sixty-nine

I take a deep breath. Everyone is staring at me. I don't cry. I'm done crying. Instead, I stare at them blankly. I hate waves of pity they're drowning me in. It doesn't feel healthy. The cop left, along with the lady (I found out she works in Social Services.)

My counselor holds out a tissue for me.

I blink. "I'm not crying," I tell her.

"You should be," Ms. Binkman says.

"I've cried enough," I reply.