A/N: I refuse to believe that Thirteen's real name is Rema, so I'm sticking with Remy in this fic. If you want to be all total-canon, that's your problem.
Disclaimer: I don't own Thirteen, David Shore does.
Thirteen was secretive enough to have had a girlfriend the whole time she was working for House. Before, as well. Her name was Kate, and she was perfect. Her blonde hair smelled like strawberries all the time, even after sex, when the sweat was supposed to take over. But no, she always smelled like strawberries. And she had a little tattoo of two butterflies on her neck, right next to the carotid artery. The two butterflies used to mean Remy and Kate. Now Thirteen wasn't sure what they meant.
She called herself Thirteen even in her head. Kate had taken Remy with her.
It was her first time alone in the apartment in a little less than a year. She paced around, at a loss as for what to do. Television was for people like House; movies were for people like Kutner; going out for a drink alone was for people like Taub…really, what could she do? Glancing at the bookshelf, Thirteen sighed and plucked off one of her favorite books. Then she remembered why it had been one of her favorites: right there, on the flyleaf, was Kate's handwriting:
Remy, my love,
I know you asked me not to acknowledge your birthday, so pretend I'm just giving you this present because I'm so sweet.
Thirteen smiled at the double entendre. The smile faded as the pain struck her and the enormity of her aloneness struck her. Kate was gone. Thirteen had driven her away with her late nights and snappy remarks; the promises that they would 'have perfect, perfect sex tomorrow'. It was always tomorrow.
It was her second time alone in the apartment: forty-eight hours since Kate had slammed the door with a suitcase in tow, and Thirteen still didn't know what to do with herself. She eventually went to bed, but couldn't sleep. She'd run out of sleeping pills the night before, and was too listless to go to the drugstore for a refill. She'd called in sick to work, saying she wouldn't be there for another week, and endured snide remarks from House over the phone. She'd had enough. Storming to the kitchen, she stood in front of the refrigerator, then began to eat. She ate bread straight from the freezer, only waiting long enough for it to defrost before tearing it into chunks and chewing maniacally. This was followed by two slices of cheese (one cheddar, one mozzarella) and a few chocolate cookies. But the hole in her heart wouldn't fill up. Thirteen felt hopeless.
No, she was hopeless.