You were six years old when your parents took you to the art museum and you almost died. Fell down four flights of stairs, yet stood up with nothing more than a scrape on your bicep. Mom will call this day a miracle, the day her daughter escaped almost certain death. Sometimes, though, you wish you could have hit your head a little harder; chomped down so ******* your tongue that part of it could have fallen off (and maybe then you could be beautiful.)
The problem is, your mom tells her coworkers that it’s God’s Gift of Life that you’re still here. Sometimes she squeezes your hand so hard you’ll worry she’ll break your bones, which are already so thin, just the way she likes them. (Because a near-death experience does not justify something like chubby fingers.) (Even to your mother, who held you in her arms as you whimpered at the bottom of a staircase and kissed your forehead as she told you it would be okay.)
Your friends tell you that you’re meant to be here, and they love you, they really do, and your tongue tastes flat and boring in your mouth as you clamor for an interesting story to tell, a tale of survival that will make them miss you even when they have you, and yet you find nothing: nothing.