“Tell me what happened.”
This is how the sessions started. I’m sitting in the leather chair, my arms at my sides, like every other time I’ve been here.
He’s staring at me intently, asking the same question as last week.
“Nina?” he said. “What happened that night?”
I couldn’t answer.
I looked out the window at the parking lot, then at the clock, ticking away, waiting for this to be over.
“Please, your mom is worried about you.”
“She’s not,” I muttered. “She’s scared of me.”
He sighed, rubbed his forehead in frustration, and picked up a pen. A notepad sat in front of his desk. He scribbled something on to it.
“I can’t help you if you won’t be honest,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
I blinked at the good doctor, and whispered, “I don’t remember what I did. I just remember what everyone tells me I did.”
“And what was that?”
I closed my eyes, the tears burning, my throat clogged.
“They said I killed my dad.”
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