He charged forward, snatched my backpack from where I'd thrown it on the ground, and swung it at me with full force.
The zipper burst open.
Everything inside flew out in a white cascade, like a sudden downpour of paper rain.
Pill boxes. Rolls of bandages.
All movement stopped.
Someone bent down and picked up a box. "Is this..."
"These are hormone medications!"
Someone else grabbed the document folder. I struggled to snatch it back, but my body was too weak to move.
Inside was a stack of lab reports.
The one on top showed estrogen levels so low they were barely detectable.
The comments section went blank for a few seconds, then exploded:
[Why would a girl be taking estrogen? Is she trans or something?]
[Must've caught something from sleeping around!]
[Mentally ill! Taking all this random crap!]
Mom froze.
Her lips trembled, but no words came out.
Aunt Naomi rushed over and slapped me twice across the face. "What have you been doing out there? Where did these drugs come from?"
My head snapped to the side. My ears rang.
I turned back.
And then I laughed—a wild, liberating laugh.
"That's right. I'm sick."
Every word came out razor-sharp. "The kind of sick where I'll die without medication. Happy now?"