Summary: A lot of mom's leave some thing meaningful with their kids. A car, money, a house, memories. All my mom gave me was a disease. Thirteen-centric character study.

Disclaimer: I do not own House MD (damn!).

A/N: This popped in to my head after the last episode of House, "Let Them Eat Cake." If you haven't seen that episode, I wouldn't suggest reading this. I have also almost completed chapter 2 of Music Makes It Easier and it will hopefully be uploaded by tonight or tomorrow. I also made up some futuristic information towards the end. Hope you guys don't mind :)

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I left New York when I was 31, after finishing med school and my internship. New Jersey didn't scream excitement to me, but it would be...different.

Here, I didn't have to be Remy Hadley- daughter of a psychopath.

I didn't have to be that 'poor kid' that lost her mom (truth was, I didn't have her to begin with. You can't lose what you don't have).

I didn't have to be at risk for the very thing that made her a psychopath.

I didn't have to be the former 10-year-old daughter wishing her mom would just die already.

Hell, I didn't even have to have asthma!

No one had to know. And for a while, nobody did know. I was a number. A number with very low chances of being chosen out of a bunch, but I was.

And my first thought was that I would finally get revenge.

My mom wanted to be a doctor.

That was part of the reason why I decided to become one. Not because I would 'carry on her dream', but because I wanted to do better than her. Because I wanted to show off. Her favorite thing to tell me was that I was a good-for-nothing little bitch. So I decided to get my revenge on her by doing what she couldn't do. Too bad she isn't around to see it. Then again, if she was around to see it, she wouldn't be dead.

She wouldn't have had Huntingtons.

She wouldn't have had what made her crazy.

And maybe I'd be doing what I really wanted to do instead of getting my revenge.

Her picture was in my wallet because I forgot to take it out after I got on the plane.

Before I got on, my dad gave it to me and told me that 'she was beautiful before it started killing her, and I want you to have this.'

I wanted to punch him in the stomach. I didn't, though. I just smirked and thanked him softly before I got on the plane.

Why did he give it to me?

Did he think it would make up for all the years I spent having to deal with her?

All the years that I spent not understanding it?

One picture can't make up for 11 and 1/6 years- exactly. But I didn't tell him that. I just slipped it into my wallet and forgot it was even there.

At least I could still forget.

I'm not sure what upset me more.

The fact that my dad thought the picture would help.

Or the fact that House found the picture while stealing from me.

I wondered how long he'd known my mom was dead. And I wished he wouldn't have known. He knew, which meant the others would pick up on it at some point.

I didn't want to be the daughter of a psychopath.

I wanted to be Thirteen.

Just a plain ol' number out of forty, just any old person, some one who's past and current well-being shouldn't matter to you.

When I realized he knew who my mom was and what she died from, I was forced to face the odds.

There was a 50% chance I'd be going crazy any time now, too.

But that also meant a 50% chance that I wasn't.

So even when there was an opportunity for me to find out, I threw caution to the wind and told myself that chance would have to duel it out.

Even though House knew, and made it well-known amongst the others that I might have Huntingtons, I ignored it.

I didn't have Huntingtons. I couldn't. I was a doctor. Doctor's don't get sick.

If I had Huntingtons, that meant I would slowly start to go crazy.

I would lose control of my body and every thing around it and inside it.

And I would die a slow, horrible death.

I couldn't have Huntingtons.

Some people get it. But I didn't. Like heart attacks or getting hit by a bus. It just doesn't happen. It's not going to happen to me. What were the odds?

50%

...damn statistics.

If I had Huntingtons, then my mom was right.

We would burn in hell together. That's where people "like us" belong.

Then, Amber died.

And I was left with a choice; face what I had been pretending didn't exist my whole life, or lose taking revenge on it.

I decided to face it. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

As I looked at the paper, I greatly resented that question.

People will always tell you to be positive.

What happens when positive is the very thing that will kill you? I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. No one but me had to know. I could still just be Thirteen, or maybe , to the people around me.

The only comforting part of sharing a last name with my mom was the fact that my dad had given it to her to begin with.

It was just a name, any ways.

It's not like any of them knew my mom.

The first time I actually introduced myself by my name was when I visited a young girl's house to find her parents.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Remy Hadley."

