The Healing House

One - Such Is Life

Sometimes there are things worse than death, like life.

Death is a brutal, beautiful act where those who pass on get to live in harmony or end their existence, death is the end to a horrid life sentence in an inescapable prison, while life is the continuation of the punishment many do not deserve. He aided in this process, he is the Healing House, the good house, the proud house, the Lord, the opposite to his sister, the dirty, Murder House. He is the shining sun while she is the forgotten moon, no one knows what's etched in his walls, the self loathing, the need to be something good other than life.

Life isn't good, it never was.

He watched many a life be ripped from his sisters walls, the children she had so carefully nurtured, the families she loved, the laughter in her halls. He watched it be violently and bloodily spread across her walls in an attempt to prove a point, yet all it proved was that those left behind had to carry the guilt of their sins. He didn't know who he was anymore, or if he even liked himself, he knew he didn't he loathed every aspect of himself. Recently, after helping his sisters newest conquest he felt a slither of reassurance that he was a good man, but then it all fell down. He watched as yet another life was claimed in her walls, while he was praised when an elderly couple died merely days after the "murder" because they were so in love they died less than a week apart. No one spoke about the way Agatha no longer spoke to her husband for those last weeks, or the way she regretted having his child, or the way William poured scalding hot water on his grandsons hand for something so fickle as sexual orientation. No one spoke about the sins which covered his walls, yet were so quick to judge his sister, he was silenced, forced to be the Thompson House, the Healing House. He was more than the name he carried.
He was a living creature too, he made mistakes too.

He stood stoic, smaller than his sister and her endless rooms but he was much more than her, he was a whole hospital in one house, from the basement to his attic he was built with a hospital in mind. He was built to heal people, or to aid them to death, whichever applied in each situation. Somehow, over the centuries, it was lost in translation that he was more than a place of healing, he was a place of death.

'Iason,' she taunted, he hated that name.

'Lorelai,' he used her human name too.

'Please save me,' he turned away from her cackle. His sister was in all vulgar terms, a bitch, he had no better way to express his distaste for her, yet he would jump at the chance to help her, even with such a meaningless task of closing a window. He would not bite back, today was the funeral and she needed this to remind herself it was not her fault the silly little boy shoved that knife into himself. The Healing House frowned as he huffed like a child who didn't get what he wanted, his sister had been through so much and it was just beginning to look up for her, now that brat ruined it all. He never liked Romani Russo, even in Bonnie's womb he was a snot nosed terror. 'Oh Thompson do not fret, I am alright,'

'Mere months ago you snapped about being abandoned,' he pointed out like the snot nosed little brother he was. He'd never let anyone know how he smiled when she scoffed at him, or the way his walls warmed when she was content and filled, she was a family home while he was a sterile environment made for two woman. Unlike Aurélian, his partner and his seven kids, including his nephew, Ophelia was only herself and her daughter, Laurence. His walls were often quiet and calm, while his sisters were screamed down and vibrating with the running of little feet. 'Your spark of love shall cast out the shadows, know you are not alone, the Thompson House is at your side,'

'Oh Thompson, I do cherish you,'

'Who else would?' Such a simple question, one she wished to answer, yet she knew no one truly saw past his name. At least she was looked into, people were interested in her vast history, yet no one truly cared enough to look into the wealthier version of herself. He was bruised and battered, he needed a good paint, he needed his walls bleached, forever he will tell the tale of the child raped within his walls. He stiffened hearing the coffin drive up, Ophelia stood in his doorway, Laurence at her side, the young child who left him rarely returned.