I sat in this dusty room in which four other girls sat. My mother had sent me. I traced the scars over and over again, sending a chill up my spine each time. Then a petite woman walked in, her hair was a hot pink, and she wore about a dozen silver bracelets on her wrists.
Only, she wasn’t hiding anything with them.
“Hello girls!” She said perkily. “Let’s get down to buisness. Um…Let’s see…Giovanna, you can start.” I stared daggers at her, I had no clue what she wanted from me. “Start what?” I asked with an attitude. “Why’d ya cut yourself? Tell us, we all know what it’s like.” Was she kidding me? “Go on.” The room was deathly silent, all eyes on me.
I felt a flush creep up my neck, and I fiddled with the fraying hem of my skirt.
“Well,” I began nervously. “My name’s Giovanna, and, well, I cut myself. Or, wait, maybe I should say I used to…”
I said everything, letting the words just pour over my tounge, out of my mouth.
And, the best part was that it felt better than cutting myself.