Proof for Able

Content Warning

This story contains themes that some readers may find disturbing, including violence, bullying, mental health struggles, a suicide attempt, and implied child abuse/neglect. (Please do not take this tale as all facts.)

There’s a boy named Able. Sixteen, an orphan, a troublemaker whose reputation echoes through the halls of a violent, overcrowded school. He was known for fights, broken noses, climbing out second-story windows — and walking back in like nothing happened.

The principal was looking for Able. She walked through halls with peeling paint; distant kids shout and chatter. She found him in the school library, sitting on the backrest of a couch. He got in through an open window and was reading comics. The principal: “Able, you can’t just break in here. I know you don’t want to do therapy, but the law requires me to make you go.”

Able, without looking up: “I don’t need therapy.” The principal sighs and she pulls a sandwich out of her big purse. “Will you go for a sandwich? It’s cheese and turkey. Please go.” Able gets off the couch and takes the sandwich. “I’m not going to talk, though.”

“You never do. By the way, next time you report a bully, please at least wait a little longer for staff to handle it before you assault the student?”

Able, mouth full, walked away. “If nothing is done about them, why are you doing something about me. Letting it happen is the bigger crime.” The principal looked down, rubbed her temples, she could not argue with this kid. The smell of disinfected floors hung in the air. The windows had iron bars some of which has been ripped out of the brittle concrete.

Emile came down the hall and saw a guard with the principal waiting.

The principal greeted her outside her office door, arms crossed.

“Be careful,” she warned. “He might ignore you. Or he might attack. He’s unpredictable. Ever since he lost his study partner Anya, he has been going after all the staff. He doesn’t even fear punishment anymore. You should consider taking security with you.”

Emile offered a calm smile. “I know, Anya is one of my subjects. Let’s not forget he is still a person. For my methods to work there needs to be trust. If I want him to talk, he needs to feel safe. Free. Like he isn’t being prosecuted.”

The principal shook her head. “I don’t think he will let you reach him. The guard will be right outside.”

Inside it was quiet and warm with soft carpet there were wooden furniture and small figurines on the table, Able was already seated — slouched back, feet on the couch. He was playing with a mouse, letting it run from one hand to the next. Emile was a little unsettled by the mouse in her office.

“This session is supposed to be just the two of us.” Able gently stood up and took the mouse to the window. It ran out on the ledge and disappeared into a bush. Able sat back down this time upright.

She sat. Opened her notebook and waited.

He watched her. She watched back. She could sense he was being deliberate. She looked at his scared knuckles, then made a note.

Eventually, she broke the silence, her time with him was limited. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Able. Your grades are excellent… and that you get into a lot of fights.”

She leaned forward. “Why are you so quick to hit back? Do you think the world is unfair? That it’s wrong?”

Able’s smirk grew. “The world doesn’t owe anyone shit.”

He shifted forward in his seat. “And yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you, too. I’ve met the kids you’ve worked with. The little assignments you give them. The diagnoses. The pills. You like to tell them they’re victims, don’t you? Write your papers, sign your forms, and sedate them so they stop being your problem. I guess you want to know what kind of broken I am now, huh? What flavour pill I should swallow?”

Emile stayed composed. “Able, you seem very resistant to help. I can see why you might feel the need to push people away. But I’m not here just for a pay check. I care. I want to help. I can’t help, though, unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

Able leaned back, voice sharp. “So, I’m the one who’s wrong, huh? What did I do that makes me deserve your kind of help?”

She scanned her notes. “Last week you weren’t in class. You were found harassing the woodworking teacher.”

Able laughed. “Harassing? I showed up; he wasn’t in class, so I looked for him. I found him smoking behind the school during Parents’ Day. So yeah — I called him out. In front of the principal and some parents. Is that something I did wrong?”

Emile frowned. “Okay, it also says here you wrapped a chain around your fist and attacked three students. Sent them all to the ER. Then climbed out a second-story window before the guard could stop you. You also broke a senior’s nose two days ago.”

Able shrugged. “Details. Cowards like to fight smaller guys. Kicked him in the groin since he doesn’t have balls. Thought it won’t hurt that coward. Turns out he did have something down there. He then must’ve tripped. Poor guy.”

Emile watched him carefully. “You don’t fear them, do you? Not the seniors. Not the teachers. Not even the punishments. The only teacher that doesn’t have a problem with you is Mr. Henderson”

Able’s smile faded slightly. “He shows up on time for class. I respect that. I fear one thing.”

