For once, the word doesn't sound like a scolding, just a point on a map. I let the dark truth rise. It scrapes my throat on the way out. "No."
His eyebrows draw together. "When was the first time?"
My palms go damp, and my heart pounds. I rise, tug the left side of my skirt up, and point at the ugly, faded scar on my hip above the red lace. "This is the first one."
He takes calculated breaths, then asks, "When did it happen?"
I shrug. "Seventeen, I think."
"And what provoked you to do it?"
I drop my skirt and slink into the armchair. Tiny prickles of hurt sting my cheeks.
Red offers, "Whatever you say is between us. And I'm not judging you. I just want to know."
My nerves oscillate. I take a deep breath and expose my secret. "I caught my father threatening Brax that if he ever touched me, he'd kill him."
"Did Brax make a pass at you?" Red asks.
I laugh. "I wish. No. My Dad found out I was in love with Brax and thought he was too old for me."
"So you cut yourself because you were mad at your father?"
I shake my head. "Brax told my dad he wasn't attracted to little girls and would never touch me."
Red leans closer. "So you cut yourself because you felt rejected?"
"No. I knew Brax only told my dad that to get him off his back. Our love is too deep for my father to destroy it. I intended to cut myself with a B. You know, for Brax. But the knife slipped. The more I tried to fix it, the worse it got. So I failed at that mission," I say with annoyance in my tone.
"And how does it make you feel when you look in the mirror and see it?" Red digs.
"I don't think about it."
"Sure you do."
"No. I don't."
Red gets up and opens a closet door. There's a mirror on the back of it. He demands, "Come here, Blue."
I rise and stand next to him.
"Look at the scar on your hip and tell me how it makes you feel," he orders.
I meet his gaze in our reflections. "Why?"
"Because I want to know."
"Why?"
"It's important."
"Doesn't seem important," I argue.
"It is. Trust me. Now, please look and tell me," he repeats.
A deep breath flies out of me. I slowly pull my skirt up, stare at the scar, and say nothing.
"Put your fingers over it. Tell me what you feel," Red directs.
