"Get up, get up and get down with the sickness, get up get up and get down with the sickness"

"Dr. Montgomery is going to help you, I don't want to here that you've pulled any of your old tricks, Dr. Montgomery is the last psychiatrist within reasonable driving distance, so if I doesn't work, you're going to Hideaway." The soft gray eyes looked into the blank emotionless face and talked, hoping to be heard over the banging noise being admitted from the headphones.

"This means you better not try any shit." The car swerved, as the words were squeezed through clenched teeth.

The girl in the backseat pulled her headphones off, icy blue gray eyes never moving from the view just outside her window.

"I need to change my bandage." Flat, emotionless, her words meant exactly what was said, there was no hidden meaning, no clue as to what was going on inside her.

"Did you change them before we left?" The woman sounded exasperated, tired, as if the world was on her shoulders and it was starting to get heavy.

"They got wet when I washed my hands at the rest stop; they're starting to get slimy." The girl's words were still flat and emotionless.

Sighing the woman opened her purse, pulled out a roll of bandaging, and handed it to the girl, her daughter. "You should turn your headphones down Trista."

"Bite me." The girl, Trista, took the clean gauze and placed it on the seat next to her; she rolled her sleeves back and began unwrapping her left wrist. She dropped the soiled bandaging to the car floor and stared at her wrist. Her wrist had a red big red cut; it had just recently started to scab over. Her right wrist looked the same.

Counselor number five, what makes Dr. Montgomery different from Cr. Daly, or Dr. Williams? The fact that each one is further away from our home, the fact that with each one my pathetic parents may get an answer as to why I did this? They think this one will be different? That I'll talk this time? Shows what they know, the morons.

"We're here." The man, Trista's father snapped, jerking the car into a parking space and then getting out. He leaned against the car, took out a cigarette, lit it and began puffing away.

Trista and her mother got out of the car. Her mother sighed. She sighed a lot now. Trista glared at her father. He would never know that the one time, the first time, the time that no one knew about, she pretended she was cutting his flesh, and not hers.

"Trista, come on, we're going to be late."

Trista paced forward, ignoring her parents, ignoring the world she entered the tall building, punched the up button on the elevator and waited.