Author's Note: For those of you who read "Darkened Wings", the story I posted in 2014, the question arose: "Why did House affect such a sea change on himself?" This story is the answer to that. It was difficult for him to turn away from the "misanthropic bastard". It was an uphill battle, but it was necessary, and he found some willing help. (Working on this story, I felt like I was spending a year in a parallel universe.) Thanks, Betz88

Chapter 1

"Hope is a Useless Emotion"

"THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT".

DON'T TRY TO USE THAT AS AN EXCUSE, DUMBASS, BECAUSE IT'S NOT ONE!

I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL I WAS THINKING WHEN I SPUN THE OLD DYNASTY INTO A NASCAR U-TURN, JAMMED THE GAS PETAL TO THE FLOOR AND AIMED IT UP HER DRIVEWAY. I CRASHED STRAIGHT THROUGH THE BIG WINDOW WALL OF HER DINING ROOM.

MY LEG WAS ALREADY BLOODY, AND NOW MY STOMACH AND RIB CAGE HIT THE STEERING WHEEL WITH AN IMPACT THAT TORE MY BREATH AWAY.

I'VE DONE A LOT OF CRUEL, STUPID AND REPREHENSIBLE THINGS IN MY LIFETIME, BUT THAT ONE … THAT ONE TOOK THE CAKE. THAT ONE WOULD CHALK UP AS THE MOST CRIMINALLY INSANE STUNT I'D EVER PULLED. NO ONE DESERVED THAT. NOT EVEN HER. NOR DID SHE NEED SOMEONE LIKE ME HANGING AROUND HER THREE-YEAR-OLD CHILD. I COULD NOT BLAME THIS FINAL ESCAPADE ON MY PHYSICAL PAIN … ONLY ON THE SCREWED UP NO-MAN'S-LAND INSIDE MY OWN HEAD.

SOMETHING INSIDE MY BRAIN WAS OUT OF WHACK AND NEEDED ADJUSTMENT. BIG TIME!

NOW!

Only a half hour before, I'd parked my car in front of her house with Wilson in it, and got out with the expensive hair brush she'd asked me to return. She'd broken off our love affair … if that's what it was … because she said she couldn't take any more. I questioned that decision inside my own head, but if she wasn't happy, I'd never have any peace.

I picked up the hair brush with the la-de-dah handle, got out of the car while Wilson, sitting in the passenger seat, looked doubtful. I walked toward the house. My bum leg was on fire from its most recent surgery, and the right thigh of my jeans was spongy. My hand came away from it tinged with red. I saw her inside the house with some guy I didn't know. She was smiling and her palm rested lightly on his arm. I turned to walk away. I said nothing.

Pole-axed, I turned and limped back to the car where Wilson was waiting. I tossed the brush onto the dashboard and ordered him out of the car. He looked at me with surprise and worriment on his face. He thought I had simply chickened out. He mumbled something about 'getting my feelings out' …

*Oh yeah, Jimmy. I'm gonna get 'em out. All of 'em. Just watch me!*

He got out of the car with reluctance and stood awkwardly on the sidewalk. I gunned that old engine and yanked the gearshift down to 'drive'. She picked up speed quickly and burned rubber to the end of the block. I jockeyed the brake and spun the wheel in a circle like I was Jimmie Johnson. The ass-end of that old car spun around like a slingshot with a mind of its own, and suddenly I was barreling back the way I had come.

At that moment adrenaline and endorphins fought for dominance and only a major act of violence would sate the red cloak of fury that overtook me. I felt it surging inside, searing pathways to my brain. I wasn't in the real world anymore. I was in the ether, seeing nothing to left or right; racing down a straight, narrow, coruscating blind tunnel that could have but one possible outcome.

Peripherally, I was aware only of a flash of movement; someone scrambling away from the speeding car that careened off the street and up the short driveway, heading hell-bent for the house. Only later did I realize it was Wilson, scurrying aside, taking a nosedive into the hard cement, the Dynasty's front fender missing him by inches.

