Ghost

Carla's memory:
The therapist stands over me, examining my new cuts. I look away, my eyes to the floor. Every once in a while, he lets go and writes something in his notebook. Finally, he speaks.
"Why are you doing this?" He asks.
Those are the same words my mother used when she caught sight of my arm. I shrug, still not daring to look at him.
"Are your friends doing it? Do you feel the need to fit in?"
"What friends?" I mumble. He doesn't hear me.
"Does that make you feel good?"
I give a hard chuckle and moan a little. I laugh again.
He shakes his head. "You know that's not what I meant." He says, giving me a stern look.
"Why the fuck does anybody cut?" I say. "I don't know... I just feel in control."
He nodded his head like that was the right answer. "How so?"
I grew irritated. "What the fuck do you mean, how so? Why the hell are you asking stupid fucking questions?" I crossed my arms tightly on my chest, like I was shielding secrets. This movement just split the cuts on my arms and I ended up using, like, half a box of tissues to stop all the bleeding.
I went home when the appointment ended. I didn't say much to my therapist after my cuts split. I mean, nobody could blame me for getting so angry with him-Why the fuck would I tell a near stranger all my secrets? No. I'll never tell him what happened. I haven't and never will tell my family. That secret will go down with me to my grave. Nobody can ever know.