Chapter 13

"House," Kutner said furiously, through gritted teeth. "I can take your pranks, I can take the abuse….I mean, spitting cranberry juice on me is one thing, scaring the crap out of me in the morgue was funny and all… but, God, what is wrong with you? Why the hell would you even say something like that to me right now? To anyone? I don't-"

"Kutner!" House interrupted, causing Kutner to break off mid-sentence. He sat down in the other chair across from Kutner and looked at him carefully and seriously. Kutner had never seen that look on House's face before. His boss's eyes were filled with remorse, desperation, sorrow…no, more like pity. He didn't like it. House shouldn't have that look. As much as everyone wished he would be kind and emotional, it didn't work for him. House should never have that look. House should be irritable, snarky, abrasive. His eyes should be twinkling with mischief or gleaming with a medical epiphany. This was not right. His heart began to race.

House sighed and looked Kutner squarely in the eye. He couldn't waver now. "Kutner, I actually wish this was a joke; it wouldn't be a very good one, and I'd be going straight to hell for it, but at least it wouldn't be real. I wish I wasn't telling you this; I wish it wasn't true. Your parents…Tritter said they were found yesterday, about the time you were in surgery."

"No, they weren't…" Kutner whispered, shaking his head. He had to keep the words from reaching his ears. A blurry memory flashed behind his eyes: "Sorry they got in the way; it was just supposed to have been you…"

"The police said it was just like how you were attacked. I don't know who did it, or why they did it, but obviously they tried to kill you, too, and we have to-"

"No," Kutner managed to choke out, louder this time, to drown out House's words. He continued to shake his head negatively. The black dots were still dancing in front of his eyes, and he felt himself grow hot, then cold, then hot once again. Calm down, none of this is real. It's the surgery, it's a reaction to the morphine, it's all in my head. There's just no way this happened again…

"Dr. Kutner," Tritter spoke up quietly. "I'm sorry, but House is telling the truth. I am so sorry for your loss."

Wilson piped up gently, "I know this is difficult, Kutner, but we need you to try to stay calm."

"NO!" Kutner yelled, snapping to his feet. He nearly lost his balance as the dots continued to cloud his sight, but he reached out to catch himself on his IV pole before he fell. He was on the verge of hyperventilating. "I don't believe any of this! My birthparents are the ones that died! Not them. You didn't talk to them, you don't know them. They're fine! They'll be here any minute and you'll see!"

House stood slowly, his hands up. Kutner was breathing heavily, his eyes wild and unfocused. He began muttering nonsense about the Kutners' 35th wedding anniversary and how they were going to celebrate this week. House had a feeling he wasn't really seeing any of them. He looked at Wilson, passing a message to him with his eyes, and the oncologist easily interpreted it. He discreetly began to move to the supply cart to get a sedative while House occupied Kutner. Tritter seemed to be at a loss. He wasn't entirely sure if he should help or if he should stay out of the doctors' way. As a cop in the field, he had physically brought down panicked criminals before. But he wasn't sure if the methods he used in those situations were entirely appropriate for an unarmed, injured young man who was getting the worst news of his life.

"Kutner, you need to sit down, ok?" House said. He tried his damndest to make his voice sound as low and soothing as possible, but it still sounded like gravel to his ears. He began to slowly limp forward, his hands in front of him, open and ready.

"Stay away from me, House! All you do is lie!" Kutner yelled. Another flash within his brain: A familiar store, his father patiently showing him how to work the price gun. Instructing him to price the merchandise and put it on the bottom shelf while he brought out more boxes. He is so happy to help. He suddenly hears the loud voices near the front of the store. He peeks out from behind the rows of shelving and sees someone yelling at his mother as she fumbles behind the register. She seems to reach for something below the counter and the stranger yells again and a loud pop his heard, then another right afterwards. He sees his mother's body jerk as a red splash comes out of her blouse, then she disappears behind the counter. He can't move. He can't speak. He saw something like that on TV once, but his mother scolded him for watching it. He sees his father run up with a baseball bat, screaming without words. Another three pops and he can't see him anymore. The stranger runs around to the register and breaks it open. He watches the man shove fistfuls of his parents' money into his pockets, and he learns the man's face. He will never forget the face. The man finishes looting and runs out onto the street, not knowing that he left someone alive inside, a six-year-old boy who had just wanted to help his parents in their store.

Kutner shook the memory away. He didn't want that in his head. Not now. House saw Kutner falter and reached out, making a grab for Kutner's arm. Unfortunately, the fact remained that House was a cripple with only one good leg. Kutner recovered himself before House could seize him, managed to throw him off balance, violently jerking away. He barely felt the IV needle rip its way out of his arm as he lunged for the door, knocking over one of the chairs in the process. He had to get out of that room before the walls fell in on him. They have to be here somewhere…I'll go find them and bring them back and House will have to admit he's wrong. The sudden action startled everyone – House attempted to right himself, Wilson fumbled around with the syringe full of enough tranquilizer to bring down a bull elephant while making his way across the room, Tritter immediately followed after Kutner into the hallway.

