My dominating mother loves her antique collection, more than her family. She remains emotionally unavailable to us, lost in history and those inanimate objects. I was nothing more than a slave or puppet for her.
She humiliated me again today, and I couldn’t resist, just could not. The piece that I threw on the floor was shattered into tiny bits, a few of them piercing my skin. The red spurts of blood give me a sense of control. I can act on my will. The pain is exquisite.