It came out before I could stop it. And it wasn't even the right house.

Why did I do that?

Because Remy Hadley was who she was, reguardless of whether or not she liked it.

Reguardless of where she was living.

She had Huntingtons, and moved to New Jersey from New York.

She had asthma.

And even if you called her by a different name,

by a different number or even by a catch phrase,

she was going to be who she was.

The daughter of a psychopath who was slowly going psycho herself and couldn't stop it.

Even if the people around me didn't know, it would still be happening.

So I told them my name.

House said "almost dying changes nothing."

But House was wrong. At least, in my case. I guess I threw him off some how.

I almost died taking medications to please a patient.

It didn't matter, any ways. I took enough drugs just about every night. The other people there were completely innocent.

Then, I went into kidney failure. And I couldn't do it.

I couldn't kill myself.

I had no problem with dying. But the murderer was right; "You want to die, you just don't want for it to be in your control."

Even if it wasn't completely in my control to begin with. But I guess I convinced him.

He didn't make me take it.

"Almost dying changes nothing. Dying changes every thing."

I almost died.

But maybe he was still right. Maybe almost dying made me realize I was dying.
Made me realize what it was like.

So I agreed to the Huntingtons trials I had previously declined.

The patient that sat in the waiting room with me nearly scared me to death the first time I saw her.

She was the picture in my wallet.

With the same jerky motions.

She didn't appear to have gone entirely insane, and was quiet for the most part.

But every time I saw her, I was waiting for a toaster to fly.

I told Foreman it was because the idea of knowing I was going to have to go through that scared the hell out of me.

I lied. House taught him nothing if he never learned how to detect a lie.

It didn't freak me out about my future.

It freaked me out about my past.

I still had a past. I'd still lived in New York with an insane mother and an even more insane father.

Even more insane for falling in love with her and expecting me to love her, too.

A lot of children get some thing cool from their parents.

A car.

Money.

A house.

Memories.

What did I get from my mom?

I got a disease. A disease that would kill me slowly and painfully. A disease that would eat away my mind until I didn't know up from down any more.

Thanks, mom.

Later, I confessed to Foreman.

I told him it freaked me out about my past.

That I'd wanted my mother to die.

My own mother.

She couldn't help what she was doing.

She was going through it, too.

And yet, I'd wanted her to die.

I didn't need any sympathy.

And even if I needed it, I didn't deserve it.

But I started crying, any ways.

Because I was scared, guilty, and alone.

Alone.

Maybe not any more.

Hell, maybe I should make friends with that lady in the waiting room with me.

Maybe it would ease my guilt.

Maybe she would be a better friend than I could anticipate.

So I did.

Her name was Janice.

My mother's name was Robin.

And they were two completely different people.

Then again, I wasn't growing up with her.

She didn't have kids.

But being friends with her still made me feel better.

Six months into the drug trial, the medicine was actually beginning to work.

My nerves had stopped degenerating.

Foreman told me my brain should be fine if I kept on it.

I asked him how Janice was, because she hadn't been there for a few days.

"She died." he stated hesitantly.

I tried not to look like I was about to cry, but I think I did any ways because he hugged me.

My first thought was that I didn't deserve to be cured.

I'd wanted my mother to die from it, and now my friend had died from it.

She may even have been my best friend.

Why should I live and they die?

"Because they'd want you to." whispered Foreman.

I hugged him tighter.

After another six months, my nerves started to regrow.

Some chemicals in the medicine apparently 'reboot' your creation system, and cause your nerves to regrow.

I didn't care.

I wasn't dying.

Foreman hugged me and kissed my cheek when we found out.

Then my neck.

And then my lips...

I realized it was the first time in a long time I'd been with a man.

I took a genetic test the next day.

HUNTINGTONS................NEG.

I smiled, giggled and tossed it away.

"Foreman?" I questioned later that day, getting a quirked brow. "Are you available this weekend?"

He hugged me around my shoulders.

"I'm available now. "

"Good. Then I'm taking you out to your favorite restaraunt."

"You're...taking me out?" he chuckled.

"Mmhm."

"Most girl's I date want to be taken out."

"You've obviously never dated me."

So I guess I got more from my mom, after all.

And as deep as that sounds...

I've still got to figure out what exactly that was.