I don’t remember much and in fact I don’t remember anything at all but feeling the blood rush from the open cut on my leg, except it’s not really a cut. It’s a gash. I am feeling the blood rush from the gash on my leg, and I am screaming. I cannot move, my body open to the baptism of anger and shock, an empty canvas to the winter wind. My throat is on fire, stinging my lips like 1,000 bees, but I am still screaming and continue to scream until the fire has burnt my throat down, ashes invading my lungs and baby boy lips are no longer moving and now there are what seems like 20 panicked, grey-haired adults that surround me, but in reality, there are only 3.

Rushed. I am being rushed to the ER, leg wrapped in someone’s ‘Baby’s First Xmas’ blanket and I am being screamed at. ‘Who did this? Answer me now, Joseph!’ and ‘Why the hell did you go outside after I told you not to? Are you an idiot?!’ and I feeling like puking. So I do.

I puke all over my mom’s feet and my aunt’s new trousers and the ER woman’s obscenely white – but not so anymore – coat and I want to die. ‘Stop yelling!’ I want to say, but I’m scared that I’ll vomit again, so instead I drift off to sleep to screaming harmonies and hissing sopranos.