There's no reason for me to be here, Gloria mused as she waited for the doctor. I know everything he's going to tell me. I'm filled with guilt over her death, and the car accident. I hate my husband, and am resentful about the time I wasted being married to him. Oh, and I'm finding it difficult to cope with my hideousness. There, I've completed the diagnosis. What else is there to do?

Gloria had remained in the hospital for four days after the accident. Out of necessity, she was released, but had to remain in Verona for her daily check-ups. Fulgencio had been arrested and denied bail, so the house of Capulet was somewhat safe, but Gloria still hated every minute she spent inside that prison. After a month, her stitches had been removed and she was given permission to leave. Her sister Victoria in New York was the only person she felt she could trust, and her posh flat provided the perfect place to recuperate.

Not that recuperation was possible.

After hearing Gloria's story in full (which, once again, had not been published in any national newspapers—Fulgencio's grip on the press had not diminished), Vicky practically forced Gloria into seeing her shrink. Maybe "Forced" wasn't the right word; Vicky had strongly suggested, and Gloria had relented. She hadn't had the energy to put up a fight. In fact, she had supposed that the appointment would have benefited. But now, as footsteps sounded down the hall, Gloria began to regret her decision. No person could ever understand the scenario, whatever they said. And it was inconsiderate even to try.

But Gloria pushed these thoughts out of her mind as the doctor entered the room. He had aged gracefully. His face was angular and rugged-looking, his hair was a rich salt-and-pepper, and his smile when he walked in put Gloria at ease immediately. It wasn't a mushy-sympathetic smile, soft with upturned eyebrows, and thank God: Gloria had seen far too much of that. This smile was prompt, acknowledging her as a person who was capable of more emotions than grief and attempted happiness. Yet something about his face told her that he respected everything she was going through not as something tangible to which a name could be applied, but as a part of her. They stood up and exchanged greetings, Dr. Barton acting very professional, yet friendly. Before he could begin, Gloria interjected.

"Mr. Barton, I think this will be the last session. I know what my problem is and I don't think there's a way to solve it."

"If you think it's best, Mrs. Capulet," he agreed. At the sound of her married name, though, Gloria burst into tears.

Dr. Barton barely reacted. Instead, he leaned slightly more forward in his chair and waited patiently for Gloria to gain control.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently after her sobs began to subside.

"Please…call me Gloria," she hiccupped.

"Gloria," he repeated. "Talk to me."

Her lip trembled once again. "Well, I just hate being associated with my husband's name."

"Why?"

"Because I hate him."

Dr. Barton looked a bit taken aback, but recovered quickly. "And why is that?"

Gloria's face softened. "You haven't heard."

"No."

Gloria hesitated, testing the waters before deciding to take the plunge.

"Dr. Barton, if your father's final act was to force you into marriage with a man twice as old as you were who oppressed you your entire life, drove your only child to suicide, and raped all the household staff, how would you feel towards him?"

"My father or my husband?"

Gloria blinked as she realized where this was going. "Both, I guess."

"I would hate my father more than my husband."

Gloria sighed impatiently. "But you would still hate your husband?"

"Yes, I suppose. Gloria, tell me about your child."

"Juliet. Well, she was beautiful. How unfortunate that she was born to me. I loved her so much…I just didn't know how to love her like she wanted to be loved."

The session passed in much the same manner. One minute, Gloria would drown in tears at the mildest nostalgia, like the costume Juliet had worn to the masquerade, but in the next she could recount the most horrible events in a perfectly monotone voice. Dr. Barton barely had to say anything. It was the first time Gloria had relived the events in their entirety, and Dr. Barton was the first who had heard her full story. By the end of the session, Gloria felt as though someone else had validated her grief and guilt, and that realization lessened her pain. Finally, her voice trailed off, and doctor and patient sat in silence for a full minute.

"Mrs. Capulet, the story you have told me is one of the most tragic I have ever heard," intoned Dr. Barton softly. "I can't diagnose you for it. If you will, I'd recommend that you continue to come to me regularly, but this is your choice."

