Brick by brick he boxes himself in.
There is a hammer in my hand and I’m tempted to strike at those walls, but experience has taught me a lot. Hammers reinforce. For every strike, he builds up another layer.
I must be like flowing water. Calm, soothing, undemanding, persistent; wearing the walls down so gradually that even the brick doesn’t know.
His counselor and I have managed to open a few windows. The playful light beams dance about keeping him from plunging into the total dark.
But there are other hammers. Hammers that I neither wield nor control. My eyes do not hold enough water to sooth their blows away.
In response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers challenge of 12 October 2018, based on a photo prompt contributed by her.