The Autumn Prince

4. Broken Mirrors

It took me far too long to realize my eyes were shut as I lay on my back beneath the kitchen light. I must have passed out, but other than the ache of hard linoleum against my skull I hadn't suffered any injuries or unusual pain.

Vague ideas wandered through my conscious thoughts the way they do when you know you've been dreaming, but you can't remember any of the details. A few faint sparks of light echoed around the edges of my vision as I sat up, but I dismissed them with a shake of my head while I took stock of my condition. No trembling, no mental fragmenting, no delusion—at least, none that I could identify. Apart from a vague sense of unreality, I felt fine.

No, not fine. I felt good, kind of pumped but with no sense of urgency to burn off the energy, like I'd slept a solid ten hours in a comfortable bed.

Ironically, it came with a rapidly fading sense of disappointment. Waking up on the floor instead of in the back of an ambulance meant I'd been nervous over nothing. I passed out and I lost a little time, but that could have been stress. It was certainly nothing new. Over the years I had learned to recognize the drama playing out in my head and separate it from reality and failing to see it left me feeling like a fool. My therapist, Dr. Dang, would not have approved.

"You are a person, not a computer," he told me one morning after that first grand mal seizure had altered the course of my life. "Your input does not determine your output. You decide how you perceive the world around you."

I was lying in his office after a nightmare followed me into the waking world. For several minutes I had screamed and thrashed inside a hellscape that gradually resolved into an unfamiliar hospital room and shocked, demonic orderlies and horned nurses with long, forked tongues regained their natural forms. I didn't answer him, though he gave me long minutes of silence to process his words and decide how to respond.

"I understand that your episodes are frightening," he went on, "but every storm has a center of calm. We will work together to find yours."

"I thought you were supposed to fix me," I growled at last. I knew even then I had no cause for anger, but my biochemical mood swings were still new and I had not accepted my illness gracefully.

"No, Tom," he said simply, "I can't fix what's not broken. I do not know what has happened to change your world and so far, nobody has been able to provide the answers, but—"

"Then go back to China and leave me alone."

Dr. Dang chuckled softly. "I am not Chinese, I'm Korean."

"Whatever, just go away."

He sighed dramatically and leaned back in his chair, watching me through red-framed glasses, his toes barely reaching the floor, stubby fingers folded across an ample belly. "I'm afraid I can't do that either. First, you are in my office and when we part company you'll be the one leaving. Second, this is my job, and if I don't make the effort, they stop paying me."

"I don't care," I said through gritted teeth. His words hurt, but I refused to let him see it, for all the good it did me.

"That is one of the more convenient benefits of the human mind, Tom. I can receive a great deal of abuse, but whether or not I will allow it to offend is entirely up to me, not you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That I don't care whether you care or not. I'm not here to make you feel better, it's my job to help you live better."

"I don't want your help."

"I'm afraid at the age of thirteen that decision isn't yours to make. It's a great tragedy, no doubt."