You are ugly.

No one needs to tell you. Every time you catch sight of yourself in a spoon, in the dark television screen, in the bathroom mirror, you're reminded. It becomes an awful sort of game to try to avoid anything reflective, because you feel yourself die and become a little more ugly each time you catch sight of what you look like.

After a while, like the memories of stifling days locked in a classroom become faded over a summer break, you're able to recover and forget that you're not beautiful for a while. Losing your mind in a book about normal, beautiful people who lead their normal, beautiful lives without a thought to those who might not share such a simple luxury. Cleaning until your fingers are scrubbed raw and your front is filthied with dirt and grease, all the while your eyes sliding from wall to wall, studiously avoiding the window and the dangerous reflection that it holds. It doesn't matter what the distraction is.

Then, by some unfortunate misunderstanding, you inevitably catch sight of yourself and the fantasy dies with a brutal kick in the stomach.

There is nothing you could do to make yourself pretty. You don't even bother to think "prettier" because you know that to become prettier, you have to start out with something vaguely pretty--that which you are not. You know that even if you wore the ridiculous clothes, the flighty makeup and the springy ponytails, you would not look pretty. Your ugliness would shine through. And what's more, you'd be laughed at for even trying to join those elite ranks.

So you wear outfits that do not fit in the dullest colors the seller offers, because if you can't be beautiful then at least you can match the wallpaper and pray that no one else notices how ugly you really are.

No one's ever called you ugly before. But you still wonder how anyone can talk to you, look into your face without cringing. Every time you look in the mirror, you feel repulsed and know that if you had been beautiful and someone else had been born with such an ugliness, you would never talk to them.

Personality counts, you tell yourself. It doesn't matter because you're smart and motivated and you're going places where nobody cares how beautiful you are. You tell yourself that you're still growing, that you still have time to become pretty before the hooded world of academia falls away to reality. You also tell yourself that all of those beautiful people are stupid. They may be beautiful, but your mind is far superior to theirs, and one day, brains will matter over beauty and you'll have your revenge.

Once, you tried to be like them. You skulked your way through the store, paranoid that someone you knew would see, and grabbed one of those ridiculous shirts. You smuggled it into the dressing room and, behind the safety of laminated walls, pulled the fabric over your head and hoped beyond all hopes that when you turned around, you would look like them. That by simply wearing this shirt, you would shine just like the girls on the posters.

But when you turn around, you're only met with the brutal honesty of a three-way mirror.

The shirt did not make you beautiful.

You rip off the shirt, hot tears pouring down your face as you try to put the thing back on the plastic hanger. You feel like an idiot for even dreaming of such a shirt that would make you as beautiful as everyone else. You're too smart to let this get under your skin. You're too tough.

But it does get under your skin. You can't help it. So many empty passages tell you that beauty doesn't matter, that it's only what's on the inside that matters, and you believe them most of the time. Those times when you forget how ugly you are, you can tell yourself that it doesn't matter how ugly you are because you're smart and funny, and that's what really counts. But then you see everyone else, their pretty faces laughing and giggling.

It's easy to throw back your head and laugh when your know that you look beautiful doing it.

Title: Chandelier
Author: Monica
Pairing: N/A
Word Count: 3,080
Summary: Robert Chase is actually a very dull person. It's the five other people inside of him that make him interesting.

You wake up, and it’s just like any other day.

You feel tired and it’s not an unfamiliar feeling. You always feel tired. So you ignore it as you pull off your clothes and head into the shower, spinning the dial until it’s hotter than you like it, hotter than you can stand, but that doesn’t matter. It scalds and burns and you stand there for days that go by in minutes, the steam rising before your eyes making you sway with an unconscious stream of thought. Your mind is blank as you get out and pull on clothes, as you shave and brush your teeth and search for your keys.

It isn’t the first time you went to bed with them in one place, and wake up to find them in another.

You eventually find them atop the open phonebook that you apparently used last night, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you find your wallet right next to it. Your car starts without a problem and you drive to work with your messenger bag on the seat next to you. The music that comes from the stereo grates on your nerves, and you eventually reach up and turn it off.

Cameron greets you with a smile.

You give her a sort-of smile back.

“Good morning,” she says pleasantly.

You give her a sort-of nod, not wanting to say anything this early in the morning. You glance over to the coffee pot.

“We’ll be safe for another hour or so,” Foreman says from behind the newspaper.

You like Foreman more than Cameron. “Yeah, looks like. Hope he brings a case.” Even though you really don’t.