Gloria's earlier resolve to never return to this office began to melt away at Dr. Barton's non-forceful prescription. She found herself nodding at his suggestion to make an appointment with the secretary, and surprised herself by actually booking another. Vicki was waiting for her in the lobby and started at the sight of Gloria's tearstained face, but smiled as she noticed a lack of the darkness that had enveloped her sister's body since her arrival in New York. Silently, they descended the escalator and hailed a cab.

Benvolio loved walking into the physiotherapist's alone. He may have looked like a heroin addict, all skinny and pale and awkward, but at least he wasn't on crutches or a wheelchair. His family still refused to let him take public transportation and his licence had been revoked since the accident, but as long as he could march in on his own two feet, who cared who drove him over?

Subconsciously, he smirked at a teenager leaning on his mother for support before making his presence known to the secretary and settling into a waiting room chair to read a magazine. It was a National Geographic, and the only reason he had chosen it was because it featured an article about a new archaeological discovery near Madrid. Since booking the flight, Spain had become Benvolio's obsession.

Dr. Lania marvelled once again over Benvolio's progress after three days. "What on earth have you been doing?" she asked, somewhat unprofessionally. "It normally takes two weeks to achieve what you've achieved!" And once again, Benvolio shrugged.

"I've just been doing those exercises you prescribed," he said. He neglected to mention that he did them for hours on end every day. "And I guess I've been eating well."

"Yes, well that can help," muttered Dr. Lania, as though trying to convince herself that his diet was the reason for his progress. "Well, Benvolio, you know the drill."

"Dr. Lania, if I keep improving at this rate, how much longer will I need to do this?"

Seconds dragged by like minutes as Dr. Lania looked over his body and consulted a clipboard, but both of them knew she was just stalling, mulling over whether what she was about to say was right or not. Finally, she made a decision.

"You would promise to do your exercises every day?"

"I promise."

"And you would never overwork yourself?"

"I…" Benvolio couldn't bring himself to promise. "…Won't."

"Then really…" Dr. Lania pretended to scan her clipboard once more. "I'd only need to see you for three more days."

The smile on Benvolio's face could have warmed the heart of the Devil himself.

Those next three days, Benvolio killed himself. Every morning, he'd stretch first before eating a light breakfast. Then, he'd "work out" in his room, repeating every one of Dr. Lania's exercises until he could not find the strength to do one single repetition. He would then stretch again and make his way downstairs for breakfast, which he gobbled hungrily, forcing himself to finish every last crumb on his plate. At his physiotherapy session, he would hit the hammer and convince Dr. Lania to raise the difficulty level of the exercises, which she would generally do. Then, it was to home, where he'd have a snack, work out, and eat lunch. He would exercise frequently in the afternoon, but pounded himself out before dinner. Then, after a shower, he would collapse into bed, assuring that he got plenty of sleep before beginning the next day feeling stronger than the last. It seemed almost hourly that he regained some more of the old Benvolio's swagger and confidence.

The day that Dr. Lania pronounced him physically able was the day that Benvolio insisted on making his way to the office alone. Though there was no visible muscle on his body, he felt as strong as an ox. There was no way he was being dropped off today like a kindergartener, and he said as much as soon as he bid good morning to his mother.

"But Benvolio, how will you get there?" she asked. "You know you can't drive."

Benvolio rolled his eyes; why was everybody either tiptoeing around him, or shoving sad facts into his face? "I know, Mom. You know, there are ways to get from point A to point B without driving."

Lisa clutched the breakfast table. "I hope you're not talking about walking. Benvolio, that office is right downtown. Even a healthy person couldn't…"

"Mom!"

"Sorry, Benvolio, but you can't deny that you aren't in exactly peak physical condition."

Benvolio bit back a retort. "There's a bus leaving at ten o'clock."

Predictably, Lisa shrank back in her chair. Alessia appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room, but immediately turned and walked away when she realized the confrontation occurring. "Benvolio Montague, you are asking me to allow you to take public transportation?"

"More like letting you know that I will be taking public transportation. Or is that too low-class for you?"

Lisa grimaced. "Benvolio, I'm just saying that if one can afford it, one should travel in the most comfortable way possible."

