“Ack!” “Ping, be quiet.” “But I-” “I don’t care, shut up.” I smile something slant as I treat the scrape on my face. Warm water and soap collide on my cheek. It kind of stings, but the feeling replaces itself with more of a calming sensation. I open a cabinet and pull out an antibiotic cream to smear on the wound. It smells, but I place it on anyway. Soon after, I carefully place a square bandage on it. Doing this process hurt me a little, but I know it’s good for me. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Following the routine, I ignore the words my mother shoots at me. At this point, I’m not sure what I think of the titles she assigns me. So, I let my fingers do all the work of tying my shoelaces, grabbing my stuff, and turning the doorknob
