Chapter 2
My mom nodded, clearly pleased.
"You young folks really know your theory. I've just been too soft on her," she said.
"She's always making a big deal out of that birthmark, like she wants to hide herself away in a sack every day," she added.
The doctors and nurses nearby let out a soft laugh.
"Dr. Shaw's right. It's nothing, really," one of them said.
"She just can't take it," another chimed in.
I stood by the main table.
I felt like I was exposed under a spotlight, with everyone watching.
"I never thought it was a big deal," I said.
My voice was trembling as I spoke.
"I just want some peace and quiet," I added.
"Who are you talking back to?" my mom snapped, slamming her coffee cup down on the serving tray.
The glass hit the table with a dull thud.
The room went dead silent.
"Who told you to butt in when your elders are speaking? Is your pathetic ego really bigger than the sky?" she snapped.
"Michael's just trying to help you, and you can't even appreciate it. Who are you showing that attitude to?" she added.
Michael quickly waved his hand, trying to look all understanding.
"No need to get upset, Dr. Shaw. It's totally normal for a patient to push back when you're breaking through their defenses," Michael said.
Patient.' So that's all I am to him.
He just labeled me, like I'm nothing more than a case on his chart.
My mom sighed and rubbed her temples.
"I've been too easy on you, that's why you're so sensitive and weak now," she said.
"From tomorrow on, you'll accompany me to the clinic every day," she added.
I snapped my head up. "What for?" I asked.
"Exposure therapy," my mom said, her gaze icy and detached.
"You're just scared of people looking at you, huh? Maybe you just haven't had enough people staring," she scoffed.
"Every day, you'll sit right next to the reception desk. Don't do anything, just sit there and let everyone gawk," she continued.
"When you finally stop hiding, that's when you'll actually be cured," she finished.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
"I don't want to," I said.
"It's not up to you," she replied.
My mom picked up her glass, her face lighting up with a smile.
"Michael, here's a toast to you. Keep up the good work in the department," she said.
The room buzzed with laughter and chatter again.
Glasses clinked, laughter filled the air.
No one spared me another glance.
I felt like a prisoner condemned to death, abandoned and forgotten on the executioner's block.
I can't even remember how I got through that dinner.
By the time we got home, it was already past midnight.
My mom headed for the shower.
I slipped quietly into my room and crouched down by the trash can.
Piece by piece, I picked out the shattered remains from inside.
It was all that was left of my handpan.
It used to be a perfect circle, able to create music that felt like it echoed through the cosmos.
Now, it was just a heap of mangled metal, twisted beyond recognition.
I carefully wiped away the rust and grime with a tissue.
A sharp edge sliced my finger.
Blood dripped onto the steel, the red shockingly vivid against the dull surface.
"What are you doing?" my mom's voice cut through the silence.
I didn't even notice when the bathroom door opened.
She was standing behind me in her bathrobe.
She was still drying her hair with a towel.
I didn't look back, just kept scrubbing at the scrap of metal.
"Throw it away," she said.
I didn't move.
She walked over and kicked apart the piece I'd just managed to fit together.