When old folks speak of magic, I see their eyes alight rewinding back to theatre shows in the big cities or holiday coastal towns. Children, are none of the wiser. From young ages, cartoon clowns and generic handsomely-suited magicians spread this ability as if they have milled a thousand stars into stardust. Ha. But magic deceives them into thinking they could reach unimaginable heights of possibility. But that’s the dark beauty of such thing.

I, Francis Roberts, am a counsellor. A pretty good one at that. I don’t regard my years of practise as what contributes to my expertise. But what I do believe makes me a credible counsellor is a magic I believed made me special.

Empathy.

I would often have young men and women in cluster of problems probing at them like kitchen knives. Relationship dilemmas, death of a family, miscarriages are among the common ones that enter my door. But then you get the interestingly deep ones. Low-self esteem, anxiety, depression, aggression- the list goes before my eyes like words on a never ending scroll.

They spill their issues in my private room like litter from a trash can. And unlike others, I listen. I hold eye contact, their despair surges through me like a current of electric that somehow connects us into a mutual understanding. My patience and intrusion keeps them coming back like a boomerang. But... they are not coming back to get better and the floor remains littered.

Professional advice turns to friendly exchanges; handshakes, hugs, a cry on the shoulder until their eyes meet mine. They are captivated into a false sense of security and their trembling lips quiver like a wave that is approaching the shore; my lips. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

If I were to be convicted for breaching the lines of professionalism, who would recovery these lost souls? They would tumble back down the steep cliff, unable to reach for any poking-out edge they could grapple onto and climb back up. Nevertheless, we passionately kiss and divulge into the taboos of professional and patient care.

And then comes consequences. Which I am determined I will not face. Counselling is my professional duty, my livelihood, my gift. And most importantly, my magic!

So I’ve always had to take action. Do something about it. Before I’m in striped black-and-white overalls depriving the world from the gift I have. Do you know what I do?

I kill them. With empathy. All their secrets I’ve inherited from them are twisted and manipulated and fed back to them. I watch the blossoming flower they’ve become wither by the downpours of their tears and the sorrow that lingers over their minds like a cloudy day.

That is beauty of this magic. Even though I have killed them, it is disguised by their own self-conflict. That is real magic.