Dr. Lawrence Kutner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
professionaldefibrillist) wrote2009-04-07 12:45 am
professionaldefibrillist) wrote2009-04-07 12:45 am
[MM] "Extreme Ways" lyrics
[This is the one and ONLY time I’ll be touching this. I’m still in serious denial, but he won’t let me sleep until I do something with it, so—this is it.]
I had to close down everything
I had to close down my mind
Too many things to cover me
Too much can make me blind
I've seen so much in so many places
So many heartaches, so many faces
So many dirty things
You couldn't believe
I would stand in line for this
It's always good in life for this
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Like it always does, always does
It’s heavier than you thought it would be.
You’re not sure when you realize you’re just going through the motions, but it happens somewhere along the way. You smile at your coworkers, laugh, joke, pretend everything is just fine, but you know that you’re not really there. It’s just a piece of the day you’re going through, and as soon as that’s finished you move on to the next one, waiting for the repetition of the pattern to sink in so that you can be somewhere else. You’re not sure when you became such a good actor, but you supposed that it’s always easier to be playing yourself. It’s the role you know best after all, and you’re sure that no one will ever be able to play you quite as well as you can.
Maybe you’re just tired of being alone.
You know that logically speaking, you’re not really alone. You have family, friends—you’re surrounded with people all the time, working in a hospital for eighty hours a week and yet you feel like you’re the most isolated person in the room. There are times when it feels like you’re wrapped in cotton—everything is muffled and distant, taking place far away. You continue to go through the paces because you know that’s what’s expected of you. You talk to your friends, treat patients, get abused by your boss—all the normal things that everyday people go through, and there are times when it seems like you’re not even there. Like someone else has taken your place, keeping up with the conversation and pretending like everything’s okay, and you’re just trapped inside, screaming out for someone to notice, acknowledge that everything wasn’t a-okay. That something was a little off in the way this person was impersonating you, but they’re far too good for that. They are you, after all. It just seems like something’s disengaged and not quite right, and there isn’t anything you can do to kick yourself into gear.
You’re not sure why you’re here.
You should have been in work an hour ago. Not that that’s going to matter, because House isn’t going to be in for another two, and with any luck, you’ll be long gone by then. He’ll probably send someone by your place to find you, see why you didn’t call into work. For a brief, fleeting moment, you hope that it isn’t Remy. She doesn’t deserve to see you like that, not after everything else she’s been through in the past year. You almost hope that it’s Taub—someone who’s been there, stood on the edge with the gun in his hand and knows the kind of desperation you’d be feeling if there was a way for you to feel anything at all. But those hopes are gone just as fleetingly as you think of them, and the weight of the gun in your hand draws you back into the present, rather than thinking of hopes for the future. You don’t have a future—or you won’t, anyway. Not if everything goes as planned. Not if you don’t chicken out.
You won’t chicken out.
You’ve never chickened out on anything in your life, and you aren’t about to start with your death. It’s an odd kind of explanation, looking at it the wrong way. You always used to search out the excitement in life, but now that you’re looking back on it, you’re starting to think that that was one of your first cries for help. You reached out and tried to grab the rush and acceleration, hoping it would bring some sort of feeling back into your life. You’re pretty sure you went numb the day your parents died and while there have been rare moments to bring you back since, there wasn’t anything that could keep you there, engaged, feeling things that everyone else was supposed to feel, but you only seemed to get in small doses. If no one seemed to care enough to notice that you weren’t in the driver’s seat, why should you care enough to stick around?
It’s a bit twisted, but your last thoughts are of House.
