The first time, it's a joke. A punishment gone too far, a temper that didn't cool fast enough. He'd interrupted conversation, talked back with that five-year-old naiveté that doesn't follow social graces, that can't read the warning signs of others' actions.

Nothing happened immediately; it wasn't until they returned home that he was sent to his room. A few minutes later the door burst open, and there had been this look in his eyes, a wild, glassed-over stare that held no emotions, a shark before an attack. Dead.

He'd heard the bath running, but figured his mother was taking a few moments to relax; she did that enough in the afternoon. But he was wrong—wrong as his wrist was taken roughly, wrong as he was dragged down the hall, too surprised to speak. Wrong when he arrived to a bathroom that seemed to suck the air out of him.

So very, very wrong as he was stripped naked and bend over a strong leg and spanked. His nakedness was crushed between himself and his father's leg; heat burnt his cheeks as he realized he had been stripped of humanity. He was an animal, a naked animal not worthy of clothes.

And then he was lowered in the water, pushed down into icy cold, hot/cold, burning and ripping cold. Pushed down, pulled under, hands gripped his torso and kept him there for a minute or so; he screamed and wished he hadn't as he watched the bubbles that contained his air float away. They hit the surface and popped while he stayed under.

And then it was over; blue lips, skin, fingernails were dried quickly. An hour later his mother comes in to find him shivering under his blankets and tearfully says that Daddy was just mad, that he gets like that sometimes, that it won't happen again if Greggy is a good little boy, no more talking back, ok?

He nodded at his mother, told her he'd be a good boy. But he was never good enough.

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Second grade was when a teacher sat him down. Asked him why he liked to make the other kids feel dumb; asked him if he wanted to move up a few grades. They could arrange it.

He looked at the teacher, who, for a moment, felt as if she was staring at a grown man, and told her that it isn't his fault he makes people feel bad; he can't understand why they don't see the things he does, why they find class so challenging when he could sleep through it and still pass with flying colors.

He asked if he can go and she let him; later, she called his house and spoke with his father about maybe letting him skip a grade or too; that way he wouldn't be bored in class.

He'd been laying in his bed, staring at the map of the world on his ceiling when he was called downstairs. His father greeted him with a sharp slap to the back of the head, then pointed to a sleeping bag and a thin sweater, said that the house was too good for him if he was going to act up in class. Worthless troublemaker. No respect for rules, for the law.

He didn't fight back. There was no point.

So he set up outside, set a small fire and stayed up the night, knowing the late autumn chill would drain his heat if he tried to sleep.

His father's 'character developments' continued until he was sixteen and old enough to fight back. A week before his graduation—he got out as fast as he could—he'd broken curfew; came in a few minutes late to the man sitting in the dark, smoking a cigar, waiting. He said he was sorry he was late, finals studying ran for longer than he'd thought it would.

Time shifted; his father was too close too fast and the next thing he knew was the sticky warmth of someone else on his knuckles. He kept going, kept renewing the wetness until his hands were caked and the body under him relaxed. He walked back out the door, telling the body on the floor that was supposed to be his father that if he ever tried to hurt him again, he'd kill him.

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He'd smirked his way through orientation in the fall. The upperclassmen were too cheerful, too excited about welcoming the freshman. They got paid to do it, and he should have been too for having to listen to their spiel. But finally, finally it was over and he was in his room that was slightly better than a prison cell. His roommate came in, laughed at his age and asked if 'little Gweg' was going to have his mommy walk him to class every day.

He had the kid on the floor in a second with the only useful thing his father had taught him; he kneaded the pressure points until his roommate was all but crying. He let go and watched as his roommate collapsed on the floor. House, he told him, is what he'll be called. His father had wanted to name him Greg.

But the roommate didn't know that; he just knew that his body began screaming every time he moved so he remained on the floor for awhile.

House functioned well in college. There were no expectations to live up to, no real rules to abide by. He was smart, didn't really need to go to class and so turned his attention to other students. He played with them, manipulated them without them knowing; he wanted to know how hard to push, how long he could apply pressure before they snapped.

Playing God was so much more fulfilling than classes.

Eventually he met someone who didn't rattle, who didn't lose their step when he turned his focus to them; she squared her jaw, looked back and lifted her chin, challenged him.

They ran into each other at the library; he lost his virginity in the rare books room on the seventh floor, behind the stacks. She was silent, her shallow breathing the only hint as to their activity.

She walked out first, adjusted her skirt and left him in the dark recovering. The next time they saw one another, she pretended not to know who he was; as he turned away she winked and blew a kiss.

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He didn't tell his parents he got kick—transferred to Michigan. It wasn't until they showed up at John's Hopkins that he gave them the correct address and phone number.

He told his mother that she could visit, that he would show her around campus if she wanted. She became flustered, made up flimsy excuses and didn't call back for a few weeks. When she did, she invented work that would keep her away.

He didn't mind, really; it was clear whose side she had chose. He was a loner by nature, anyway. Everything he did was for himself, by himself. People whispered about him, wondered about him. He tutored dumb undergrads; some signed up to get closer to the mystery that surrounded him.

One girl, nice ass, needed help in Organic Chem; she picked it up quickly. He quizzed her as he went down, questioned between thrusts, only continued if she got it right.

He laughed when she told him how her professor had asked what she'd been doing to turn her grade around so quickly.

He ran his hands through her hair, thick black, and told her it was over. When she was gone, the scent of roses clung to his fingers. He held them to his face, breathed in, and forgot her.

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His internship put to use his insomnia; he used hours that would have been wasted poring over books and journals in several different languages that none of his 'colleagues' would think to read. Most of those who were recruited with him weren't in his league; one, a tall blonde man, was almost at his level, but was too safe. Probably wanted to be a doctor to 'help people,' one of those pediatricians that gets paid lucratively to do basically nothing.

He slept in the on-call room a lot, forgoing the ride home. Not enough time to go home. On some random day, he found himself half-conscious in a bed, staring up at the overstressed springs of the frame above him. His not-quite-lucid mind traced the springs' single-helix pattern; he liked the symmetry, the perfect design that doesn't end or begin. He was almost asleep when a hand crept past his shoulder, buried itself in his hair then cupped a cheek that was, for once, smooth. The hands are smooth but large, attached to an arm with a dusting of downy blonde hair that matches the smooth locks on the other man's head.

The lazy almost-sleep disappeared, replaced with adrenaline, excitement and a tingling shame that brought his father's voice back for a moment; "Queers," it was a snarl, a hate with no logic behind it. House can't hate blindly; there has to be reason, meaning. His dad doesn't need any.

Lips meet his; they're cool and wet and taste like cherry; House's mind replays the image of the man pulling out lifesavers, sticking most of the wrapper in his mouth and using his teeth to free the candy.

House opened his mouth, invited the other man in, massaged, licked and sucked until the cherry taste coated his tongue. Then hands lowered and they touched each other simultaneously, gasping quietly before arriving hot sticky into the others' hand. For a beat they were motionless, blue eyes meeting, talking without sound. But then a pager went off; the other man stood and grabbed one of the packs of tissues (for the criers) and tossed it toward House.

The next day, House expected to see him. When the blonde didn't show, he asked about it. He'd transferred to a hospital in Washington. Yesterday was his last day.

House never knew his name.

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House stood at the center, watched the spiral of symptoms, of disease unwind and found patterns. Found clues. Full-fledged doctors came to him during his residency for help; if he was interested, he took cases. He hated people, but loved their diseases. Loved racing the clock to see who would win; he did, usually.