Her Wedding, My Funeral

The psychopath my mother had been hunting for ten years was killing me when she called.

Every word out of her mouth landed like gunpowder: "Your cousin's getting married next week. You're coming back to be her bridesmaid."

"Her fiancé used to be your boyfriend. If you don't show up as the bridesmaid, what will people think of her?"

By then I'd already lost too much blood. Consciousness was slipping away. I didn't have the strength to speak.

But she didn't notice anything wrong. All that came through the phone was impatient scolding: "What are you, dead? Can't even get a single word out?"