The beginning of week two and the therapy sessions were only getting harder. Every muscle in his body protested, cried for relief but Terry never gave up, never stopped … until the hand gave way, leading him into even deeper despair. Over the first six days, he’d perfected a few new techniques He could hold a fork respectably, but still he could not lift a twenty pound barbell over his head, still he could not press the fingers tight enough for Charlie to be unable to open them … still he could not do a regulation push up. He could do knuckle push ups well enough, as many as ten before he dropped to the mat, but with his palms opened, every time he attempted to lift or hold his own weight, he had the sensation that his right hand was sinking in quicksand and his entire body would shudder then melt. Pain emanated from his fingertips to his shoulder, wrapped over and down his back, even his ribs and spine ached with the efforts.

“The wall,” Charlie instructed and Terry stood, pushing both hand, arms locked straight, against the plaster wall. He pushed hard, so hard sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Push, Terry. Imagine you’re pushing to save your life.”

He shot a glare over his shoulder. Wasn’t that what he was doing? He growled and pushed harder, sensing the weakness soften his right hand, wrist, forearm and shoulders. Another growl then a shout as he continued.

“Fuck, man!” Charlie bellowed, standing at his side, focusing on the tremble along Terry’s chest, the straining threads of his neck muscles. “Get down on your knees! Push, use your thigh muscles. Push for your damn life!”

Heat radiated from his belly and he did as commanded, dropping to his knees and howling as he thrust everything he had against the wall. He envisioned it a bolder, behind which was a desperate captive. If he couldn’t get through, the man would die. He pushed with every shred of strength until suddenly, without the slow melting, without warning; the hand resonated with numbness that shot through his arm.

It gave. His head slammed hard against the wall and he collapsed against it.

“Ice pack?” asked Charlie’s assistant calmly.

“No,” grunted Terry as he shifted, sitting with his back against his wall, his head lowered in defeat. He gasped for air until his breath calmed and Charlie knelt at his side, lifting his chin and pushing hair from the growing goose egg on his brow.

“Yeah, bring some ice,” the therapist said then sat beside his client. “Not bad. Better than you could’ve done a week ago.”

“Where are we?” Terry groaned, accepting the ice and laying it gingerly against the throbbing bruise. “We making any real progress here, mate?”

“Analysis is next Monday. Have you called the psychologist?”

Terry didn’t answer; he moved the icepack and fingered the lump.

“How’s the southpaw weapons training going?”

Good, a subject he was willing to discuss. Terry drew in a deep breath. “Good, good. Accuracy has improved greatly. Heavy into break down and assembly of a weapon.”

“One handed?”

Terry shot a glare then nodded, unwilling to admit that what he was practicing would never be acceptable for active duty.

“How about sleep? You sleeping well enough?”

He grunted a chuckle. “You bloody work me to rags. Fuck yeah, I’m sleeping just fine.” For six solid days Terry had gone to the office at five AM, left immediately after lunch for his sessions with Charlie and slunk back to his silent apartment to gobble pain meds and rest his weary bones. Sunday, his day of rest, was nothing more than twenty-four hours as a coach potato interspersed with hour-long sessions of squeezing a bloody rubber ball. How long could this go on?

“Yeah, I believe your body is sleeping, but is your mind resting?”

Terry closed his eyes against an unexpected onslaught of emotion.

“If you’re not mentally rested, you know this can’t work, don’t you? Have you called the psychologist?”

“No.”

Charlie shook his head dramatically. “For a smart man, you’re not using all the tools, Terry. You know better than this.” He looked at Terry’s profile. The stoic face seemed to crumble and finally Terry’s head dropped to his chest. There was a shudder and he knew, silent as it was … it was a sob. “Terry, you need to talk through this.”

“I’m talkin’ to you.”

“Yeah, and you’re not listening to me.”

Terry thudded the back of his head against the wall and blinked against tears that dribbled down his face. He didn’t move as Charlie stood, fully expecting the bloke to walk out and do it for good. Was it possible he’d truly failed?

But instead of leaving, Charlie had retrieved his cell phone. Standing in front of Terry, he dialed a phone number and handed it over. “Talk,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, Terry took the phone. It was still ringing and he cleared his throat.

“Dr. Murphy’s office … Sharon speaking … how may I help you?”

“Uh,” he cleared the thickness from his throat again, shuffled on the floor. “My name’s Terrence Thorne and I need to speak with the doctor.”

He was given an appointment that very afternoon at four. Not a good idea, his body was screaming with pain but what the bloody hell. At least he’d be in a place where he could shout out his frustrations. After all, isn’t that what psychological therapy is all about?

