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The Sun
mnstrtruckslash
Title: The Sun
Author: MnstrTruckSlash
Rating: rated PG because some parts are a bit intense but otherwise it’s pretty safe. No real violence, no swearing, etc.
Summary: A poem based on the thoughts going through Wilson’s mind as he watched the burning heroin den in the season eight finale. Plus, it has a happy-ish ending. Written for Sick!Wilson Renaissance Festival.
Warnings: A bit OOC, spoilers for season 8 and “Everybody Dies,” a bit of swearing, and the intensity of the fire/House’s “death.”
Characters: House, Wilson, and Foreman
Prompt: For the Fortune Teller’s Challenge. My tarot card was “The Sun.”


1.
Red hot flames engulf the crack den
One look and I fear I’ll never see House again
Heat
  Soot
     Smoke
       Death
I race towards the door
Try to peak through the grimy windows
I’m not certain hat to look for
A shadowy, lumbering figure limps towards the street
Stopped cold,
Brought down as a burning pillar crashes onto him
I cry out, screaming, sobbing in pain
Try and break down the door but I cannot move
Eric grabs my arms, pulling me back
Rain clouds open up; water pours from the sky
It seems House’s death is enough to make even the Gods cry


2.
Flashing lights of red and blue
The hero police and fire fighters arrive moments too late
I watch as they attempt to control and put out the blaze
His body is pulled from the rubble
Its official
My best friend is never coming back
Now there’s no one left to provide the care I’ll need
Sure, I have family, other friends. There’ll be loved ones all around
But my heart remains broken.
Wrapped in a blanket, I sit on the could ground
The sun comes out from behind the clouds
Early May mornings in New Jersey may start cold and grey
But I know it will soon be a lovely (looking) day


3.
Three days and four nights of dark loneliness, never leaving the loft
Unable to eat or sleep
Barely breathing, lost and alone
I forget to take my pain pills, and neglect my body
Time loses all meaning in the fog of grief
How long have I been alone?
A minute?
            An Hour?
                        A week?
His funeral is the worst of all
Everyone lying
We all do it so often, but this seems different, unacceptable
I can’t hold back the truth
I do what I used to lecture him for so often


4.
My pocket beeps
“Shut up!”
House’s number on my phone’s screen
Shocked into silence, I did as I was told
72 hours later, my bags all packed,
Motorcycles straddled, I turned to him and smile
The daylight shines warm on our back
Spectacular sprawling scenery as far as the eye can see
Life is far more fun (and beautiful) with him in it
“When the cancer gets bad,” I stammer
“Cancer is boring,” House declares, kick starting his bike
Together we ride off into the sunset
As if nothing bad ever happened
And maybe it never will

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