It dawned on me that I had put six lives in harm's way, including my own. But all I could think of was the humiliation and the anguish and fury I felt at the moment. She called off our relationship and asked me to return the damned hairbrush she left at my apartment, and then paraded another man in front of my face. I should have walked away right then and there. But no. I found her damn brush and, full of virtuous anger, got in my car to return it.

My single-mindedness was in such a state that I barely felt the pain spiraling upward between my knee and hip, and the torn stitches leaking blood that would have dire consequences later. My leg was like a dead weight, but my mind was elsewhere and I didn't care about the pain, or whom I might put in jeopardy. The thought in my mind: *I'll show you, bitch!*

The car hit the house hard and jolted to a stop as the engine quickly died in post-ignition gulps. Reality returned with a vengeance as I saw the crumbling wall and all that vinyl siding coming apart in chunks. I saw the plate glass window as it shattered into a cloudburst of dagger-like splinters all around me.

I slammed into the steering wheel with my gut and rib cage when the drag of broken masonry skidded under the car and stopped it dead. Plaster and torn insulation and pieces of broken furniture cascaded downward, and I fought to regain my wind as small particles of plaster dust rose in the air, and my ability to breathe was knocked to hell and gone.

She was standing in her kitchen, staring in horror and disbelief at the shambles of her dining room.

*What the hell had I done!*

My rage and sense of vengeance were gone. Evaporated. In a daze, I grasped the fancy hair brush, still jammed onto the dashboard. I climbed with unsteady caution out of the front seat and pulled my cane after me. I levered upward, stepping gingerly across the debris field I had created. I thrust the brush into her senseless hands without a word and turned away from the damaged car and the smashed house.

I left then, with as much righteous indignation as I could possibly muster. Across the broken threshold, down the slight incline of her front lawn, and onto the grit-speckled sidewalk.

My stomach was in my throat and the intensity of the leg pain came rushing back. I felt as though I might collapse. My ribcage throbbed like someone had hit me with a sledge hammer. I knew I deserved it. I hobbled to the sidewalk and stopped short. Schooling my face to an expression of blameless satisfaction, I stared into the ashen, astonished visage of my walking conscience.

James Wilson stood before me, hunched over his injured arm. I had caused this pain to the only friend I had left in the world, and I was ashamed. Mortified. But I could not let him know that I was anything except contemptuous.

We exchanged a few terse words, but I don't remember much what they were.

Except: "How's that for 'getting my feelings out'?"

I stomped away from him, saving face in the best imitation of unholy passion, righteous fury, and one-upmanship I had ever attempted. I left him hurt and speechless and stunned with confusion. I abandoned the scene of destruction as though I might have been only a curious passerby.

Down the street and around the corner, I phoned for a cab to take me back to my apartment. I was without medication, and the agony in my leg was escalating to the point of debilitation. The dark blood-stain on my pant leg was seeping downward toward my knee. I had to get home and do some fast and necessary repairs and some quick decision making.

It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

I unlocked my front door and staggered down the hallway to the bathroom. The pain was excruciating: in my leg and my gut and my heart.

*What the hell is wrong with me?*

I pulled my pants down and sat on the commode lid staring at the wreckage. With my knee bent and my jeans puddled on the floor, the saturated surgical dressings dripped steadily on the jeans and the small throw rug beneath them. A thin line of red that trickled down my lower leg made it look like it had been slit down its length. My sock was stained darkly. The whole scenario began to turn my stomach. My shoes were not bloodied. I took them off and tossed them across the room. The right sock was saturated beyond redemption. I leaned forward painfully and pulled them off.

*Jesus!*

I was getting light-headed, not due to being squeamish, but I was sickened by the poisonous thoughts whirling in my head. The realization was that I had committed a criminal act, and there might soon be police knocking on my door.

I sat mesmerized, watching the bright dollops of red as they dripped steadily off the skin of my leg and puddled on the ruined pants. I must tend the wound and stem the loss of blood before I lost enough to go into shock. I was already beginning to get the shakes. My body was telling me it had had more than enough. Further trauma immediately after surgery was never an acceptable phenomenon.

