"I want to help you, Vin, but there's only so much I can do if you don't talk to me."

Ohh, what a saint, a compassionate, earnest soul with the single intention of remedying their patient's ravaged spirit.

Nonsense

The long-legged, bombshell therapist dressed in a pen skirt spoke slowly. Intentionally avoided complex vocabulary and made unnecessary gestures to bridge her point across.

Vin hated every insufferable session he was due for. Affixed to an expensive couch, pampered and urged to share his 'feelings.'

Dungeons had more embellishments than the mind hackers office. Four windows, yet a single intense lamp provided dreary lighting for the ice box they sat in.

"Maybe, a different approach," suggested the therapist. "Instead of analyzing your mental state, how about we recap?"

"You said you couldn't distinguish- You couldn't 'tell' the difference between your real family and the one in your dreams."

"Do you feel-" the nurse paused, finding she'd used one of Vin's graveyard words. The more she spoke of emotions and his perspective on matters, the more she dug herself into a hole.

"Do you... 'Believe' that you're overcoming that 'Piece' of your life?" She asked.

Vin thumped his head against the couch he'd sat on, then exhaled his thinning patience. "No," he replied.

"They were. My family. I'll never. Forget."

After scribbling into her notebook, the specialist tugged at the rim of their skirt that'd rolled up an inch. "I think it is beautiful that you feel attached to your mind's constructs- creations."

"But, I sense you may be holding onto that dream as if it was a world you could return to."

"Four days ago, you lost a dear friend. Do you remember what you told me when I asked if you were going to the funeral?"

Vin unhurriedly stood. When he did, Miyo flew onto his shoulder. It appeared as if he'd flee the deplorable dialog, but he coasted toward the large windows and liberated them from their shade.

Natural light saturated the space, and refreshing air wafted once he pushed open the glass panel. He inclined forward, rested his arms on the window sill, and gazed toward the evermoving clouds.

"Vin?" Pursued the woman.

"What's the point in asking a question to which you already know the answer," thought Vin. He abandoned the woman to silence and seized a moment for himself to skywatch.

Even though he was displeased, Vin didn't despise the therapist. They were just doing their job, and he could sense their genuine compassion. Still, he had enough of elusive questions and non-concrete exchanges. So many years of his life had already been vague; he didn't want any more ambiguous scenes.

'Just say what you mean.'

"Well," initiated the woman. "How about we continue this tomorrow."

With a humble nod, Vin boorishly vacated the room. That conclusion was near how every session ended, yet, they both continued to meet. Either out of obligation or an unconscious desire to progress.

Once Vin was gone, the therapist revisited the notes she had taken three days prior.

[[

"I've heard about your friend. Do you want to talk about it?" She'd asked, but received naught but a ghostly hush. "There will be a funeral in a week. Will you attend?"

At the time, Vin was only one day fresh from the tragedy. There was notable swelling underneath his eyes, but he was stable. His diet was unchanged; he'd slept ten hours the night before and walked with purpose. He wasn't the image of a man who'd lost a pal but someone who'd gained sense and solace.

"No," Vin had responded. "I won't attend."

"And why is that?" Continued the woman.

It was just as bothersome to reply, and Vin had opened the room window. He pulled a chair to the edge, then breathed. "I don't want. To disappoint him."

"What do you mean by that?" She inquired.

From Vin's location, the woman could only see his side profile. Still, she could make out the shift in his disposition. He clenched the cloth of his pants, and his eyes squinted in heartache.

"Mars," Vin whispered. "He's starting his journey. But I haven't even reached the starting line."

"Gavin!" Exclaimed the clinician. She jostled in her chair, which sent her ink pen flying across the pearl floor. "That's the clearest you've spoken since we've met!"

Her enthusiasm was met with melancholy stillness. And shortly after, Vin terminated that line of discussion. The more she insisted, the further he withdrew.

]]

"I never did get an answer..." Mumbled the woman. She closed her notebook, booted her head back, then groaned. "In all my years, I've never fretted over a patient more than this."

"I hope you reach your starting line soon. To whatever journey you want to embark on."

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

<>

Enter, 'Professor Maple.' The gigantic tree in the courtyard that Vin continuously lashed out against. Day in and out, he trashed branches against the timber. It introduced him to the fundamental notion that all things break.

As wooden sticks broke when he struck them against the tree, the branch of life was easily shattered. Dreams, friendships, family, all of it was so... Breakable.

Aside from this life lesson, Vin hadn't learned much else. Training after therapy was usually the harshest, and he labored until his hands rang.

Soap and most of the staff considered it 'cute' at first. A boy in a wheelchair, swinging a harmless stick around. But when Vin was promoted to walking and began exercising, real danger infringed on him and other patients.

Some worried Vin could injure himself from the un-proctored, fierce training. Others worried he could turn his instruments toward residents or staff.

By then, weeks into his recovery, Soap had become Vin's designated guardian. Any complaints met him first because he was the only one daring enough to confront Vin, who was beefing up.

The mentor habitually bulked their chest out more when preparing to lecture Vin. He was a pet sea lion, very much in the classification of being a doormat. Still, his empathic reasoning reverberated with his little troublemaker.

