PART 3: THE MRI
The emergency room moved in a blur.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Questions.
Machines.
A physician named Dr. Patel explained they needed an MRI immediately.
Meanwhile, my parents paced outside my room.
Their voices carried through the thin walls.
“She exaggerates everything,” my mother complained.
My father answered, “This will cost a fortune.”
Not once did either of them ask if I was okay.
The MRI machine swallowed me inch by inch.
The cold metal tunnel felt endless.
As the machine hammered around me, memories surfaced.
Not random memories.
Patterns.
Moments.
Evidence.
I remembered being seven years old after Tyler shoved me off a treehouse ladder.
“Boys play rough,” my father had said.
At thirteen, Tyler pushed me into the school pool.
“She’s being dramatic,” my mother told the principal.
At sixteen, he slammed a car door on my hand.
“Accidents happen,” everyone insisted.
Every injury.
Every excuse.
Every lie.
The machine finally stopped.
The technician helped me out.
Her expression had changed.
Something was wrong.
Or perhaps something had finally been found.
Less than an hour later, Dr. Patel returned carrying a tablet.
Rachel stood beside her.
So did a police officer.
That was when fear crept into my parents’ faces for the first time.
My father folded his arms.
“She fell.”
My mother nodded.
“She’s always been accident-prone.”
Dr. Patel remained silent.
Tyler stood in the doorway.
Pale.
Sweating.
Watching the tablet.
May you like
Then the doctor turned the screen around.
And the room stopped breathing.