My fingers were stiff, my arms unwilling to move. My vision was losing and regaining focus … in and out … my mind replaying over and over, the scenario of an hour ago …

*Was it only an hour?*

In my mind, the images ran again and again: the fishtailing of that old car down the middle of the street, the squeal of tires and the smoke from burning rubber as I gunned it like a Kamika'ze pilot on a suicide run. Had I been trying that hard to kill myself? Or her? With Wilson as collateral damage?

*Oh God!*

My head kept replaying it … hitting the wall and the spray of debris exploding into the air.

I pressed my hand to my stomach and slid it around to my side in an almost mechanical gesture of exploration. I could feel the tenderness of the bruises that were spreading there, even now. I lifted my shirt to the sight of blotched red and purple skin. And I continued to stare unfocused at the slow drip of my own blood, gently spiraling down and away from the darkly saturated bandages.

I must get the dressings off, check to see what was left of the freshly administered stitches, if anything. Patch it up if I could. Bind it securely for the night if I couldn't. The pain was a steady drumbeat; a rolling thunder.

Also, I didn't want to go to jail. If they arrested me, they might have to carry me. But in my mind I deserved anything I got.

Finally I unwound the soaked bandage and took a quick inventory of things I had to fix. The surgical wound had partly reopened; tiny dark edges of skin indicating where the stitches had been. I picked up a loose end of suture and drew it out. At least two pulled stitches. Not good, but not a disaster. There were probably more. They'd had to cut deep into the meat of my thigh, above the original scar to remove the damn tumors.

One or two of the tiny subcutaneous sutures were blown also, which was where all the blood was coming from. I wasn't about to dive in there and try to extract any of them. They would dissolve later on their own. I would have to press the edges of skin together and tape it. I had to wrap it securely in order to keep it from opening again. That meant I couldn't walk, or else it would open right back up again.

*Fuck!*

I grabbed toilet paper from the roll and wrapped it around and around my hand until the entire roll was gone. The thick pad that resulted would have to do to keep me from bleeding all over everything until I could dig my first aid kit out of my wardrobe in the bedroom. I eased upward on one foot and hop-stepped across to the doorway.

I returned to the bathroom the same way and plopped back onto the john lid, kicking the jeans and socks and rug into the corner and smearing a trail of blood across the floor.

I had plenty of adhesive tape, gauze and antiseptic. There were bottles of hydrogen peroxide, iodine and Merthiolate; two rolls of wide elastic bandage, two rolls of adhesive tape, and a vial of purloined Vicodin I'd forgotten was there. I had to get up to wet a hand towel with warm water and anti-bacterial soap, and I did that with the pad of toilet paper still pressed against the wound. Back on the john, I examined the wound again. Blood flow was easing a bit and I was relieved. I cleansed around the edges where blood was encrusted, and patted it dry. I painted the site with Merthiolate, but some of it leaked directly into the wound and I howled with pain.

"OW-W-W … !"

I used three strips of adhesive tape over three gel-pads and a thick layer of gauze to draw the edges back together. They'd shaved the skin when they did the surgery, so there were no stray hairs to get caught under the tape. I held everything in place and straightened my leg before me so I could utilize both elastic bandages to stabilize it temporarily.

From just below my knee to just above the new incision, I wrapped it, not so tightly that it cut off the circulation, but tight enough to keep the tape in place and draw the edges together. The pain was incredible, and I knew I could not bend my knee without the chance that the edges would separate again and I would be right back where I started. I would have to be very careful for weeks.

No thoughts of Wilson intruded now, or the broken wall of her house. Or how I might retrieve my old car from the hole in the wall where it laid, wounded and hopeless … like me.

As much as I hated to do it, I stood up again and hop-stepped back to the bedroom to retrieve the old, squeaky aluminum crutches from infarction days, which I used as I stumbled around to clean up the mess I'd made and put the bloody clothing into a garbage bag to take it … who-the-hell knew where …

I grabbed another garbage bag; a little bigger than the last one, and pulled it over my foot and up my leg, and fastened it an inch or so below my crotch. I struggled out of the rest of my clothing and got into the shower. For a long time I stood beneath water as hot as I could stand it until the residual blood stains ran down the drain. Across the right side of me, the skin was black and blue and dark shades of purple. Thank god there were no broken ribs, or I would be done for. But the souvenirs of my idiocy were readily apparent. I treated the area very tenderly.