His current objective, fix the smoldering presence Vin disgorged while grunting and breaking branches on a tree.

To do this, he follows 'Soap's Guide for Troubled Youths.'

Step one. When dealing with adolescents, be patient and show them you're on their side.

"Morning, Vin," He started.

The tree's shadow overtook him as he joined Vin in the warm, green, grassy shade. It usually smelled just like that, along with bark. But then, all Soap could smell was a musky, fiery passion.

The dumpster pile of broken branches shuffled when Vin pivoted toward the man and replied, "Morning."

"Whoa," Soap said with a chuckle. "You really don't hold back. Your biceps will be as big as mine soon," jested the man, flexing his arm.

"Right," Vin mumbled, evidently unamused.

Step Two. Reason with the subject, remain calm and understanding.

"It's admirable you want to train, but don't you think you're pushing yourself too hard?"

"Nope," retorted Vin, returning to his activity. Soap walked closer, then pressed onward. "You were serious when you told me you wanted to attend that university."

"I THINK, you should take your time with growing up. You maybe look eighteen, but you're still twelve years old at heart. Don't skip your childhood."

A crack sounded when Vin broke another stick across the tree. He exhaled, wiped the sweat from his face, then heatedly returned. "I had. A childhood. My father took me. To competitions. My sister, cooked me food. It was fun."

Soap frowned, understanding the experiences he spoke of; his missing years were all within a dream. It objectively never happened, and he felt sad knowing the young man before him would never get that time back. He'd never experience middle school, discover a high school crush, or go to prom.

Step three. When all else fails, retreat. Only Temporarily. For Soap, his withdrawal only redirected the conversation in a more nonchalant path.

"Ah, before I forget!" Exclaimed the man. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black, slim, rectangular box. "I have a gift for you," you said.

Vin wasted no time halting his workout when presented with a present. He appeared annoyed, but the quick shuffle he utilized contradicted his expression. "What is it?" he asked.

"See for yourself," smiled the man. He handed the object over, then opened his arms for an embrace.

Eager, Vin peered at the box and quickly relieved the lid from its duties. Inside, lying on a raven-colored cloth, was a miniature wooden knight sword. It was tied to a black string and had a cursive letter 'M' etched into the center.

Upon sighting the item, Vin balked. He blinked rapidly, rasped, and squeezed the case until it cracked.

"I hope you don't mind, but I snuck into your room and took the branch Mars trained with. A friend of mine is good at preserving and shaping wood, so I had them construct this necklace for you."

"Hopefully you're okay with the form; I wasn't sure if a sword was the correct play; it could bring back painful memor-" Cut from his sentence, Soap was interrupted when Vin snapped forward, arched, and drove a straight jab into his abdomen.

Soap grunted and grasped the area of impact. Meanwhile, Vin hauled his fist back for another blow. The man flinched, stepped back, and threw his arms up to surrender. "Wait! My bad! I'm sor-" He started, but was cut off again, not by a vicious assault but by the entire thrust of Vin's body.

Firm arms extended and clutched across Soap's back. Squeezing him as if seeking to rid him of every spec of oxygen.

The sturdy man's eyes widened, and his mouth dropped. "H-h-hhhuu," he stuttered.

He'd previously held out his arms jokingly, confident Vin would never, under any circumstance, embrace him.

He was flabbergasted, and even after Vin grasped him, he held his arms up in submission.

The vines around him tightened more, and a soft, watery voice whispered, "Thanks."

What would have been a minute later, Soap loosed, composed himself, and returned the comfort. "You're welcome."

Step 4, improvise. After a brief retreat from the original issue, raise the topic again, but find a middle ground with which you and the subject can agree.

"By the way," began Soap. Vin freed his grip and began to withdraw while the man added, "The staff wants you to stop training out here like this."

Vin held his head down to hide his emotional face. He was touched by the man's gift and felt grateful. That was until the bombshell was dropped on him. Vin's glum face launched up, and he grimaced murderously at the bland mentor.

"Wait, before you hit me." Soap pleaded. He cleared his throat, clapped his hands together then exhaled. "I was told not to let you continue as you are. BUT, they didn't say anything about me supervising you somewhere private."

There was apparent skepticism on Vin's predatory face, but he stood and listened to the man before blitzing him.

Soap took a wide stance, crossed his arms, and smiled smugly. "Lucky you, I happen to be quite the skilled swordsman."

A sliver of curiosity slipped and slid on Vin's face. He wasn't going onto the offensive, so Soap continued to explain his intent.

First, Vin would only train inside the recreation room. There was a private chamber he could utilize during certain hours under Soap's watch.

Vin usually outright refused to train indoors. However, Soap promised to personally teach him proper sword technique.

Upon the offer, Vin had the sudden realization that he had no actual use for learning swordsmanship. He could train with weights, jog, swim, or engage in any manner of physical activity.

Still, Vin found himself allured by the sport. He found it fresh and bewitching, unlike skating, which he'd done for over a decade.

He was conflicted. Skating was supposed to be his sole passion. Meant to be the lure that pieced together his broken family. But, then, he wanted to wield not his skateboard but a sword. He thought it was whimsical and childish, but Vin wished to fight.

He wanted to taste the dream Mars held and parted with. To live as a knight.