"And I'm just saying that there's too many fossil fuels in the atmosphere already," he said. Then he stood up and stuffed his wallet in his jeans. "I hate to eat and run, but I have a bus to catch."

With that, he strode towards the door, ignoring his mother's rants echoing down the hall.

"Dr. Lania, I took a bus here. I walked two blocks to catch it, and then I walked one block to get here. I stood the whole ride over. Sure, I'm a little tired, but I feel great. I think that qualifies me as 'able bodied', and frankly, I don't think my insurance company would cover any more physio."

Dr. Lania ran her hands through her hair. "I don't know, Benvolio. I still think it's been too short of a time. I'm not sure you could up and run a marathon."

"Do you know many people who could?"

The doctor laughed in spite of herself. "No, I guess not."

Benvolio paused for a few seconds, measuring the situation. When he spoke, it was with trepidation. "I have less than a month to get in shape, or to at least look good. I don't think I need a physiotherapist. I need a personal trainer, someone who will work me harder than I've ever worked myself. I don't know anybody who will fit that position." He flicked his eyes up to meet Dr. Lania's. "This is where you come in."

Dr. Lania blinked, looking uncomfortable. "Do you need some numbers? I think I know a few people who would do it…"

"So do I," he interjected. "But there's only one person who could help me meet my goals, and I think you know who I'm talking about." At this, he put on his best begging face. "Come on. The 1988 Summer Olympics? Kelly Lania, USA, gold medallist in Women's swimming?"

Dr. Lania smiled in spite of herself. "What of it?"

"In butterfly stroke, no less," continued Benvolio. "I don't know much about swimming, but I know that fly is the hardest stroke."

"Hardest and fastest."

"Gold medal in women's butterfly, the hardest stroke."

"I'm not sure where you're going with this."

"I think you are."

She sighed. "What do you want me to do? Teach you how to swim?"

Benvolio smiled. "Butterfly incorporates every area of the body, doesn't it? Arms, abs, legs. You have to be toned to do it. I, needless to say, am not toned."

"Your point is?"

"When I can swim a fly race with in the same distance as you did, I'll know I'm ready."

Dr. Lania cocked her head. "Ready for what?"

Benvolio shook his head and changed the subject. "I need you to tell me what to do."

Her resolve was weakening; Benvolio could feel it. "So it's going to be a…a butterfly boot camp?"

"That's the one."

"But I've got patients…"

"You don't need to be on me every minute," he cut in. "I'll whoop my own ass, you know I will. I just need you for a bit every day. Just to keep my on track."

Dr. Lania made one last-ditch attempt at being a responsible doctor. "So you're setting out to do in a month what I did in a lifetime."

Benvolio shook his head. "Not at all. I'm not setting out to win the Olympics. I just want to be able to DO it."

Two seconds went by. Suddenly, Dr. Lania snatched up a note pad and began to scribble on it at a furious rate. Benvolio craned his neck to read it, but it made absolutely no sense to him. Warm-up: 400 m Fr. PT 16 min. She continued in this vein until the pad of paper was covered in neat columns. Finally, Dr. Lania tore it off and handed it to Benvolio.

"This is your workout for today"

"Thanks. Thank you so much. But what does it mean?

"I'll get to that later. Your workouts will increase marginally in intensity with every passing day. The rate of increase will depend on how you did during the day. I'll modify it by evaluating you. And boy, I will be evaluating you hard." Benvolio gaped at her; Dr. Lania shrugged. "What? You asked for a coach. So for your pool warm-up, you're doing 400 metres—that's sixteen continuous lengths—of freestyle."

"Any stroke I want, you mean?"

"No, freestyle is the glorified way of saying front crawl."

"But what about butterfly?"

"Boy, there is now way you are even attempting fly until I'm sure you have a perfect stroke."

"So what's PT mean?"

"That's your pace time. It's the amount of time I'm giving you to do the exercise. Anything left over is your rest."

"What if I go over?"

"You get no rest."

"Ah."

Well? Review please?

Thank you Marah again for the reviews. IT'S ALL FOR YOU!

Curlz