Cuts (Chapter 2, Story 1)

"Are you sure about that?" the psychologist asked, leaning forward in his creaky chair. "Of course," Kella mumbled. The shrink's office was small, dark, and cold, and it smelled like tuna fish. Kella hated that smell. It reminded her too much of her father; he had loved tuna. "Alright then." The psychologist--Brian was his name--leaned back and formed a tent shape with his hands over his immense gut. "If there's nothing wrong, then why have you been cutting yourself?" Again, Kella almost laughed aloud. Is that what her mother had told this man? That the scars on her arms and legs were self-inflicted? Kella knew her mother, Karen, would never admit that she was the one who hit Kella with electrical cords and sliced her wrists with kitchen knives. She would never tell anyone that she threw dinner plates at Kella's head and screamed at Kella to leave home and never come back. Kella should have known that when the social services lady came by the other day, Karen would blame everything on Kella. Kella didn't understand why her mother hated her so much. She loved all her other siblings to death, smothering them constantly with affection and tender loving care. But the woman treated Kella like a dog, and now the truth was beginning to seep out. Kella couldn't hide the evidence of her mother's abuse forever, and it frightened her to think of what might happen if the authorities ever found out. "Do you have anything else to say?" Brian asked. "Time's just about up." Yes, Kella agreed, it probably was. But of course, she kept the thought in her head. This stranger wouldn't understand her predicament. "No. Can I go now?" "Sure, go ahead." Kella hopped up from the leather seat and strode to the door. "Don't forget to come back next week," Brian called after her. Fat chance, Kella thought. "Yes, sir. Goodbye."