I dressed slowly with a lot of 'ouching', in a pair of old casual pants that did nothing to conceal the clumsy bandaging on my leg. Clean tee shirt, clean socks and no shoes.

Later, I propped myself on the couch, fortified with the serendipitous Vicodin, and let the hellfire in my abused leg calm down a little. The old crutches lay propped against the other end of the couch and a bed pillow cushioned and elevated my leg. The left shoe was on the floor in front of the couch and the right one was stuffed in my backpak. My cane was stuffed in there too, half of it sticking out the top.

There was a half glass of Scotch sitting near my elbow.

I dragged the phone onto my lap and laid my passport beside it. I had a note pad and pen close by. Arrangements must be made. I called the airline in Newark first, and made round-trip reservations to San Juan. The police had not knocked on my door yet, but I had decided to fly the coop for a time and let them have at the island of Puerto Rico. Even though I wouldn't be there. Maybe they wouldn't discover that I'd ferreted out one of the many 'fly-for-cash' pilots I knew were working there, and ferrying people all over the many islands in the vicinity.

The cops never did show up at my door that day. I wondered why, but didn't ask any stupid questions to make myself appear more vulnerable than I already was. I thought about calling Wilson to see how he was doing. But that would only invite more of his monotonous judgmental recriminations, and I didn't want to hear another lecture. I knew he was still breathing when I walked away from him, and that had to be good enough for now.

I called Vince Crane at the Jeep-Chrysler dealership where I'd bought the Dynasty many years before. Told him he'd find the car at the Princeton Police impound lot. The keys were in it. I asked him to send a roll-back to get it out of there and repair it. I didn't care what it cost; I would send a certified check to get the work started and pay the balance when I picked up the car … probably in about a year … after my leg healed. Again. I told him the check would be in the amount of five grand, certainly enough to cover most of it. I also told him to cash the check quickly, because I was planning to shut down both of my accounts the next day.

Vince didn't ask questions. He knew me better than that, and he could get the rest of the story from the cops … or Wilson … if he wanted it.

The other item on the list was a lot longer. I needed to put some things into storage because I wanted to hang onto them. The rest of the junk I had accumulated over the years was to be sold to the highest bidder. The sooner the better. That list included the baby grand, the Repsol , the stove and the fridge. Odds and ends as well.

I wanted to keep the big bed, the old leather couch, the butcher block table from the kitchen, all my medical books, all my guitars, and my sound system and the collection of vintage vinyl. Couldn't get along without those …

Everything on the "to-sell" list was to be used as payment to the firm for storing everything else. I made arrangements to store the keeper stuff for a year, and kissed everything else goodbye. The guy I talked to agreed readily, and we made arrangements for them to move everything out within three days hence. When we rang off, I knew he was seeing dollar signs in front of his eyes.

The following morning I packed two suitcases and my old blue backpak. I stuffed my passport and wallet and a big wad of cash into the front zipper compartment. By the time I finished, my leg was killing me and I knew I would have to meet the taxi on crutches. The top of my cane stuck out of the backpak like an FM antenna, but it was too long to push down any further. I would not leave it behind, because I intended to use it again very soon.

I called the corporation that handled the lease on the apartment and gave the place up, to take effect in exactly one week. The keys would be on the ledge over the front door. I called utility companies to switch everything off. I called to shut down my bank accounts exactly seven days hence, and requested that a certified check for the amount remaining at that time, be made out in my name to Western Union, San Juan, Puerto Rico.

I waited out front for the taxi. For the right remuneration the driver was more than willing to load my suitcases and assist me into the car's back seat, stiff leg, old blue backpak, squeaky crutches and all. He was surprisingly considerate and careful not to hurt me, and at the airport I gave him a twenty dollar tip.

Suddenly I was a rolling stone. Free as the breeze to do as I please.

Homeless and hopeless and helpless.

What a hell of a way to begin a grand adventure …

7