Instantly, warmth bloomed across my skin. Thick, hot blood poured over my lips, a crimson waterfall dripping onto the immaculate white kitchen tiles my mother cherished more than her children. Each drop was a stain on her perfect world. My body started to shake uncontrollably, a tremor born of shock and adrenaline. My vision swam. Blindly, my hand fumbled for the landline phone on the wall, the old-fashioned one she kept for “emergencies.” This was an emergency. My fingers had just brushed the cool plastic when my mother’s hand shot out and ripped it away, her nails digging into my skin. She held it to her chest like I was a vandal trying to destroy her property.

“It’s just a scratch,” she snapped, her voice as sharp and cold as shattered glass. Her eyes weren’t on me, but on the blood pooling on her floor.

My dad, drawn by the commotion, took one look at my gushing, misshapen face and muttered the two words that had defined my entire childhood: “Drama queen.” He rolled his eyes, as if my agony were a poorly staged theatrical performance.