The security guard had been so surprised at the sudden appearance of Dr. Kutner, he had been unable to catch him as he bolted for the lobby. "Sir, stop, you need to remain in your room!" he called futilely. Tritter crashed into him as he barreled out of the hospital room. "Call security, tell them to head him off, but they need to be careful! He's not a danger to anyone but himself." Tritter wheezed as he disentangled himself from the young man. House and Wilson both raced past them after Kutner, and Tritter couldn't help but marvel how quickly a man could limp.

Right as Kutner was about to burst through the doors from the IC-Unit, he stumbled into Taub coming in, out of breath from lugging his middle-aged body up four flights of stairs to the intensive care ward. Taub was completely speechless upon seeing Kutner falling into his arms, but his surprise quickly turned to alarm. Kutner was ashen again, clammy with perspiration. His eyes were wild and he had some blood staining his hospital gown, but Taub was unsure if it was the result of ripped stitches or from the nasty cut dripping on his arm where his IV needle had been forcefully jerked out of his vein. It was obvious that Kutner was in a full-fledged panic attack. Oh, God, this is it…Taub realized in horror.

"T-Taub!" Kutner gasped as he gripped the shorter mans shoulders, digging his nails into Taub's jacket. "You w-won't believe…what they t-told me – House and… and the cop – they s-said m-m-my…" He winced at the tightness in his chest as tears forced their way out of his eyes. He could not catch his breath; no matter how hard he inhaled, he felt like his lungs simply refused to fill up. "S-said my parents were – were- d-dead!" He finally managed to choke out those terrible words. The effort had nearly depleted his strength. His eyesight was now blurred and almost warped. He felt like he was looking down through a tunnel, or the fish-eye peephole in a door. Taub put his arms out to steady Kutner.

"Kutner, please," Taub said, as quietly and calmly as his frightened brain would let him. "Let's go back into your room and talk, ok? You can tell me what they said in there. You need to calm down, buddy. Please." As he focused on Kutner, he could see House, Wilson, and Tritter of all people, just beyond them. All three were worried, their bodies tightly coiled like springs, ready to leap into action at Taub's signal.

"No, no…Taub," Kutner gave him a little shake as he tried to articulate what he wanted through his shuddering hiccups. "I need – you to t-tell me – tell me they're not…" He couldn't bring himself to say it again. "Everybody l-lies, but you – you won't lie to m-me, right? Not about, not about this. It c-can't happen again. P-please - Chris. Tell me!" Kutner looked at him with eyes so full of hope, of dread. He was looking to his friend to save him again from the abyss that was opening up in front of him, like he had done the day before when his lifeblood was pouring out of his body. And Taub knew that the lie he wanted to hear was much nicer than the truth, but it didn't keep it from being a lie. And he wouldn't lie to Kutner. Not about this. Not again.

"I'm so sorry… they're gone, Kutner…" he whispered, his own eyes filling with tears as he watched his words rend the young man's soul into a million tiny shards. And he hated himself at that moment more than anything or anyone else in the world. He wasn't able to be the hero this time.

Kutner felt his world begin to slip sideways and grow suddenly dim. He couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't stand anymore. He could feel Taub holding onto him, speaking gently to him, then another pair of hands joining in guiding him gently to the floor; he could feel a small pinch from a needle; he could hear House flinging obscenities at someone. As he felt an odd heaviness and quiet come over his body, before oblivion set in, the rest of the memory came unbidden to his mind, though changed now.

There is a little Indian boy, only six-years old, standing bewildered and lost. His name is Lawrence Choudhray and he is looking at the bloody bodies of his parents, murdered in a robbery. They lay where they have fallen, eyes open and cold, unseeing. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't understand. A young man stands next to him, a young man approaching thirty but still with a boy's face, also of Indian descent, also bewildered and lost. His name is Lawrence Kutner. He is looking at the bloody bodies of his parents, a Caucasian couple who adopted him at the age of nine, murdered in their own home, because….well, he's not sure why or when. They lay where they have fallen, eyes open and cold, unseeing. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't understand. The younger Lawrence looks to him for an explanation, which he doesn't have, with desperate, tear-filled eyes that have seen far too much evil for one still so innocent. It hurts to breathe. He's covered in blood, but he's not sure what body it belongs to. He realizes in horror that it's a mixture of all four victims that stains his clothes. Then he realizes there is no young Lawrence anymore. There are no bodies anymore. There is only Kutner. He is alone, surrounded by the blood of those who had loved him, which fades into black shadow. Then there is only the welcoming darkness.