The witch who was sitting across from me looked like your average, every day, self-respecting witch. She was attractive in her maroon cloak and matching pointy hat, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that she was hot, just attractive. However, in all the ten years that I’d been a psychologist, I’d never seen a case quite like hers.
“Now miss, I think you’re suppressing your own powers,” I told her. “Tell me; has anything important happened in your life recently, a bad break-up, losing your job, anything?”
“No, everything is good, very good. I got a promotion. The werewolf I’m dating just proposed! Everything was going fine until—“ She started sobbing and I handed her a box of tissues.
“There, there, let it out.” I never really saw the purpose in saying “there, there,” but it seems to make people feel better. “Why don’t you tell me about your family. What are they like?”
“It was my brother that made me come here. I told him it was no good, but he insisted.”
“Why do you say it’s no good?” I asked. “Surely it we can find out the reason for all this, it will have been very good.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with my head! I don’t need a shrink, I need a real doctor. No offense,” she added hastily.
“None taken. I hear that all the time.” And every time it makes me just as mad, but I can’t tell that to the patients.
“But you still don’t understand. My powers are gone: I’m real!”
“Now miss,” I said, beginning to think she belonged in a padded white cell, “we both know there’s no such thing as real.”