In a sick way, you’re a bit curious to if he’ll even care at all. How he’ll react, what he’ll say, what he’ll do. You wonder if he’ll blame himself for once. If he’ll wonder if he rode you too hard, mocked you too much, crossed some line that he shouldn’t have crossed. To be perfectly honest, you don’t blame House at all. You wanted to see if he could make you be angry again, if he could find that thing inside you, that part that was broken and find a way to fix it, mend it back together again, but even that didn’t work. That seemed to be the final sign of it all. The final click! that slid everything into place and led to you sitting on the edge of your bed, gun in your hand and trying to summon up the will to make the next move. The man who killed your parents was dead, your obligation to keep him from hurting someone else was done, and you were tired of living in a bubble that no one around you could seem to break.
It really is much heavier than you thought it was.
It’s been years since you held it in your hand, but for some reason you do remember it being lighter. Maybe it’s the bullets, maybe it’s the weight of what you’re about to do, but you know that there’s really no other way out. Everything is slipping faster and faster and while normally faster and faster would be more than welcome, this time it wasn’t. This time, you just want everything to stop and stand still, give your fingers something to hold onto and keep you from falling any more than you already have. Your hand shakes as you raise your arm, and you feel this cold churning in your stomach, full of second thoughts and unanswered questions, but even those aren’t enough to overpower the need to just make it all stop. To break the bubble holding you in place and set you free to go wherever it was you were really meant to be. The muzzle of the gun is cold against your temple, and as you pull back the safety, you realize it’s the first thing you’ve really felt in a long time.
You close your eyes, and as you pull the trigger, you hope it doesn’t hurt.
1091 words
I had to close down everything
I had to close down my mind
Too many things to cover me
Too much can make me blind
I've seen so much in so many places
So many heartaches, so many faces
So many dirty things
You couldn't believe
I would stand in line for this
It's always good in life for this
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Like it always does, always does
It’s heavier than you thought it would be.
You’re not sure when you realize you’re just going through the motions, but it happens somewhere along the way. You smile at your coworkers, laugh, joke, pretend everything is just fine, but you know that you’re not really there. It’s just a piece of the day you’re going through, and as soon as that’s finished you move on to the next one, waiting for the repetition of the pattern to sink in so that you can be somewhere else. You’re not sure when you became such a good actor, but you supposed that it’s always easier to be playing yourself. It’s the role you know best after all, and you’re sure that no one will ever be able to play you quite as well as you can.
Maybe you’re just tired of being alone.
You know that logically speaking, you’re not really alone. You have family, friends—you’re surrounded with people all the time, working in a hospital for eighty hours a week and yet you feel like you’re the most isolated person in the room. There are times when it feels like you’re wrapped in cotton—everything is muffled and distant, taking place far away. You continue to go through the paces because you know that’s what’s expected of you. You talk to your friends, treat patients, get abused by your boss—all the normal things that everyday people go through, and there are times when it seems like you’re not even there. Like someone else has taken your place, keeping up with the conversation and pretending like everything’s okay, and you’re just trapped inside, screaming out for someone to notice, acknowledge that everything wasn’t a-okay. That something was a little off in the way this person was impersonating you, but they’re far too good for that. They are you, after all. It just seems like something’s disengaged and not quite right, and there isn’t anything you can do to kick yourself into gear.
You’re not sure why you’re here.
You should have been in work an hour ago. Not that that’s going to matter, because House isn’t going to be in for another two, and with any luck, you’ll be long gone by then. He’ll probably send someone by your place to find you, see why you didn’t call into work. For a brief, fleeting moment, you hope that it isn’t Remy. She doesn’t deserve to see you like that, not after everything else she’s been through in the past year. You almost hope that it’s Taub—someone who’s been there, stood on the edge with the gun in his hand and knows the kind of desperation you’d be feeling if there was a way for you to feel anything at all. But those hopes are gone just as fleetingly as you think of them, and the weight of the gun in your hand draws you back into the present, rather than thinking of hopes for the future. You don’t have a future—or you won’t, anyway. Not if everything goes as planned. Not if you don’t chicken out.
You won’t chicken out.
