Page 68 of Scarred King

“It’s not about you,” I stutter as I catch my breath. “It’s not a disorder—”

“Elena,” the psychologist smiles at me warmly, “come sit on the couch so we can talk for a while.”

“I don’t want to,” I raise my shoulders angrily.

“Stop acting like a child,” Liam says angrily. “Dr. Cruz came here for you, so be polite and sit down and talk to her.” He walks over to me. “I really want to touch you all over,” he whispers in my ear and I push him away.

“I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet,” I fume and start pressing the buttons on the coffee machine irritably.

“Sit.” He orders and goes over to the machine. “I’ll bring you coffee.” I’m still fuming as I go and sit on the couch. I sit up straight and look at the woman suspiciously.

“Let’s get straight to the point.” She sits down opposite me. “Let’s talk about your hair.”

“Why don’t we talk about yours?” I ask rudely. “What’s the deal with those crazy little curls?”

“Well, maybe we won’t start with your hair…” she studies me intently. “Let’s start with a topic that you like talking about. Tell me about your university.”

“Why don’t you tell me about yours first?” I look at her stubbornly. “Where did you study? Where were you an intern? How long have you been working as a psychologist?”

Liam bangs the coffee down in front of me and I look at him angrily.

“Elena,” he says harshly, “don’t waste Dr. Cruz’s time. She’s very good at what she does.”

“Ohhh!” I fume again, but realize that for this to be over, I need to play along. “Fine,” I fake a small smile. “Here, I’m cooperating.”

“Do you remember when you first started feeling uncomfortable when people touched your hair?” She doesn’t beat around the bush.

“On the fourth of August, thirteen years ago,” I reply automatically, and I feel like the walls are closing in on me.

“And when did you start braiding your hair?” she asks, without taking her calm brown eyes off me.

“On the fourth of August, thirteen years ago,” I say as I struggle to breathe.

“What happened that day?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.” I glance at Liam and shrink into my seat.

“Leave us alone,” she orders him, her gaze still fixed on me.

He doesn’t argue and goes out to the yard. I have to admit that it’s interesting to see him obey her so calmly and quickly.

“Elena, what happened that day?” she repeats, and I lower my head.

“It wasn’t just that day.” I look down at my bare feet. “It started about a month before that, but I'm not comfortable talking about it.”

“Are you ashamed?” she asks. Her voice is still calm, but it manages to shake me up badly.

“Yes.” This is the first time I’ve ever had to deal with this, my head is spinning. I’ve buried it so deeply for thirteen years, and now she expects me to just let it all out?

“I promise you that no matter what you tell me, I’ve heard worse.” Her words shock me with their simplicity, and all the tension and embarrassment I feel turn into anger.

“Worse than my best friend’s dad inviting me to his garage and then sitting down and playing with himself as he stroked my hair?” I hear myself talking about my nightmare, and clench my hands. I'm still looking down. “Worse than him doing it at least twice a week and nobody knowing about it?” I raise my head slowly and the walls close in on me. I pant and clutch my chest. “And then…” the tears start falling and my utter helplessness makes me feel even worse. “And then, when I finally found the courage to tell my mother, she didn’t do anything. She just told me not to tell anyone.” My voice is hoarse, and I hug my knees to my chest. “She told me that a woman’s hair is her crowning glory, how a woman seduces men. She braided my hair and then…” I fall silent as the pressure explodes inside me and I start crying and wailing.

“And then you decided to hide your hair from the world so nobody would ever want to hurt you again,” she completes my sentence and I rock back and forth in distress. She goes to the kitchen, pours a glass of water and brings it to me. I take the glass with shaking hands as water spills on my clothes.

“Your mother made a mistake,” she says harshly and sits back down. “Your mother made several mistakes,” she corrects herself, and I sniff but I can’t stop the tears. “She should have filed a complaint. She should have told you that you were just a little girl. She should have told you that there are sick, perverted people in this world.” She falls silent and I look at her wearily. “And she should have told you that it wasn’t your fault.” She gets up from her seat and sits down next to me. “You look like a very smart young woman,” her voice is soft again. “When I say all these things to you out loud, can you understand and accept everything I said?”

“I think so,” I murmur, still crying quietly.

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