Author's Note: This is another multi-chapter, multi-character feeling analysis by moi. I truly enjoy getting inside of these people's minds, so stay with me. Princessklutz04, Behind Blue Eyes is originally sung by The Who and that's the version I like/use. Just an FYI. (I'm a big sucker for old music…my friends hate me for it. )

No one knows what it's like

To be hated

It was the colored picture of a black man in an orange jumper that had been bothering him all night. Foreman had a glass of red wine in one hand and the picture of his younger self staring back hauntingly at him. The wine tasted horribly—too young, too old, too layered? He wasn't an oenophile and never liked pretentious wine. He had grown up "on the streets;" he wasn't a surgeon's son like Chase and thus had no taste for wine. Except for now, when wine was the only alcohol in the house, he never drank it. But Cory Lind, former lock-picker and present dead man, made him crave the alcohol. Drunk did not start to describe how much he wanted to be lost tonight.

Foreman had gone, on House's order, to check on Chase in Lind's room. Taking a medical history should not take a half an hour, House and Foreman both knew that, but it was Foreman (of course) who had to go and drag Chase out of the room.

He had never seen Chase so…emotional. His eyes were watery and Foreman knew it was not from some allergic reaction or sinus infection—he had left without answering why he had taken so long, leaving a bewildered Foreman with a very wrinkled man looking back at him.

"I've got a few hours more out of this life and a few more lives to change," the old black man murmured.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I was fifteen and I stole $300 worth of jewelry from some rich lady's house. Her dog bit me in the leg and I was tried. Got myself a plea deal and got off with community service. I became a distinguished lawyer. But the obstacles in life are what makes a man learn from mistakes and experience."

Foreman had stared at the man and saw the papyrus that was his skin. He saw the hairless head and sly grin. He saw himself in forty years and he shivered.

He stared into the glass of wine and looked at the reflection of a rippled man. He thought back to Cory.

"It's hard, isn't? To gain the respect of people once they know you're a…criminal," Lind spit the word out with a venomous passion.

"How…"

"Take a seat, my dear Dr. Foreman. We need to talk."

Foreman still didn't remember if he had told him his name or not. But he had sat and listened to the stories Cory told of employers looking at him with disdain not only because he was black, but also because he was black with a record.

"I'm self-made and so are you."

The statement was true and Foreman recalled nodding his head in agreement. Now, he looked back down at the picture of his earlier self. Self-made all right.

He had spent half an hour in the room, just like Chase had. When Cameron had come in and announced that it was three o'clock and time for Lind's medicine, Foreman realized that, like Chase, there were tears begging to escape from his eyes. He had turned, and walked head-down past Cameron.

But now he was alone with himself and the demons that made a living off his soul. He had broken into the house at sixteen because he hated those rich people that lived there. He hated the ideals that he would never be able to reach. He needed the money for his family. Well, not so much for his family, but the court liked that excuse better than, "No one cares about you in this damn world, so I was takin' care of myself."

He looked at the picture again. His face was strong, but his eyes were worried in it. The taut facial muscles said "I'm not afraid," but the eyes begged to differ. He turned his head away.

He made it through college and medical school and residency and field training, all the while hiding his unsavory past. Now, House was making up for all those lost, taunting years.

"He does it because he admires you and can't tell you that. You shouldn't look for pity. Pity makes a strong man die."

Lind smiled mysteriously and turned his head. This man had entranced Foreman. So full of wisdom…and too soon dead.

Wine did not burn his throat like other alcohol did. It massaged and caressed his esophagus as it made its way on its journey through his body, through his bloodstream. The red wine looked liked blood, and he imagined it mixed prettily when the two met.

"What is worse for you? Being looked on like a criminal by silent eyes or being called out for being one by prying mouths? My personal worst was when they look and say nothing. That hurts the most. They treat you like you're not even human anymore. It's amazing how the most "civilized" people lack civility and decency towards other humans. The human condition. Doesn't it amaze you?"

Lind's blue eyes were clear and questioning. He was right and he knew it; Foreman did not need to respond.

But here he was thinking again of the question. What was worse? He knew the answer as he gazed on the picture and the fire that burned in the fireplace. The accusing stares of cowards not willing to speak. Thief, burglar

The flames taunted him like the unspeaking eyes of the people who had looked on him as if he was the dirt beneath their feet. With each addition of oxygen and wood to the fire, the flames leaped higher and taunted louder. Foreman's ears burned and he slammed the wine glass on the table with a ferocious "bang!"

He grabbed the old photograph of the young man in the orange suit. He walked over to the teasing fire and, with the loosening of his hand muscles, he let the photo fall into the fire.

He watched as the flames covered the picture and folded in on themselves. As they devoured the pictures they ate away at their compatriots.

The hot flames had never looked so cold.