Oneshots

2: Therapy

Something I wrote in September last year. It's actually a continuation to a school essay. Just thought what Luke was feeling is similar to what I feel, I guess.

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He sauntered down the pavement, headed for the park that sat right across the building that he comes to every day for sessions. Within ten metres, he could already smell the delightful scent of florals congesting the place. On normal days, the sight of greenery and smell of his mother's perfume would be enough to lift his mood. His facade was getting weaker and weaker by the day.

The sound of soles being dragged against the park ground made his ears twitch in annoyance. He sat perched on a bench, with head in his hands and backpack by his side. Images and memories were stirring in his mind, adamant at making his heart aching more than it already was. It was like a video clip playing in front of his eyes, or a slide show, just with emotions attached to it. He could hear his mother's voice right then and there, in the isolated park behind maple trees. He wasn't sure whether it was real or he was just delusional, he wasn't sure of anything, he wasn't sure if anything was real at all.

"Luke." That all-so-familiar voice rang in his ears, and he looked up. Mr. Duarte was standing by the bench he was sitting on with a condescending look plastered on his face. "What is it?" Mr. Duarte paced forward so that he could take a seat on Luke's left, while simultaneously slipping the handle of his messenger bag off and dropped it on the bench, landing with a soft thud. Mr. Duarte was already prepared for the confession (that he expected) and potential sobs echoing through the park. He knew the different looks that Luke had because he was Luke's therapist.

Mr. Duarte, or James, his real name, which Luke prefers to call him by, and which James insisted on being called because he didn't want to be reminded of being old.  Despite the lack of facial hair (there was facial hair, like stubble and all, just not prominent) and laugh lines, James was 7 years older than Luke at 25. James was the only person Luke had confided in. He played the role of father, brother, best friend, and therapist all at the same time.

"What is what?" Luke finally replied groggily, while rubbing his eyes in hopes of convincing James that the had been sleeping.

"What's wrong?"

"What? ... Nothing is."

"Come on, Luke, I know that look on your face."

"It-It's just--" He paused, ran a hand across his face and willed for his tears to be patient. With this reaction, Mr. Duarte -- James -- shifted in his seat so that his knees were pointing more towards Luke and he could see him clearly. This change in position gave the impression that he was willing to listen to whatever Luke had to say.

"It's just, I miss my mother, and..." He paused. James looked at him patiently.

"And I can hear her everywhere I go." He looked away, clearly preventing James from catching sight of a tear slithering down his cheek.

"Hey." James reached out and held Luke's hands in his own. Luke flinched at the sudden touch, not because it was awkward to be touching, since it was normal for James to be doing this to comfort Luke. It helped. Slightly. When he didn't get a response, he tried again.

"Look at me." He tilted Luke's head so that he could see his face clearly but not asserting much force. "You don't have to be embarrassed." He chuckled. "It's just me, Luke."

Luke seemed unaffected by what James found funny. He sub-conciously gripped James' hands tighter trying to control his emotions. James placed a hand on his back and rubbed gently in circles.

"Thank-Thank you." Luke managed to mutter while still choking on his words. James smiled knowingly and brought Luke to his chest. Luke closed his eyes.

At that moment, he couldn't think of anything better than to just be held by James. Why, he didn't know. He only found James' presence comforting.