Growing up, I always imagined that my life would be different. I’d look at my parents and think, “Someday, I’m gonna get married and have my own little family.” I never imagined that I’d be standing in a lab, trying to put together a bomb for a man that I invited into my life, while also trying to distract myself from the fact that my frustrations aren’t all to be blamed on my bomb-making inadequacy.
I guess that’s the thing about being a child: it comes with childish dreams.
I can say one thing: the fact that I can move my arm loosely as though there aren’t stitches and a bullet hole in my shoulder does help…a lot. However, the reason behind why I can is the root of my frustration.
Should I be thankful that not only did Marcel administer the medication that’s miraculously healing me b