“I set a few on his desk,” Cameron said, watching you. “They’ll probably end up in the trash, but still...”

Foreman snorts, and you quickly catch on and shake your head as if you’re agreeing with him. “Worth a shot,” you say.

“He might take one,” Foreman says, sounding thoughtful. “You remember what they were?”

Cameron sets down her coffee and nods. “There’s one from Princeton General—thirty-one year old female presenting with hypothermia and an elevated—”

And then you blink, and everything is black.

***

“Twinkle, twinkle little star... How I wonder what you are...”

“Shut up, Cricket.”

“He’s not doing anything wrong. Calm yourself.”

“You shut up, too, you useless piece of shit. Aren’t you supposed to be making sure that—”

“I am. Philippians 4:13—I can do everything through him that gives me strength.”

“Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky...”

***

You open your eyes and find yourself still in the conference room. Cameron is saying something, but you’re busying trying to catch up with everything and you miss what she says. When you notice that, upon finishing, she’s looking at you expectantly, you quickly become apologetic.

“I’m sorry, what?” you say. Before you is a cup of coffee, and you tentatively reach out and wrap your fingers around the handle. It is a creamy shade of brown, and as you lift it to your lips, you can smell hazelnut. You prefer regular creamer, but this is fine.

Cameron looks a bit peeved. “I asked you if you knew anything about the fight last night.”

“There was a fight?” Something niggles at the back of your brain, begging to be heard. You feel like you know more about this than you really do.

“On the campus,” Cameron says, and to her right, Foreman is looking vaguely interested. “There was a huge brawl. Three of the kids are here in the hospital.”

You shake your head, ignoring the feeling that it’s wrong to do so. “No, I didn’t hear about it. Was it in the paper?” It doesn’t matter. You never read the paper anyways. But you should keep talking to Cameron, because you don’t think that you do that very often and now that you are, you realize that you kind of like it.

“Yeah,” Foreman says. He lays down the paper and rifles through it for a second, and then he yanks out the front page and holds it up. The brawl is headline news.

“It was over...” You squint at the picture. “A soccer game?”

Cameron’s nose wrinkles. “That’s what it looks like.”

Foreman looks to the both of you incredulously. “Where did you guys go to school? There’s always fights after big games.”

“Kalamazoo,” Cameron says. “We weren’t big on sports.” She’s staring at the picture, still.

You feel obligated to say something, too. “We weren’t big on sports, either.”

Then the door opens, and House comes in. Foreman quickly stuffs the headline news back into the paper and reaches for a bagel that you didn’t notice was there before. Cameron gets up and busies herself at the coffee pot. And you sit there, trying to look unobtrusive.

“Good morning, kiddies,” House says cheerfully.

“There’s some cases on your desk that you—” Cameron starts to say, but House cuts her off.

“Nope,” he says. He throws an x-ray up onto the viewbox and turns on the switch. “First one to tell me what’s wrong with this gets a cookie.”

You’re squinting up at the x-ray when everything goes black again.

***

“Calmly, now. You had enough of an adventure last night.”

“Yeah? What are you going to do about it, old guy? I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger than all of you! You and your motherfucking Bible—you hide from the pain, you all do! You’ve never had to—”

“Don’t shout so—and you’re forgetting Cricket. He’s been through quite enough. We all have.”

“And he’s a fucking loony bin. All the little fucker does is sing songs and cry.”

“It’s all he knows. And he hasn’t been out in years—you would do well to think of others. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven; give, and it shall be given unto you... For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again. Luke 6:37-38.”

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...”

“Fuck, shut up! Shut up, you motherfucking little son of a bitch, shut up!”

“Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine. In my Father’s house, I’m gonna let it shine...”

***

You’re standing in the hallway. You feel exhausted and your hands ache, and your head pounds viciously, unrelentingly. You’re stopped, just standing in the middle of the hallway, and then someone bumps into from behind. You whirl around and find Cameron standing there.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, feeling just as surprised as she looks.

“That’s all right,” she says. “Is something wrong? Why did you stop?”

You shake your head. “No—I just... was thinking. Do you know what time it is?”

Cameron looks at you strangely. “Around six.” She looks to your wrist, and so do you. Out of the two of you, you’re the only one to be surprised by the presence of a watch. Have you been wearing it all day long?

“Right,” you say. You wonder what you’re supposed to be doing at the moment, and you finally settle on going down to the cafeteria to get some dinner. Obviously, there isn’t anything pressing to be done.

