She cleaned the wound, the sting of the antiseptic making my hands clench into fists against the vinyl examination table.

“I am going to need six sutures to close this,” Mara said, her voice dropping to a low, steady register. “And we need a head CT.”

“Just the sutures,” I said. “And I need you to take photos of the injury before you close it.”

“For the chart?” she asked.

“For my personal records,” I replied. “Use my phone.”

Mara took my phone from my pocket, unlocked it, and took four clear, high-resolution photographs of the jagged tear on the side of my face.

She administered the local anesthetic, and the cold needle puncture was a relief compared to the burning ache of the bruise.

I watched the ceiling tiles as she worked, counting the tiny black dots to keep myself grounded.

Each pull of the suture thread felt like a tug on my own skin, a physical knot tying me to the reality of what my family had done.

Once she finished, she taped a sterile dressing over my temple.