I still remember the burning sting of the antiseptic, the harsh fluorescent light overhead, and the echo of my father’s voice as he hung up on me. “Why are you making such a fuss? You’re not dying. Don’t call in a panic. Clare needs support urgently now.” I was lying on a gurney in the ER, bleeding and barely able to breathe after a car crash. My leg felt shattered, my ribs screamed, but none of it compared to the fracture in my chest—the one caused by the man who was supposed to protect me. He left me there alone because my sister had a meltdown over a failed job interview. When he finally showed up hours later, the look on his face said it all. He had no idea what I’d become in his absence, and he certainly didn’t expect what I was about to do next.
The crash had happened in a blur of screeching tires, exploding glass, and then a profound, ringing silence. When I woke up, I couldn’t move my leg. I tasted blood and realized I was being lifted onto a stretcher. “We’ve got a pulse,” a paramedic’s urgent voice cut through the fog. “Compound fracture. Possible internal bleeding. Let’s move.”