You’re in green scrubs, and you feel a little strange walking around the hospital in them. They’ve always felt uncomfortable. But you can’t change back into your regular clothes—you don’t know where they are—so you go through the line in your scrubs. It isn’t at all out of the ordinary for a doctor or nurse to wear scrubs while grabbing dinner, apparently, because there’s at least a dozen of you littering the cafeteria.

“Good evening, Dr. Chase,” the woman at the register says with a smile. “You’re getting the ham tonight?”

You glance down. “Yeah,” you say noncommittally.

She punches in the price. “Well, that’s a change. I thought you hated ham.”

“I—uh—” You’re confused. And you wonder when you’ve ever talked to this woman. Apparently, it’s frequently enough that she thinks she knows your tastes in meat. Finally, you offer her a weak smile. “Just trying something new, I guess.”

The woman makes no further comment about it. “All right. Well, that’s going to be $7.84, then.”

You hand her a ten dollar bill and watch her make change. Something glints on her shirt. “Is that a cross?” you asked, frowning at it. It strikes something in you, but you don’t know what.

Looking slightly embarrassed, the woman nods. “It was my grandmother’s. You can’t see it, but there’s actually a bible verse inscribed on the sides of it.”

You open your mouth to ask her what the bible verse is, when suddenly your mind blanks and the world around you disappears.

***

“What the hell is he doing?”

“It intrigues him. Zeke hasn’t talked to anyone in a long time.”

“Says the son of a bitch who gets to go out every single fucking day of the week.”

“It’s work. I’m required to work so we can make money, so we can survive.”

“What the fuck are you saying, I can’t work?”

“You don’t like work. All you care about is hurting others and making sure that everyone else hurts just as much as you do.”

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine... You make my happy—”

***

Now you’re eating. There is food in your mouth and the sandwich is in your right hand. The din of the cafeteria echoes around you, people moving on with their lives, not noticing you frozen mid-bite with your sandwich suspended in the air. Before they can, you quickly resume eating and realize with displeasure that there’s mayonnaise on the sandwich. You don’t remember there ever being mayonnaise on the sandwiches here, but decide that it isn’t important enough to get up and buy something else.

In one corner, a television is playing silently, black and white subtitles bouncing up on the bottom of the screen. It’s commercial time, at the moment, and you dully watch a woman in red talk on her cell phone and then apparently lose reception. Verizon Wireless’s logo pops up on the screen, advertising prices that you can’t see from where you’re sitting. Another bite of your sandwich, and previews for a movie start flashing across the screen.

You can’t remember the last time you went to see a movie.

Out of nowhere, there’s Wilson. He’s walking past your table and gives you a genial nod.

You smile at him, and he takes it the wrong way and plops his tray down on your table and sits down. You want to sit alone. But it isn’t that big of a deal, you suppose.

“How’s your day going?” he asks, unwrapping a hot ham and cheese sandwich.

“All right,” you say, reflecting on the day. Waking up, coming to work, discussing the riot, bumping into Cameron, buying dinner. Very eventful, indeed. “Yours?”

Wilson shrugs, taking a bite of his sandwich. He somehow manages to grin and chew with his mouth closed at the same time. “It’s going well,” he says after swallowing. “Did House solve his case yet?”

You don’t know. But you dodge the question with a snort. “Which one?” Just past Wilson, the television is showing the weather in bright, pixilated colors. It’s going to rain tonight, you note.

Wilson laughs a bit at your comment, nodding in agreement. “True.”

You smile back at him and reach for the water that you bought to go with your sandwich. Silence descends, and you’re fine with that. It’s not real silence anyways—people all around you are laughing and talking and crunching down their food. You watch the television behind Wilson with a half-interest, your eyes straying to it more because it’s there than because you really care about Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign.

Your dinner is nearly gone when Wilson speaks again.

“I had a clinic patient today,” he begins with a tone that promises the story is going to be funny, “who came in complaining of severe rashes on her forearms and—”

Darkness.

***

“Always jumping out, isn’t he? Motherfucker thinks just because he’s a—”

“Miles, please be quiet. Better a patient man than a warrior, a man who controls his temper than takes a city—Proverbs 16:32. What do you hope to accomplish by making a fuss over James? He needs to work. We need him to work.”

“From this valley they say you are going... We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile...”

“Why? Lots of people survive without work! What the hell do we need to work for? There’s free money out there, ways that you can sit on your ass and do nothing and make some serious dough. We don’t need a motherfucking job to make money.”

