Cheryl's POV
I can't believe this sh!t. She actually did it. I was flipping through a magazine in the waiting room of Dr. Whitfield's
practice. I shouldn't be here. If anyone needs to see a counsellor it's me mam. I tossed the magazine back in the basket and started tapping nervously on the arm rest of me chair.
Psychiatrists always put us on edge -- probably because of me mam. It's Funny -- because she's one too; a child
psychiatrist. Can you believe it that sh!t. Her job is all about listening, but she can't even listen to her own daughter.
She just sweeps us under the carpet and sends us to 'another' shrink. It's pretty messed up, actually.
"Miss Tweedy, you may go through now.'
I puffed out a deflated sigh before I stood up and scratched me chin, "Thanks."
It looked like a typical GP's clinic. All toned down in muted colours. All clean. Scary clean. Everything had its place. I
sat down again, nervously, for the second time this morning. The only difference was the chair was more comfortable.
"What would you like to talk about this morning, Cheryl?"
I looked at her confusedly as me fingers weaved through me hair and I shrugged. "I don't know."
"Cheryl?"
"Hmm?"
"Would you like to talk about your injuries, about what happened to you?"
"Not really."
She looked at us with that typical fake look of concern, like she understood and sympathised with us. They must teach
that 'look' to all psychologists when they go to school. She looked just like me mam. Unemotional.
She watched us for a little while and then she read through some of her notes.. what could she possibly have to read? I haven't said anything for her to write down. After a while she glanced up at us again.
"Why do you think you are here, Cheryl?"
'I'm here because me mam is a control freak! I'm here because she doesn't trust us and doesn't want to deal with us!' I screamed out in me head.
Jesus, this was such a waste of time. I refused to say another word. I can ride this out. I can 'stare' with the best of
them.
"Ask me mam."
"What about your father... your biological father?" I felt like I had the air knocked out of us. What the hell did she
know about that? My eyes watched her suspiciously.
"What about him?"
"You are not close --"
I just stared at her for a while before I spoke again. Was that a question or a statement, I wondered? Did me mam talk to you about this? What about patient 'discretion'?
"I think we're done here, 'Dr. Whitfield'" I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster. I got up out of the chair and
left. I didn't wait for a response.
