The beginning of light

4

“Captain… Your hormone levels are not increasing. We have tried hormone replacement therapy, as well as production stimulation, but as soon as we stop it, your dopamine and endorphin levels return to very disappointing stats.”
Mekhen sat on a large hanging chair in a room with slightly dimmed lights and occasionally swayed himself out of boredom with the power of thought. The neuropsychoterapist watched him closely from the table across from him.
“Because nothing interesting ever happens,” the military man answered with the same lack of emotion, as he had in all previous sessions. He refused psychotherapy, not willing to give particularly verbose answers or assess the reasons behind his emotions. He was tormented by the feeling that none of it made any sense.
“Your injury during the crash significantly affected your mental state. You are still experiencing post-traumatic depression, but sooner or later it will come to an end. All that is needed from you is to try to recover and re-open yourself to people. But the most important part of this process is your willing participation. Only you can agree to realize the source of your pain by talking with me.”
“You know,” Mekhen furrowed his brows, and his weather-beaten face twisted a little as if he felt pain. ”For some reason, I feel like all of this is completely pointless. It's like I'm standing in front of a wall and I can't break through it. And there, behind this wall, is what I want.”
“Go on…” the professor encouraged him approvingly and quietly.
“Sometimes I have this dream.” Mekhen stopped swaying and looked down at his sinewy arms, focusing on the feeling and memory from his dream. “I'm running on green grass, but suddenly I am sinking down into something metallic and cold. It even smells of steel, something mechanical, devoid of life. I'm trying to get out but to no avail. I’m in a trap. I feel afraid, I have no idea what is happening. I feel like I'm losing my life. Losing something warm in my chest, forever. And I cling onto the slightest opportunity to get out, but it's futile. It's all futile ." The man exhaled noisily. “This feeling has not left me for almost six months.”
The neuropsychoterapist recorded everything on an audio transfigurator. The captain's words ran before his eyes, flashing on a small panel, giving him the opportunity to add his observations if necessary.