“Yes, we do. You were born because Robert’s mother had the same idea.”

“And what would you know about how I was born, smart ass? I wasn’t just there when she drank, I was there before! I was there when—”

“That was Cricket.”

“For they say you are taking the sunshine...”

“I had to come in when the little fucker couldn’t deal with it anymore.”

***

You find yourself in the clinic. It’s dark, and the sun it setting in the background. You don’t know why you’re here, but it’s been a long time since your six o’clock dinner. It’s summertime and here in the States, that means that the sun doesn’t go down until nine or ten in the evening. Looking around, you find that the clinic is closing up for the night. A few people are cleaning, finishing their charting, but the doors are closed to the public and it’s quiet.

A nurse approaches you. “Dr. Chase?” she says.

You nod. “Can I help you?”

“There’s a phone call for you on line three,” she says, jerking her thumb in the direction of the nurse’s station.

You’re startled, but follow her over. She stays long enough to make sure that you know how to pick up the phone, and then leaves to talk to a nearby nurse.

“Robert?” a woman says from the other line. “This is Gretchen. I don’t know if you—”

***

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t send Miles out to deal with her!”

“I had to, James. Trust in the Lord to make things go right.”

“You should have let Cricket deal with it. You know that this isn’t going to be good news, and we don’t need Miles smashing the phone.”

“Cricket doesn’t know how to talk on the phone.”

“You could have handled it. Fed her some bible verse.”

“I’m a priest, not a psychologist, James.”

“Cricket’s crying again.”

***

And now you’re lowering the phone. You don’t know who was on, but the dial tone is ringing in your ear and you slowly set the phone back onto its cradle.

“Dr. Chase?”

You jump and whirl around, finding yourself face to face with a woman you’ve never seen before.

“Hi,” she says, giving you a small smile.

“Hi,” you parrot blankly, wondering if you should know her. You don’t.

She seems to realize that you’re having memory problems. “Kayla,” she says, and it’s obviously her name and it’s obviously supposed to be significant to you. “I’m here for the test... my arm?” Kayla pulls up a sleeve, revealing a large pustule on her forearm.

“Oh,” you say, staring at it. You have no idea what to do. This is usually the point where...

But it doesn’t happen. She’s looking at you, waiting for you to say something, and so you do.

“Oh, yeah. Um. Okay.” You look at the pustule closely, as if magnification will suddenly bring you answers. You have no idea what you’re looking for. You’ve never learned to do this doctor stuff. “It’s positive. Talk to Nurse Previn, get an appointment with Dr. Broston in rheumatology.”

There. Diagnosed. You begin to leave, but she speaks up and you’re forced to stop.

“I took that medicine you gave me?” she says, and it sounds more like a question than a statement. “But my stomach still hurts.”

You freeze, and something in you is telling you to look in the right pocket of your lab coat. You look down and discover that you are, indeed, wearing a lab coat. You pull out a scrip pad from your right pad and your hand moves automatically as it writes out something you don’t understand. You say words that aren’t yours, words you don’t even understand, and you don’t care. She thanks you as you tear off the scrip and hand it to her, and you nod.

You make for the door, but she stops you once more.

“Doctor...” she says, but she stops.

You feel obligated to ask, “Yes?”

Kayla looks torn for a moment, and then she shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Slowly, you nod, and then make for the door.

***

“Jesus motherfucking Christ, son of a—where the hell is he? Where did he go? Asshole just screwed us all! Asshole!”

“He’s with Cricket. Rowan’s death is hard on him, we’re having a difficult time keeping it under control.”

“Yeah, well Robert just fucked us all! Who gives a shit about fucking Cricket?”

“What’s done is done. Our primary concern must be for Cricket.”

“What are you gonna do, read him your shitting bible? Tell him that Daddy’s off to a better place, now?”

“We’ll let him out for a while. It should be enough to calm him down.”

***

The next morning, you wake up and feel tired again. Your face is tear-stained and there are strange, colored markings on your hands. The shower washes both away, and you stand under the hot water longer than usual just to be sure. There’s a lot of dirt on you, lots of filth that you can’t see. But you never feel clean enough, not ever, so you give up and reach for the dial.

You blink.

You’re standing in front of the sink, staring at the steam-covered mirror before you. There is large, childish writing in the condensation.

CRICKET IS SAD

You see your eyes are red and your face is tearstained again. With a small smile, you reach out and tell Cricket that it’s going to be okay.