Breaking Away

Six

"We don't have to talk," the child psychiatrist says after five minutes of receiving one word answers from him.

It's been a week since he'd broken down to Papa and things haven't started to feel any better. He just can't seem to feel happy without the fact that he can't walk tearing him down again; his brothers haven't been around as often, every other day rather than every day, and he knows it's because he's rubbish to be around. He's slowly coming off of the painkillers but it seems like all he still does is sleep or cry or stare aimlessly at the TV on the overhead arm, watching reruns of the same three shows.

Dad had left when the woman, the therapist or shrink or whatever he was meant to call her, though she'd introduced herself as Bec, had entered the room, asking to just have a chat. Niall was able to tell instantly by the apologetic look in the man's eyes as he'd stood and kissed him atop of the head before leaving again that his parents had known about this before today. They'd probably been the ones to set it all up.

He can't find it within himself to be mad, he knows this is hard for them too. Dad can barely talk to him without tearing up and Papa tries to be casual and normal about things but every so often, his gaze will drift to the lifeless limbs stretched out beneath the blankets of his bed.

"Niall?" Bec prompts, peering at him from her seat in one of the armchairs beside his bed. He blinks, glancing up at her — his mattress is more inclined at the top now so he's able to almost sit upright with support.

He shakes his head subtly at the woman; she doesn't look like a professional, wearing casual trousers and a t-shirt, her brown hair swept up into a ponytail with a few scraggly pieces framing her face.

"You're here now," he murmurs, voice quiet but somehow loud in the otherwise silent room. He shrugs. "Aren't we meant to talk?"

She smiles at that, setting her folder down on her lap. "Well, ideally, yes. But there are other things we can do while we chat about stuff, like play a board game or watch a show. I'm not here to pick your brains and force all the thoughts out into the open," she tells him, and he manages a small smile in return, her warm persona making it hard to stay so grouchy.

He hesitates before asking, "do you see a lot of people like me? Like — like is that what you do? Speak to people who can't do stuff and try and make 'em feel better about it?"

"People who can't do stuff?" She questions, and he shrugs at her confused expression, fingers absently digging into the sheets over his thighs.

"Yeah. Like walk. Or stand up. Or even go to the bathroom," he mutters, trying to bite back the heaviness in his tone. He glances up at her again as she contemplates his words.

"Yet," Bec says eventually, making Niall look confused instead. "You can't do those things yet. Niall, your injury isn't complete, meaning that whilst it's gonna be a long and difficult recovery, you will be able to do all of those things eventually."

She's lying to him, he thinks. That's what she's here to do, build up his hopes because like all the nurses keep telling him, it's important to stay positive.

He knows they wouldn't be saying that if they were in his boots.

He wrinkles up his nose. "I can't wiggle my toes," he states, and the psychologist simply waits for him to continue. "They — they do these tests and I know I'm meant to be able to at least, like, twitch them or something by now but I can't, and they all get this look on their face like — like I've let them down somehow."

Bec sighs at that, nodding. "The look. It's almost like pity, isn't it?" She says, more of a statement than it is a question. He looks up with a frown and she smiles. "I spent a lot of time in and out of hospital when I was a kid, heart condition. Missed out on a lot, felt like I'd never be able to do any of the things I wanted to do. And everyone, even my parents, looked at me with these eyes that made me feel stupid and small and breakable. And that sucks."