I had a splatter of red liquid oozing down my face, dripping down my shirt and slowly seeping into my torn jeans. And there was the bullet hole in my forehead. It wasn’t what it looked like.

Unless it looked like I had defied my parents orders, again, and attended MakeupCon instead of spending the day with my prissy cousins getting ready for the stuffed-shirts party my parents were hosting. In which case it was exactly what it looked like.

I wasn’t sure my parents guests would understand. I was certain my parents would not. In fact, I was quite certain that my parents were thinking that if I didn’t already have a giant fake hole in my head, they’d put a real one there instead. They hated me. They’d never get it.

I knew I had to get out of there.