You’ve never chickened out on anything in your life, and you aren’t about to start with your death. It’s an odd kind of explanation, looking at it the wrong way. You always used to search out the excitement in life, but now that you’re looking back on it, you’re starting to think that that was one of your first cries for help. You reached out and tried to grab the rush and acceleration, hoping it would bring some sort of feeling back into your life. You’re pretty sure you went numb the day your parents died and while there have been rare moments to bring you back since, there wasn’t anything that could keep you there, engaged, feeling things that everyone else was supposed to feel, but you only seemed to get in small doses. If no one seemed to care enough to notice that you weren’t in the driver’s seat, why should you care enough to stick around?
It’s a bit twisted, but your last thoughts are of House.
In a sick way, you’re a bit curious to if he’ll even care at all. How he’ll react, what he’ll say, what he’ll do. You wonder if he’ll blame himself for once. If he’ll wonder if he rode you too hard, mocked you too much, crossed some line that he shouldn’t have crossed. To be perfectly honest, you don’t blame House at all. You wanted to see if he could make you be angry again, if he could find that thing inside you, that part that was broken and find a way to fix it, mend it back together again, but even that didn’t work. That seemed to be the final sign of it all. The final click! that slid everything into place and led to you sitting on the edge of your bed, gun in your hand and trying to summon up the will to make the next move. The man who killed your parents was dead, your obligation to keep him from hurting someone else was done, and you were tired of living in a bubble that no one around you could seem to break.
It really is much heavier than you thought it was.
It’s been years since you held it in your hand, but for some reason you do remember it being lighter. Maybe it’s the bullets, maybe it’s the weight of what you’re about to do, but you know that there’s really no other way out. Everything is slipping faster and faster and while normally faster and faster would be more than welcome, this time it wasn’t. This time, you just want everything to stop and stand still, give your fingers something to hold onto and keep you from falling any more than you already have. Your hand shakes as you raise your arm, and you feel this cold churning in your stomach, full of second thoughts and unanswered questions, but even those aren’t enough to overpower the need to just make it all stop. To break the bubble holding you in place and set you free to go wherever it was you were really meant to be. The muzzle of the gun is cold against your temple, and as you pull back the safety, you realize it’s the first thing you’ve really felt in a long time.
You close your eyes, and as you pull the trigger, you hope it doesn’t hurt.
1091 words
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It's a beautiful piece but....*hugs*
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But thank you.
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I love this line, LOVE it: You wanted to see if he could make you be angry again, if he could find that thing inside you, that part that was broken and find a way to fix it, mend it back together again, but even that didn’t work
And THIS, OH GOD: you realize it’s the first thing you’ve really felt in a long time
This whole piece is exactly what went through my mind when Thirteen and Foreman found him. What were Kutner's very final thoughts and feelings? Was he relieved to finally be putting an end to this obvious huge amount of pain he was in, or was he at a point of so much despair that he just couldn't see beyond the fact that there were other choices, that he didn't have to resort to death?
Remember that montage at the end of Wilson's Heart, where Kutner was the only one who was alone? Sitting by himself in his apartment, eating cereal and watching something on TV? That really, really struck me in that montage. And thinking back on that now in light of the turn of events just makes me realise just how lonely he was and how much he fought to drown that out with his enthusiasm for comics and computer games. I wonder if, even back then, he felt whatever it was he was feeling when he decided to kill himself?
Sorry to ramble at you. What you've written for Kutner here is just sublime and left me really thinking. Thanks so much for writing this. I can't imagine how hard it must've been for you to write it, either. :-(
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Thank you, though. I'm glad you enjoyed it.
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I had this exact same thought. It is the first thing that popped into my mind -- those were all distractions and really he was so alone and unable to fix it.
Anyway, Kutner!mun, this is so beautiful. I cried so much when they started that Pete Yorn song in the show and this gives me that same feeling. Amazing work.
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And yeah. I just pretty much cried all the way through the episode. I knew there was a suicide coming, but I didn't expect for it to be like that.
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Damnit, why do they all hate my characters.But me andno subject
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::sniffle::
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