walking into the hospital would bring about some kind of time warp and he’d wind up back where he belonged, with people he recognised, his name still on the office door and his belongings in his office. Except, when he got into the hospital, the first thing he discovered was that Cuddy’s name was no longer on her office door, and it was with a great feeling of dread that he ventured up to the fourth floor to the diagnostics department.
House stood outside what was once his office, staring at the door. His name had been removed, leaving just an empty space on the glass. None of his things were in his office, save for his desk and the computer, both of which were hospital property, not his. From what House could work out, Foreman was in charge of the department until they found someone new to take over permanently. Cuddy had been right, god damn her. House didn’t stick around to see if the other two were still working there -- he left the hospital quickly, and ended up wandering to the park where he sat down and watched the people jogging and walking with their partners and kids.
A deep, unsettling feeling of panic quietly crept in on him -- he’d lost his home and his job; the two things that kept him going. He was going to be fifty years old in a few years, he was crippled, he had nothing in his life except his home and his job, and he’d returned home from the Hotel to discover he had nothing at all. Along with the feeling of panic came a deep feeling of despair. It was almost overwhelming. House left the park before he became too overwhelmed by his thoughts and sought to try and occupy himself.
Except he didn’t know where to go. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere he wanted to go, anyway. The only place he had left to go was his parents’, and he didn’t really want to go there, particularly seeing they were all the way up in Ohio. A few times he almost pulled out his cell phone to ring them, but opted out at the last moment. He called them so little that there was every bit the chance that they treated his disappearance as a kind of boy who cried wolf act. Then again, it was probably them, as his next of kin, who shut his apartment down. So, maybe they assumed that he was dead. Or maybe… He didn’t know. Cuddy was right in the fact that he always pushed his parents away, and he wasn’t about to start embracing them now. What would be the point? They were probably grieving if they did think he was dead, and he’d never see them again after these twenty four hours was up, anyway. So, perhaps it was best to just let them carry on thinking whatever they made of his disappearance.
That didn’t make him feel any better, though. It made him feel extremely insignificant. Who else was there that would care that he’d gone? Cameron, no doubt; the perpetual bleeding heart that she was. And, for a moment, House entertained the idea of phoning her up. But he didn’t -- the last thing he wanted was Cameron making a deal, and he knew her well enough to know she’d make a huge deal, getting on her moral high horse and giving him a lecture about… Yeah, he really didn’t want that. And Chase and Foreman… In a wild moment of desperation, he even thought about calling Stacy in Short Hills. But he dismissed that thought almost as soon as it surfaced. There was no way in hell he could do that. In fact, he dismissed thinking about where he could go altogether -- he didn’t even have Wilson to go to, anymore.
This was how he wound up in the betting agency; a place where he could lose himself in something monotonous until it was time to go. He’d caught another cab, into town this time, and aimlessly wandered around until it got to the point where his leg was in too much pain to keep going. He’d pushed the door of the betting agency open and moved straight up to the window, where he bought himself a ticket.
He settled himself on a stool, swallowed a Vicodin and numbly watched race after race on the screen, going back to the window at the end of each race to place another bet. He bought the hotdog after taking a bathroom break across the road in McDonalds, and resumed his place on the stool when he returned to the betting agency. Placing more bets, watching more races, trying to drown out the well of chaotic thoughts that were simmering at the back of his mind.
When the twenty four hours were up, the only thing left to signify that House had ever been in the betting agency was the hotdog left unfinished on the counter, along with a few losing tickets scattered around it. He found himself back in the Hotel in a blink of an eye the moment the last second counted on his watch; no longer sitting on a stool, but sitting alone on the edge of his bed in his Hotel room. Feeling lonelier than he’d ever felt in his entire life.
He couldn’t help wishing he’d never left the Hotel at all.
He didn’t know what to expect by returning home, but one thing he hadn’t anticipated was the state of his apartment when he got there. He arrived by cab, seeing his bike was… he had no idea where his bike had got to. And when he got out of the cab he saw a large ‘For Sale’ sign up outside his apartment.
That was absurd, he’d though to himself. His apartment was up for sale after only being away for a couple of few weeks? Except it wasn’t a couple of weeks -- he’d picked up one of the newspapers left on the stoop and looked at the date. Two months had passed. Two whole months.