A pause.

“Windowless rooms. In this prison you call a school. I don’t like being trapped.”

Emile gave a nod and made a note. “It makes sense why you would fear that. You have a record of escaping through windows. Many other orphan kids your age feel the same way. But it doesn’t have to make you scared. I can help you with the feeling that you are trapped.”

He leaned forward again. “But that’s all you want, isn’t it? Me to sit still, stay calm, shut up and listen. That’s what help looks like to you. You actually believe that is help?”

Emile’s voice softened. “That’s not what I want.”

He didn’t let her finish. “If I keep calling out teachers or fighting bullies, you people have to do your jobs then. But you’d rather I ‘report it.’ Let it vanish into your system. You lock us up and leave us to tear each other apart — until we make it your problem.”

He gestured to himself. “You don’t want students to stand up for themselves or even for others like I am doing. I’m your problem.”

Then he pointed, as if delivering the verdict.

“I’m not here because I’m violent. I’m here because I make you look bad. I’m here because standing up for myself is too much trouble for you. I’m here because I am helping the damaged, the weak, the ones you pretend to protect. You would rather I lose hope and just disappear.”

A beat. His voice dropped to a whisper that cut through the silence.

“So yeah. I guess I am a superhero.”

Emile held his gaze. “You can’t solve everything with your fists, Able. The world is full of jerks. You will be fighting for the rest of your…”

“Jerks exist because they think they can get away with it. I would rather die fighting evil than be the reason evil gets to exist. I would rather take the punishment for defending myself. Violence only works when no one fights back. It’s cheaper protection than your pills and your security guards. You think you’ve saved anyone?”

He tilted his head.

“Do you remember Anya?”

Emile stiffened. A tear welled in her eye.

“Yes,” she says carefully. “Anya. She’s your friend, right? I’ve been seeing her too. The teachers say you’re close. That you even broke into the girls’ dorm looking for her.”

“I did. You know what she was trying to do that night? That she sent me a goodbye text, how I had to break down doors to get to her. And I got punished for that.”

“Able, I know that wasn’t fair to you since you only meant to stop her…”

Able’s voice is flat now. Icy.

“Tell me. Did your pills save her?”

Emile said nothing.

“You told her to open up that if she just cooperates with you and the process it would be okay.”

“Did they stop the other kids from picking her apart every day?”

“Did they stop the teachers from yelling at her like she was something dirty?”

“Or did she use those pills to try and end her life?”

Emile flinched. Her pen no longer wrote.

He leaned in, quiet, cutting.

“I saved her from you. You gave her the poison to find a way out and a false promise, and she’s not the only one you failed, is she? Shall I name some more of your work?”

Emile opened her mouth to respond. A tear slipped down her cheek.

Able said with a cold voice: “You know what? If you can prove you really do help, I will admit I am broken. Heck, I will even tell you about my wicked mother, what she did to me before she left me in this prison. I will let you diagnose me, and I will choke down the pills you prescribe. Just name one kid who believes in life after talking with you. Someone that when I ask them will tell me you made a difference. That life isn’t hell. Just one.”

Able locks eyes with her. She tries to form a word, but Able cuts in again: “I’ll know if you lie to me.”

She tried to speak. Failed.

Finally, in a choked voice:

“I think… we should stop here for today.”

She gathered her notes quickly, her hands trembling. Her pen dropped. She fumbled to pick it up. She didn’t look at him again.

Able watched her go, eyes unreadable.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Emile walked down the hallway like she was underwater. She turned into the bathroom, closed the door. Stared into the mirror. Then broke.

She sobbed. Her fists clenched the edge of the sink. Her body trembled.

The bathroom door creaked open. The principal stepped in gently.

“What happened? Did he assault you?... It’s not your fault,” she said. “That boy is too broken; he needs a sedative. You did your best.”

Emile didn’t reply. She only sobbed harder.

“You’ve helped so many others,” the principal said. “You’re good at what you do.”

Emile still said nothing.

Because none of that felt true anymore.

By the end of the week, a rumour had spread.

The school therapist quit.

Some said she ran out of the office crying. Others said Able threatened her. Some claimed he confessed something that shattered her.

Whatever the truth was, it didn’t matter.

All anyone remembered was this:

She saw Able once. And never came back. He could not be tamed.

The one who would not let any one call him a victim.

And in the minds of the students — battered, invisible, angry — Able wasn’t just a delinquent anymore.

He was a legend.