I stretch the sweater sleeve further down my left forearm before I exit my room. Nobody can see, or they'll send me back to the therapist. I can't go back there.
I hear my parents screaming cuss words at each other, but when they see me at the bottom of the stairs, my mother tells my father that I don't like it when they argue. It's true, I don't.
I keep my head down and my voice quiet, not saying much at the table. I eat quickly, rinse off my plate, then say thank you and walk back upstairs.
I close my door and sigh in frustration. My hands reach for a blanket laying next to my desk, and I pick it up and throw it angrily. They don't understand.
I just want it to be over.
