His home was nothing spectacular. A simple 2 bedroom, 1 bath, 1,000 square foot county residence. He had neighbors, but they each had enough property to distance themselves. The walls inside were a puke green and items were scattered about. A single man definitely lived here. I shuffled through the living room staring at the few pictures that lined the shelves. They were mainly of this James Wilson guy and, I suppose, people he knew.

"One of the last things he did was get this place and pay it off. Said it'd be better if I had the government track as little bills as possible." He rolled his eyes, "Didn't stop me from getting a new bike." I was silent. He emptied his over coat and sat the green letter and white paternity paper on the counter. He hobbled into the kitchen, turned on the sink, and dowsed his hands in soap. He started to scrub as if he was prepping for surgery. The water that fell into the drain was a rustic hue. I turned away to continue my observation of the photos. If I could focus on something else then maybe my brain would stop feeling so numb. There was only one photograph of the old man, a bit younger but still rugged with an older lady who I presume is…. His…. Mother. The old man turned off the sink and wandered into a back bedroom. I could hear him rummaging around. Tears tried to well up. No. I am strong. I can't….but why can't I? My mother is dead, why should I not cry? It's not like I hadn't hidden myself for many years and softly wailed into a pillow to muffle the sounds. I deserve to express these emotions. Everything I know was flipped in one evening. My normal was gone.

I looked back at the counter and stared at the green letter. The old man came back with some clothes and noticed my body seizing in a quiet attempt to diminish my anguish. I hung my head and gritted my teeth.

"Did he know?" I could barely get the words out. The old man slightly shook his head confused. "Did he GET the letter?!" I abrasively pointed to the papers. He tilted his head down but kept eye contact.

"No." He mumbled. I stepped back and took a quick breath in.

"So, my father never knew I existed and my mother will never be able to explain?" The home was still. I started to laugh and put my hands on my knees as I bent over. It was all too much. The laughs turned into manic cries. Snot and saliva began to spew from my orifices. It was ugly and horrible and this feeling inside inhibited me from any control I could muster. "You just feel guilty!" I lunged up, tears streaming down my face. "You…you don't even like kids, remember?! You're 'not a kid kinda guy!' You feel obligated because you RUINED my life! In ONE single day…" I raised my pointer finger, voice turning harsh and deep, "You managed to give me hope, crush all of it, including my dreams of EVER meeting my real father because I was stuck with Satan my whole life, and rip away my mother's only form of protection getting her murdered! All because what? You miss your dead friend?! Well now I have NOTHING and am trapped with YOU!" The old man looked hurt. I breathed heavily.

"I'm sorry…" I slightly shook my head, feeling defeated. He sat the clothes he'd been holding on the back of the couch. "These are for you. The shower is the room to the right." He limped into the kitchen once more and started to put up dishes. I took a deep breath and grabbed the clothes.

The shower was that beige plastic material. The cheapest kind that had a few small holes lodged throughout from damage. The water was warm though. I let it run down my head for a while and just closed my eyes. Images of the night would return…and then I would see my mother's corpse. I opened them quickly and shook my head. I grabbed some shampoo and lathered my hair. I noticed my hands as I went through my bangs. They were absolutely caked in what little life my mother had left. I took the bar of soap and started scrubbing my arms, most of the blood would come off but there were areas that seemed stuck. I remembered how the old man washed his hands and I began to mock it, but it didn't work. I groaned and threw my head under the water to let the shampoo diminish. Still scrubbing my hands to the point I scratched them. Once all the soap was gone, I slammed the water off and stepped out. I threw the provided black and blue plaid pajama pants on. My hands were sore by this point but it just wouldn't come off. I headed to the vanity sink and continued to scrub, each motion thinking of the compressions, hearing my panicked breathing, seeing the blood ooze from my mother's injuries. I slammed my fists down which knocked over a glass toothbrush holder. I paused to see fresh blood coming from my own hands, intertwining with the old residue.

The door creaked open, the old man had one hand over his eyes then slowly opened a crease between his pointer and index to peek at me. He put his hand down and sighed with relief,

"Thank god, you have pants on." He looked at my hands, I started to sob again. He gently took my wrists and started to analyze my phalanges.

"I…I…" I stammered, "I just wanted to get the blood off!"

"Well seems like you did the opposite of your intent."

"You were able to scrub it off no problem! I tried! But it won't come off!" The old man looked at my face. He set my hands back in the sink and stood parallel to me, facing the mirror. My sobs lessened.

"Well, I've never met someone who could mess up washing hands…" He grabbed a sponge and handed me one. He pumped some soap on top of his then motioned for me to do the same. "It's called the brushstroke method." He rinsed his hands and I followed. He then took the dampened soapy sponge and squeezed it until in foamed up and then pressed it against his cuticles. "Now don't press too hard. You want to be firm without injury and go back and forth." I did so. With every motion, I continued to mimic. We turned our hands facing us and rubbed 10 strokes and then repeated with the other side until going up the whole arm. The entire time he gave me small affirmations. We finally rinsed all the soap, and my bleeding has ceased. The bright crimson overtook the copper fluids and then eventually the liquid turned clear. "There." We faced each other in the mirror with our arms at a 90-degree angle in front of us and hands pointing to the sky. "Now you're ready for surgery." He paused, "Nurse." He jeered, "Can you get my gloves?!" I chuckled and retorted,

"Well…" I said in a high pitch voice. This prompted a laugh out of the old man. "I would however then I would also become unsterile. WhatEVER shall we do?!" We both stared back into the mirror and burst into laughter. It was a laugh deep from within the soul. A moment laced with pain and hurt, but somehow filled with relief. It felt…good. The laughing quieted.

The old man asked, "Well, what do we do?"

I thought, "We get the bastard that killed my mom and find out who I really am."

"Who are you?"

"Leonard…" I looked down and contemplated then firmly stared straight at him. "Leonard Wilson…who are you?" The old man smirked devilishly,

"Gregory House." He stuck out his hand to shake. I grasped it. "Nice to meet you, Wilson." He slapped me on the shoulder with the opposing hand a few times then limped out of the room.