After staring at the date for a long moment, he discarded the paper and tried to get into his apartment but discovered that the locks had been changed, which probably meant that all his belongings had been moved out. By whom, he had no idea. And where to, he also had no idea. But after wrestling with his key, trying to get it to turn the lock and angrily kicking the door with his foot in defeat when he resigned himself to the fact that it was useless, he stood on the footpath for a while, just gazing up at the ‘For Sale’ sign. There were only two things in this world that gave him security, and that was his home and his job. And he’d lost his home. Which meant…
He’d caught a cab to the hospital, and he honestly didn’t know what he was going to find when he got there. A part of him hoped that walking into the hospital would bring about some kind of time warp and he’d wind up back where he belonged, with people he recognised, his name still on the office door and his belongings in his office. Except, when he got into the hospital, the first thing he discovered was that Cuddy’s name was no longer on her office door, and it was with a great feeling of dread that he ventured up to the fourth floor to the diagnostics department.
House stood outside what was once his office, staring at the door. His name had been removed, leaving just an empty space on the glass. None of his things were in his office, save for his desk and the computer, both of which were hospital property, not his. From what House could work out, Foreman was in charge of the department until they found someone new to take over permanently. Cuddy had been right, god damn her. House didn’t stick around to see if the other two were still working there -- he left the hospital quickly, and ended up wandering to the park where he sat down and watched the people jogging and walking with their partners and kids.
A deep, unsettling feeling of panic quietly crept in on him -- he’d lost his home and his job; the two things that kept him going. He was going to be fifty years old in a few years, he was crippled, he had nothing in his life except his home and his job, and he’d returned home from the Hotel to discover he had nothing at all. Along with the feeling of panic came a deep feeling of despair. It was almost overwhelming. House left the park before he became too overwhelmed by his thoughts and sought to try and occupy himself.
Except he didn’t know where to go. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere he wanted to go, anyway. The only place he had left to go was his parents’, and he didn’t really want to go there, particularly seeing they were all the way up in Ohio. A few times he almost pulled out his cell phone to ring them, but opted out at the last moment. He called them so little that there was every bit the chance that they treated his disappearance as a kind of boy who cried wolf act. Then again, it was probably them, as his next of kin, who shut his apartment down. So, maybe they assumed that he was dead. Or maybe… He didn’t know. Cuddy was right in the fact that he always pushed his parents away, and he wasn’t about to start embracing them now. What would be the point? They were probably grieving if they did think he was dead, and he’d never see them again after these twenty four hours was up, anyway. So, perhaps it was best to just let them carry on thinking whatever they made of his disappearance.
That didn’t make him feel any better, though. It made him feel extremely insignificant. Who else was there that would care that he’d gone? Cameron, no doubt; the perpetual bleeding heart that she was. And, for a moment, House entertained the idea of phoning her up. But he didn’t -- the last thing he wanted was Cameron making a deal, and he knew her well enough to know she’d make a huge deal, getting on her moral high horse and giving him a lecture about… Yeah, he really didn’t want that. And Chase and Foreman… In a wild moment of desperation, he even thought about calling Stacy in Short Hills. But he dismissed that thought almost as soon as it surfaced. There was no way in hell he could do that. In fact, he dismissed thinking about where he could go altogether -- he didn’t even have Wilson to go to, anymore.
This was how he wound up in the betting agency; a place where he could lose himself in something monotonous until it was time to go. He’d caught another cab, into town this time, and aimlessly wandered around until it got to the point where his leg was in too much pain to keep going. He’d pushed the door of the betting agency open and moved straight up to the window, where he bought himself a ticket.
He settled himself on a stool, swallowed a Vicodin and numbly watched race after race on the screen, going back to the window at the end of each race to place another bet. He bought the hotdog after taking a bathroom break across the road in McDonalds, and resumed his place on the stool when he returned to the betting agency. Placing more bets, watching more races, trying to drown out the well of chaotic thoughts that were simmering at the back of his mind.
When the twenty four hours were up, the only thing left to signify that House had ever been in the betting agency was the hotdog left unfinished on the counter, along with a few losing tickets scattered around it. He found himself back in the Hotel in a blink of an eye the moment the last second counted on his watch; no longer sitting on a stool, but sitting alone on the edge of his bed in his Hotel room. Feeling lonelier than he’d ever felt in his entire life.
He couldn’t help wishing he’d never left the Hotel at all.