House still had four nights to go before he was allowed home. He didn't ask Wilson to let him stay. Four nights was too long. Three would be better. After school, House, Wilson and Cuddy went to the park. House pulled a bottle out of his faded blue rucksack.

"Anyone else want some?" he said, swinging a mouthful of scotch from the bottle. Cuddy reached for it, and the two made faces at each other as it burned their throats. Wilson hesitated. But took the bottle when House raised his eyebrow. Wilson spluttered over the fiery liquid. The other two laughed. The three teenagers sat on the grassy hill, staring out over the city.

"Do you ever wander what goes on in other people's houses?" Cuddy asked "I've been thinking recently, how much even the most normal looking people hide."

"I reckon most people have pretty ordinary secrets. But everybody lies" House said dreamily, looking at the changing, darkening clouds, swigging from the scotch bottle. He drank most of in within about forty five minutes on his own. He downed the last few centimetres in one gulp and pulled a bottle of whiskey from his rucksack. "What?" he asked as Wilson tutted at him. House tipped the bottle back and swallowed three times. He belched, passing the bottle to Cuddy.

"House, you're going to get really drunk. And I don't want to babysit you all night" Wilson warned.

"Go home then! Both of you. Just go away" House snapped. Cuddy and Wilson exchanged glances, shocked by his sudden change in mood.

"We can't just leave you here"

"Why not, everyone else does" he slurred, standing up. He swayed slightly then walked away from them. "Don't you dare follow me" he yelled, disappearing into the bushes.

"Should we-?" Cuddy asked

"No, there's no helping him once he gets like this. In a few minutes he'll be trying to pick a fight and if we're the only ones here it'll be with us. I'd rather not get into another House fight, and he would hate it if I let you see him like that."

"The photos I've seen of his drunken party nights show him having a lot more fun than that"

"Yeah, that's in his jello shots and beers stage. As soon as he hits whiskey, he's gone and everyone who values their brain cells leaves him alone." Wilson sighed. "He'll be okay. Let me walk you home."

"You can't let him sleep out here!"

"He'll be at mine smashing up flower beds and shouting before long"

"Are you sure?" Cuddy asked. Wilson nodded

"House, we're leaving. Come back to mine in a couple of hours" Wilson shouted

"F- off!" they heard the yell from a distance away. Wilson took Cuddy's arm and led her away, back to her house.

House was alone with the alcohol and a sachet of weed. He rolled the drugs and lit the end with his red lighter. Taking deep draughts, he began to feel the shake in his hands stop. He closed his eyes and lay back on the grass. Nothing could hurt him up on the hill, staring at the night sky. He didn't need them, not Wilson or Cuddy or his father. No, he was fine on his own. Better on his own. Friendship just got in the way. Why did they have to choose New Jersey to settle down? Why not England or Hong Kong or Pakistan? Somewhere interesting that father travelled to? Because in New Jersey there were other teenagers who seemed to care about him. He'd been at the school for a year, longer than any other. Other schools it alternated between having to leave because his father was stationed somewhere else and expulsion. House's father hardly ever actually beat him, but he did when House got expelled. The first time he got expelled, he was nine. House couldn't help slipping into the memory.

"You. Are. A. Stupid. Pathetic. Naughty. Arrogant. Insolent. Little. Idiot." the man yelled, punctuating every word with a punch to his son's bloody, tear stained face. Gregory couldn't stand how much it hurt. He was sobbing, trying desperately not to fall over with each blow. He'd been told to stand. "Stop crying you little girl!"

"I'm sorry, father, I'm sorry" Gregory begged. John House delivered a killer punch to the boy's jaw, and Gregory collapsed.

"Fine, you leave me no choice" the man hissed. He couldn't comfortably punch the child on the floor. He undid his belt and Gregory began to shake uncontrollably.

"Please, please, please" he begged in a whisper "please"

"Shut up" John House raised the belt above his head and brought the strap down across his son's back. Gregory pulled himself into the foetal position, protecting his head and front. He could feel blood dripping from his nose and lip, and felt his mashed face brush against his knees with every blow of the belt. He couldn't stop crying. After what seemed like hours, his father yanked his t-shirt up over his head. His back was covered in crisscrossing, thick, bright red stripes. He was still shaking. John wasn't done. He had never truly beaten his son, considering him too young. But this would be done properly. The kid had wasted a semester school fees. He had three weeks to recover before he started a new school. Blythe was away. It was the perfect opportunity to release all the anger he had been carrying around. His own personal, snivelling punching bag. John House turned the belt around so he held the strap. The heavy brass buckle hit the soft flesh to the left side of the boy's spine, the strip of metal flicking back and cutting deep. Gregory screamed and arched his back, trying to get away from the pain that was part of him. Ten more times the belt buckle cut into his back, until blood trickled down onto the linoleum floor. Gregory couldn't move properly, crying in a disheveled ball on the kitchen floor. John House lent down to whisper in his son's ear

"You will never, ever be good enough, Gregory House. You will always fail" Gregory whimpered. John left the room, leaving his bleeding nine year old sobbing on the floor. Gregory pulled himself across the room and took shelter under the kitchen table.

'Don't think about it', House told himself, remembering the countless scars on his back. 'You aren't that boy anymore'. But he was, deep down, he would never be able to forget the sobbing little boy cowering under the kitchen table, blood dripping from him onto the floor. House took another drag of the weed, followed by a swig of the whiskey. At the end of the joint, he fell asleep in the bushes.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, House stirred, his head protesting. He looked mournfully at the two empty bottles next to him, rubbing his throbbing eyes. He rolled over and vomited into the bushes. Only one or two specks got on his Led Zeppelin t-shirt. He realised how badly he stank. He was still wearing the same clothes he had slept in two nights in a row. House pulled himself up and stuffed the bag of weed into the pocket of his shabby blue rucksack.