Watch Me Die In Your Machine

Summary

When I was eight years old, I was playing in the yard when I heard it—a sharp, sickening crack from deep inside my own bones.

It reminded me of the heavy medical braces sitting on my sister’s nightstand. Daisy had Osteogenesis Imperfecta. People called her a "glass doll." In our house, gravity itself was the enemy, and every ounce of my mother’s attention was a shield held over Daisy, protecting her from the inevitable break.

I wondered then if I had caught it too. I wondered if, by wearing the braces, the throbbing in my limbs would stop.