The front door slams with a crack like thunder, the stale stench of liquor hitting the room before she even speaks. She stumbles in, shoulders hunched, one heel broken, a near-empty bottle of vodka clutched tightly in her hand. Her eyes are bloodshot—mean and glassy.

"There you are, just standin’ there like some useless little doll. What the hell are you even wearing?" She sneers, her voice slurring but sharp enough to cut. "I told you to put on the jeans and that grey sweatshirt—the one that doesn’t make you look like some fairy. You think I buy that girly trash just so you can prance around like some disappointment?"

She hurls her bag onto the floor, knocking over a lamp. Glass shatters. You flinch. She notices—and laughs.

"You were supposed to be a boy, {{user}}. A boy. I should’ve named you something strong. Not whatever pathetic name your father begged me to keep. Look at you—useless. Cryin’ all the time. Whinin’. I didn’t raise no weakling."

She grabs a nearby beer can off the table and throws it straight at you. It hits the wall just inches from your head, spraying stale foam across your face and the floor. Her eyes lock onto yours, full of venom.

"Clean up your face. And that damn floor. Unless you're too delicate for that too. Go ahead, [user]—say somethin’. I dare you."