Charlie showed no signs of gloating as he sat at his desk. Terry simply left for the showers, stood long under the pulsing, steamy spray and swallowed a few pain meds before finally dressing and preparing to leave. Walking past Charlie, he wondered if he needed to say anything. He paused. Charlie glanced up then returned his attention to the file he was reviewing.

“Tomorrow. One o’clock, Terry.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

***

For some reason he was starving, odd as he hadn’t really had an appetite for weeks. Glancing at his watch, he had less than thirty minutes to reach the doctor’s office, but blessedly, it was only blocks away.

Rather than hail a cab, he chose to walk, passing eateries along the way and rubbing a hand on his grumbling belly. Finally, he made a choice just three doors from his destination. Chocolate. No, he wasn’t necessarily fond of chocolate, but it had some significance. When he was a nipper, his mum always gave him chocolate when he was disappointed or sad. Sure, the smooth creamy sweet didn’t physiologically do a damn bit of good, but it was the offering of it that made Terry feel somewhat better.

He’d avoided the habit of drowning his miseries in such decadence as soon as he joined the military and only actually ate it when offered from the hands of someone he cared most about. Riley was good for such things, often baking something sweet and chocolate when he was around. Odd, he never refused it from her. Somehow he’d gotten it inside his head that even though he didn’t need it that moment, he’d need the memory of it somewhere down the road.

Riles wasn’t around, but he wanted the flavor of cocoa and creamy milky texture … memories weren’t cutting it that afternoon and Godiva Chocolates beckoned. He purchased three silky almond bonbons and gulped the first as he entered the elevator. He munched the second outside the office door then simply slid the remaining piece in his jacket pocket. He might want that when it was all over. He might bloody hell need to spend a fortune at Godiva when it was all over, fucks sake.

He sat for ten minutes in the waiting room alone. When finally the receptionist opened the door and smiled, Terry thought he’d throw up chocolate all over himself. He gulped back burning bile and stood. Following her he noticed her desk and only two rooms. The first had the clinical feel of a regular doctor. As she waved for him to enter the second room, he was relieved to see an environment that felt similar to a comfortable lounge in anyone’s home. He nodded thanks and sat to wait again. Terry chose one of the large overstuffed chairs … he was far from ready for that bloody couch.

A large man with white hair and a robust build finally walked in and reached out his hand. “Hello Terry,” he said so comfortably that Terry was forced to make direct eye contact.

“Bloody hell,” he gasped and stood, shaking the man’s outstretched hand with his unfeeling one and blinking disbelief. “General Murphy?”

The older man chuckled and actually embraced his new patient. “No longer a General, Terry. Doctor Murphy now.”

Terry was baffled and unfortunately even more uncomfortable now. “Fuck,” he groaned and the doctor sat casually on the other chair, his eyes sliding from Terry’s expression to the damaged hand then back again. “Ah … wow … How are ya, mate?”

“Very well. Much better than you, I understand. I just got off the phone with Charlie Wolffer. Good choice, Thorne. He’s the best in his field.”

Damn, the doctor was suddenly talking like a General and without thinking, Terry was sitting taller, straighter in his chair. His discomfort was growing, battled by the soft cushion of the pain medication fighting against the sugar rush from his Godiva gluttony. “I … uh … mate … I’m not real sure I can … uh … do this, General Murphy.”

“Terry, there is no rank here, buddy. Look around, this isn’t the military.”

“How … how the bloody hell did you … when … a psychologist?” Terry blinked, still disbelieving.

“After retirement, I went back to school. Trust me, Thorne.” He eyed Terry with the scrutiny of a drill sergeant, again switching from kindly doctor to task master, finding his stride with what he already knew to be a tough case. “I know soldiers,” he continued, his voice clear and commanding. “I know soldiers from the pit of their gut to the surface of their flesh. Inside and out. This is what I can do best.”

“Still, I’m not all so sure you can help me, mate. Isn’t there some kinda conflict of interest or something?” Terry was getting desperate. He had no sure fucking footing in this situation. The last person he wanted to confess his weaknesses to was a fucking General!

“Alright then … you want rank, I’m pulling rank, Thorne. I can do that. You know why?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I can do it because inside your fucked up head is a soldier. S.A.S., American Marine, no matter … to you I’m a General and I outrank you. You’re here because you have no choice, Thorne. It’s that or …” and the old man shrugged.

Terry rubbed his eyes. Fuck all, the man was dead right. He groaned then raised his eyes respectfully. “How do we do this, sir?”