He often looked through the door into the empty office. The office that isn't an office any more. Now it's just a room full of space, dust, smell and memories.

House knew what he'd feel if he went in, if he still had a key: the office would feel that special warm of shut up abandoned places. Moldy dust particles would bounce around in the sunlight and tickle his nose. The marks in the carpet would show exactly where the furniture had once stood.

Life is made up of things that are there and then things that aren't there: hence all the empty spaces. He wondered if the universe must be nothing but a network of voids tenuously connected by the odd bit of string.

House felt a bit like that office: there, but not there.

There were always figures around him now, but to him they seemed to be made of clay.

The only one who had seemed real was the girl in red: but she had left him. She'd given him her red scarf and said she was sorry she couldn't hold his hand like the dark lady with the mothering eyes.

That was when he had come.

Even though it hurt his head Greg had nodded vigorously at every command. Greg always tried to do everything he had been told to do.

He had made it all clear. House was now a void. House didn't even exist on the radar. House wasn't even a phantom blip. And House never would be anything else again.

House had understood, even though he hadn't. But the anger was terrifying and he'd agreed because he felt the guilt and shame and how they wrapped themselves around your chest and tried to strangle you and you lay there for hours with your breath heaving as you tried to work out what had gone wrong until a clay figure would come, upped your morphine and put you back to sleep.

There was so much missing now. It felt like it had dribbled away through the hole in the back of his head.

But they told him they had plugged up the hole in his head. He wondered if they had used a cork.

They told him he had a purpose. Bits came back piece by piece. He knew who he was; he knew what he did; and he knew something was terribly wrong.

The clay figures would push things under his nose and order him to tell them what they meant. The lines and the numbers and the pictures made perfect sense to him so he told them what he thought. He couldn't understand why they needed him. It was easy peasy Japanesie! Some people were so stupid.

This seemed to please them. The dark eyed lady would come and squeeze him every so often. He liked that because she had great breasts.

But he hated the clay figures. He didn't know why, but he hated them. It seemed where ever he went there was a clay person lurking somewhere in the background, ready to touch him, push him in the right direction, prod him or feed him the little pills they loved to give him all the time: white ones, blue ones, red ones, the ones that looked like Smarties.

They kept him busy, the pills kept him numb and he was existing.

But when he saw him the shame would bubble up and he would turn and face the wall until he had gone. He didn't know exactly why it was important not to be there, but House wanted to be a good obedient void.

HeHH hghghghghg