Out for Blood: A Billie Joe Story

My father and I both stay silent. Susan sighs and smiles.

"Ellie, why don't you go first? I haven't heard anything from you yet," she says, then looks to my father. "If you could, Billie Joe, please wait in the waiting room for an hour while I talk to Ellie? I'll come back and you two will switch." My father smiles and looks at me.

"I'll see you in an hour, El," he says softly. I don't do anything. He walks out of the room and Susan clears her voice.

"Do you talk a lot, Ellie," she asks. I shrug. "You need to talk to me for this to be successful." I look up at her.

"What's 'this'? What is that supposed to mean," I ask, not able to bring my voice above a murmur.

"These walls and that door are soundproof, Ellie; you can say whatever you want as loud as you want."

"Answer my question." She sighs calmly.

"I am going to try to help your father with his sickness."

"That's bullshit." She doesn't look surprised by my statement.

"Why do you think that?" I smirk.

"Because a sickness is uncontrollable. That bastard can choose whether he hurts me, and of course he always wants to."

"How often does he hurt you?"

"Almost every fucking night."

"Do you do anything to provoke him?"

"No! I don't! That's the worst part," I say louder, leaning forward in my chair.

"How does he hurt you?"

"You already know that," I murmur.

"I want to hear it from you."

"Of course you do," I mutter.

"So tell me." I roll my eyes.

"He hits me, rapes me, calls me names, shit like that." She looks amused by my choice of words.

"What kind of names does he call you?"

"Slut, bitch, sexy, whore, and some other stuff I can't remember."

"You think him calling you sexy is bad?"

"When he's saying it, yeah."

"Why?"

"Because he's a sick fucker that doesn't deserve life. It's disgusting when your own biological father is telling you that you're hot and sexy and cute."

"I thought that was what girls your age wanted to hear."

"No, not from him, and because of him, I think anyone that tells me that just wants to fuck me."

"So if I told you I thought you were pretty, you would think the same?" I cracked a little smile.

"Well, no, but I still wouldn't believe you." She is silent for a few seconds as she writes things down in a manila folder. She looks back up at me.

"We'll leave that subject for a little while and talk about something else. What do you plan on doing for the rest of the summer?" I shrug.

"I don't know."

"You aren't going to hang out with your friends?"

"I don't have any friends." A shocked expression covers her face.

"You don't?"

"No," I reply simply.

"Why not?" I shrug again.

"I don't talk to anyone."

"Why not?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"I'm supposed to, I want to learn more about you."

"Really? You're not just saying that because you're a psychologist?"

"No, you are very interesting to me."

"How am I supposedly interesting?"

"I'm learning all of these terrible things about you, but you seem to keep such a calm and peaceful presence."

"Okay, that's a good answer," I say, smiling a little. She sighs.

"We'll have to get back to our original subject due to there being only five minutes left."

"What else do you need to know?" She ponders over that question for a couple seconds.

"How does your father act after he rapes you?" I swallow, looking down. I look back up several seconds later.

"He acts like nothing's happened."

"What do you mean," she inquires.

"He's really sweet and is really nice to me... that is until I piss him off."

"How do you do that?" I chuckle once without humour.

"Just by being silent when he talks to me. The stupidest shit aggravates him." A timer beeps and she hits a button on it. She looks back at me and smiles kindly.

"That's it for today."