Flaws: a Collection of Short Stories

Act of Contrition

    Jonah slammed his fist against the worn leather seat. "You aren't listening!" he shouted.

    "I am, Mr. Walker, please take a seat."
   
    Jonah sat down. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closed as he attempted to steady his breathing. He opened his eyes and stared at the encouraging posters that lined the walls. Unbearably motivational quotes such as "It always gets better!" and "You miss 100% of the shots you never take!" stared back at him. He folded his hands and set them in his lap, a habit he'd developed as a child to assist in his lack of tranquility.

    "We need to get to the root of the problem, Jonah,"

    "For the last time, it's what he did. The selfish prick was so weak,"

    "How do you mean?" he responded carefully.

    "If you don't understand it then I can't explain it to you!" He screamed. "You're a shrink, you're supposed to understand,"
   
    "You have to help me, Jonah, you need to help me understand. Tell me exactly how you're feeling,"

    "I always told him that he needed to stop. He needed to focus on himself; he had to stop being so servile. He always put others first. He was never his own top priority,"

    "And that's why you drove him away? You couldn't handle it?"

    "I couldn't handle what he was doing to himself. I simply couldn't continue watching him send his life down the drain just so he could exhibit his humanity like the damn Mona Lisa," Jonah spat, his New York accent rolling off every syllable in disgust.

    "Putting other people first isn't a bad thing, Jonah, it's actually-"

    "It is if your life is at stake!" Jonah interjected, "Dr. Hall, perhaps you don't understand that this man is my best friend. He isn't just some person. He is the one who I grew up, playing Cowboys and Indians with. He's the one who pushed me out of a tree when we were thirteen. The one who let me cry after my mother died. He..."

    "Your care for him is clear, Mr. Walker," Dr. Hall assured him, setting his clipboard aside. Jonah eyed the neat black handwriting scrawled across the pages.

    "Care?" Jonah asked. His eyebrows were raised and he looked unhinged. His face hardened as he began to laugh harshly. "I don't care for him. I despise him. In fact, I loathe that bastard more than anything or anyone I have ever met,"
   
    "All right, Jonah," Dr. Hall responded, calmly. He spoke with a gentle tone, the type one might use to console a crying child. "If he is your best friend, why do you detest him so strongly?"

    "Why? Because after I broke his little brother's nose in 8th grade, he forgave me. Because after his girlfriend cheated on him with me three times during his senior year, he accepted my apology. Because after I went off on a drinking spree for a whole damn year, he welcomed my sobriety with open arms."

    "When is the first time, that you can remember of course, that you wronged him?"

    "First grade," Jonah replied promptly. "He wore this one shirt an awful lot. A real horrible green shirt." He recalled in admiration, a chuckle falling from his lips. His smile faded as guilt flooded his eyes. "I would make a tally mark on the back of it each day to show how often he wore it without washing it,"

    "Why did you feel the need to do that?" A neutral expression masked the therapist's face, not an ounce of judgement breaking through.

    "Because he was better than me." Jonah replied reluctantly.. "At first, kids had to hold him down but eventually he succumbed to the torture and practically drew the damn tally himself. He was too kind to everybody and I wasn't. He was a doormat, letting us walk all over him like that,"