Disclaimer: I DO NOT own House, unfortunately. All Characters belong to their respective Copyrights.

"You're going to keep practicing medicine?" the stern male voice uttered incredulously. "No one in their right mind would want a useless cripple as their doctor."

House would never forget the shock of hearing these words drip like venom from his father's mouth, the poisonous emphasis behind the statement rendering him speechless. And tonight - on the anniversary of waking up to Stacy's betrayal - he was unable to stop the worn record of the past from replaying over and over in his mind. Since the infarction, he has fought endlessly to disprove the illogical notion that his father was right. He pushed himself above and beyond with each diagnostic case - solving the otherwise unsolvable medical anomalies that were brought to his attention.

Slowly, his faith in his capabilities as a diagnostician returned - leaving behind nothing but a tiny lingering doubt that he buried under arrogance, sarcasm, and aloofness. However, tonight, the doubt resurfaced with a vengeance. His father always had a way of making him feel inadequate and insignificant, using his tongue as a particular weapon of choice. The physical abuse he endured as a child was nothing compared to the verbal knives his father aimed at him when he was down - defenseless and vulnerable.

House rose abruptly from his reclined position on his battered sofa, roughly tossing the cane away from him and watching with satisfaction as it clattered unceremoniously a few meters from his piano bench. Fierce determination ignited like a crackling flame behind his cerulean eyes as he clambered to his feet. He balanced awkwardly on his left leg, holding his breath in preparation for what he was about to do. Tentatively, he moved his mangled right leg ahead of the left without bearing any weight on it. He exhaled the pent-up air in a soft whoosh as he slowly shifted some of his weight to the right leg in an attempt to walk normally. His remaining thigh muscles screamed in protest as they tried to hold the additional strain.

As he took his first hopeful step, a spasm rocked his entire leg, and he collapsed into a heap upon the floor. The limb was totally locked up - an endless cacophony of spasms radiating throughout the offended muscle. His entire being was engulfed by a tsunami of pain, his vulnerable body unable to defend itself against each wave that threatened to pull him toward the dark waters of unconsciousness.

He was pathetic, unlovable, and weak. The possible adequacy of his father's words hit him in the chest like an anvil - further hindering his ability to breathe properly. Well, maybe there was indeed some truth in those cold descriptions of me but not when it comes to my competency as a doctor - I am a damn good doctor, and he will never take that away from me.

House drifted in and out of consciousness for hours – during the brief moments of awareness, he was assaulted by images of his father's physical and mental attacks that slipped through the weak and cracked barriers of his mind. The pounding on his apartment door pierced sharply through the sea of memories – his pain-induced haze interpreting the sound as further torture from his father. He tensed in anxious resignation – unable to retreat from his fetal position on the floor.

"House, open this door right now! I'm giving you thirty seconds and I'm breaking this door down; I mean it!" the muffled voice demanded.

House moaned incoherent words in response, struggling to drag his ailing body backwards – away from the harsh tone seeping through the thin wood. His mind flashed back to a time long ago when his father's reign of terror first started.