I walk into the office, unaware of what was soon going to happen. It was a decent place, except for the wrench of old people and five year old candy." Have a seat, please. Get comfortable." There were two options; the what looked like it costed five dollars chair, or the one with patterns of sewing that clashed in every fashionable way possible. I sat in the second one. "So how are you?" he exclaimed with a contradicting look on his face. "Fine." I answered as i searched for a word to replace my real feelings. " I haven't seen you in a very long time, how long has it been? About a month??" My counselor was an old man, maybe in his late fifties. He had been with me since I was very young, my parents thought that when they got a divorce that it would be good for me to go see a counselor. I've known him since. "It's been long enough." I said sarcastically, I did not want to be here. He rambled on and on about just things that any other counselor was supposed to say, but as he was talking i noticed something. He had stopped talking, he was calling my name. "Kyleigh, Kyleigh......Kyleigh!" I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder and came out of what must have been a daydream. "What is that?" He said as he told me to take my sweatshirt off. He saw. I didn't want him to see it, but I guess that my sleeve had rolled down far enough to be in sight. I took my sweatshirt off and prepared for the worst. He grabbed my wrist and asked me why, why I had cut myself. I said " I don't know, I felt like I deserved it." He gave me "The Talk" and tried to make me promise that i would stop, I told him no.
He immediatly pulled my step-mother into the room and kicked me out. He said that I needed to go to some sort of hosptial that would help a person like me. I just sat there, no emotion on my face. My step-mom was crying, she had no idea about this stuff. A little while later I was at Memorial Hosptial, Epworth. I guess it was a place for mentally ill people, and that is why I needed to go. I had to test to get in, to see if it was really what I needed. My step-mom kept taking pictures of my arm, the marks still blood red from when it had happened. She was crying, she wouldnt even look at my face. She was scared of me, and I knew she was.
