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INT. AFTERLIFE BUS — UNKNOWN TIME
Everything was white, colours washed out as if every corner of the bus had been bleached after the incident. It was wrong because GREGORY “HOUSE” knew that the real bus must be rusting away in some metal scrapyard, and that only a fool would try to scrub the thing clean of its sin.
His head hurt, perhaps from the blinding white all around him, and he had to squint his eyes a little. Slowly, head still wobbly on his neck, he turned and saw his sole companion on this ride to heaven. “AMBER” VOLAKIS was staring out the windows into the horizonless landscape, her skin devoid of any cuts, bruises or scars.
She looked just like how she had in his earlier hallucination, and he swallowed but continued to stare. The memory made him guilty, of course, but no emotion had ever stopped him from doing what he wanted.
Casual and smooth, she was turning her head, eyes flicking from the seat in front of her before landing back on the window, those wide blue eyes so similar to his, but never meeting, their sights never coinciding.
HOUSE (H): You’re dead.
AMBER (A): Everybody dies.
H: Am I dead?
A: (turns head towards him, giving him a smirk before looking forward again) Not yet.
H: I should be.
A: (whips head towards him) Why?
H: Because life shouldn’t be random. Because lonely, misanthropic drug addicts should die in bus crashes. And young do-gooders in love who get dragged out of their apartment in the middle of the night should walk away clean.
A: Self-pity isn’t like you.
H: (shrugs) Eh, well, I’m branching out from self-loathing and self-destruction.
A beat.
H: Wilson is gonna hate me.
A: (slowly looks over her shoulder with a smile) You kind of deserve it.
H: (glances at her, offended for a moment before his eyes drop down to the floor again, seeming guilty and somewhat sheepish, maybe even sad) He’s my best friend.
A: I know.
A: (leans in to whisper) What now?
H: I stay here with you.
A: That won’t save you.
H: (sucks in a breath, shaking his head) You don’t know that.
A: Get off the bus.
H: I can’t.
A: Why not?
H: Because… (scoffs at himself) Because it doesn’t hurt here.
A: Dying’s easy.
H: Living’s hard, I know. (shakes head) I just… I don’t want to be in pain, I don’t want to be miserable. And I don’t want him to hate me.
A: Well, you can’t always get what you want.
H: But if I try—
A: Can’t try if you’re dead.
H: I just want a break. One day without the pain, maybe a week, and then I’ll go deal with…
A: You can’t bargain with death.
H: (flatly) How about coma? Does he accept bribes?
A: Get off the bus.
H: No.
A: You still have your guitar, your drugs, your hookers. (leans over while staring at him) Are you really going to give all of that up just to avoid Wilson?
H: If he leaves… (shakes head, the movement small and quick) I don’t want him to leave.
A: Then tell him.
H: It won’t change anything.
A: You don’t know that.
H: What do I tell him? I’m sorry? I want you to stay? (exasperated)
A: Tell him what you’re feeling.
H: I can’t.
A: Why not?
He started fiddling with his hospital gown, fingers coasting over the cheap fabric as AMBER stared intently at him. He looked past her analytical form at the hazy white outside the bus, furrowing his brows as if deep in thought.
The bus was silent, eerily so in comparison to its counterpart in the real world. By now, most of the memories of that night were safely secured in his mind, and he knew he’d never let them out of his sight. He remembered the jostle of the passengers, the stench of stale air-conditioning, the scent of her perfume — though covered by her scarf, he could tell it was a demure, fragrant blend. So unlike the woman he knew, the cunning little pixie with eyes only for gold.
He had always wondered what Wilson saw in her, or rather, as his subconscious had been hinting at over the course of this day, what she saw in Wilson. Another pawn in her game to climb up the ladder?
No, and he sighed internally. She saw what he saw in Wilson, their images of him one and the same. He was a bubbling fountain of love and respect, or whatever she called it. Was that irresistible? His support (to House, it was enabling), his loyalty (cowardice), his presence (inaction).
Was he really giving his life up for that?
In a way, he already had.
H: I should be dead.
A: The mortality rate for deep brain stimulation is only 0.15%. (smiling) But you already knew that.
H: My skull’s cracked and I stroked out.
A: You also bled into your brain.
H: Yeah. I got that from “stroked out”.
A: Then why didn’t you say it?
H: Why should I state the obvious?
A: Why shouldn’t you?
H: (narrows eyes) Because it’s a waste of time.
A: Not to some people.
H: If you’re referring to idiots, then—
A: I’m referring to Wilson.
H: (sucks in a breath and looks away) He is an idiot.
A: You think he knows that you’re sorry, that you want him to stay.
H: He does—
A: He needs confirmation.
H: No, he needs you. (swallows) His girlfriend, the love of his life, whatever. (glances at her) Without you, he… I don’t know how he’ll cope.
A: And that means you should die too? (scoffs) How do you think he’ll feel if he loses two friends instead of one?
H: You’re not just his friend, you—you’re his wife.
A: And you’re his best friend.
H: (quietly) Not anymore.
A: (disappointed) You’ve been through so much together. Do you really think he’d quit just because of this?
H: (loudly) This isn’t pain. This isn’t drugs. This is how I killed his wife because I was drunk!
A: So there’s no coming back from this?
H: (defeated) I don’t think so.
A: You always find a way.
H: Not this time.
A: Just because it’s Wilson?
H: (exhales shakily before shrugging) I have nothing left.
A: He’s still alive.
He gave her a look of distaste, though it was contaminated with respect because she was right. As long as Wilson lived, he could still change his mind, or if not, at least let him know, let the words out where they belonged.
Then he corrected himself.
People don’t change.
H: Well, I’m not. (nods, the movement subtle) I’ve decided.
A: No, you haven’t.
H: (looks at her) I—
A: If you had, you wouldn’t be telling me.
H: I was making conversation.
A: Dead people don’t have conversations.
A beat.
A: Get off the bus.