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shattered. Shards scattered around my feet. Blood dripped from slashes along my fingers and knuckles. I stared at my hands, turning them back and forth, then focused on the crimson droplets dotting the mirror fragments on the floor.
    I sat down and listened to the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. I picked up the biggest chunk of glass and inspected it carefully. It was razor-sharp, sharp enough to terminate this misery, to bring the end I so desperately wanted.
    I sucked in a deep breath and placed the jagged edge on my lower left arm. I pressed it deep into my skin until the pain grew nearly unbearable. Until the pain overwhelmed every other hurt.
    Riveted by what I’d done, I stared at the blood running down my wrist, dripping onto the floor. My right hand clasped the shard tighter as I guided it once again to my flesh. Slowly, I drew it upward. The open wound grew.
    My pulse was slow and steady. I wasn’t afraid anymore. This was what I wanted. The end.
    “Mia, no! Stop!”
    At the boom of my father’s voice, I dropped the shard.
    Terrified, I looked first at him, then at the huge gash I’d self-inflicted. A puddle of blood had formed around my feet. My clothes were streaked crimson. And there I was: an impassive and motionless observer.
    “Mia, press this against the cut!” My dad shoved a towel at me and lifted me from the floor.
    “Bear down!” he ordered, grabbing my right hand to guide it to the towel. He hoisted me in his arms, then carried me through the door, down the stairs, and into his car. “You keep pressing down on the wound. You understand me?” As we sped through the late-afternoon rush hour, he whispered, “Why?”
    I didn’t answer. All I could do was stare out the window and then at my arm. The white towel grew redder with every minute. It fascinated me, watching each fiber of the fabric turn scarlet.
    Some drops fell onto my jeans. I didn’t press on the wound. Nothing hurt. And I wanted this injury to end it all.
    The car stopped. My dad ran around the car, dragging me from the passenger seat into the ER. After he screamed for help, far too many people surrounded me. An orderly—a nurse?—hustled me into a small room, placed me on a gurney, and inspected my arm, turning it to look at one side, then the other while compressing the wound.
    I felt so light and free as I observed the turmoil from a distance. A doctor entered. He cleaned the wound and stitched it, and while he labored over me, he asked why. I didn’t answer. Before I left the hospital, it would seem everyone there had asked me that same stupid question. Wasn’t it obvious? Who needed an answer?
    I lay motionless on the gurney, like a stone, and stared at the white neon lights on the ceiling. I asked myself again, Why me? If my father hadn’t returned home earlier than usual, my misery would be over.

Chapter 5
    Mia—My Sunshine
    Graz, June 2012
    “Mia, is everything all right?” My mother’s voice brought me back to the present. I was still alive. And I was feeling better. A year ago, all I could think about was that one question: Why me? Now I wasn’t as obsessed with it anymore. Suppressing things was supposed to help, wasn’t it?
    “Yes, Mom. I just . . . Whatever. Let’s just keep going.” I touched the long scar on my arm and turned back to my backpack.
    My pack was spacious, but I really had chosen too many things to take.
    My mother stared at the pile on my bed. “We’ll never find room for all these clothes. What do you need these shoes for?” She dangled a pair of beloved high heels between her fingers. “You haven’t worn them in a year, and now you want to take them on a train trip? I must have done something terribly wrong when I raised you.” She sighed loudly.
    “Mom . . .” I scolded her and grabbed my shoes.
    “Come on, Mia. It was just a joke.” She smiled at me. “Though, seriously, you should leave them here.” She circled an arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder.