The Serum for a Flawed Daughter
I was born flawed. Or so my mother, Donna Eleonora of the Valeriano family, branded me.
"Emotion," she would say, her voice like chilled steel, "is a sin. A weakness. Unacceptable for a leader, and unforgivable for the heir to the Valeriano family."
From the day we were born, she began "shaping" us with her special "serum." My twin sister and I were both her subjects.
The moment I showed the slightest flicker of emotion, my mother would be there to inject me herself. With that cold needle, she would push the neurotoxin into my veins, silencing whatever I felt.
But my sister, Chiara, was her masterpiece. Always perfectly composed, utterly placid. Even after shattering our father’s treasured antique pocket watch, she merely confessed her mistake, her face a mask of tranquility.
And me? "Mamma, I'm scared of the thunder," I'd only have to whisper, and my mother's gaze would turn to ice.
What followed was the familiar, searing burn of the toxin flooding my veins.
I used to argue. But my mother’s words were always the same.
"Your body's reactions don't lie. Pain is the best teacher. This is all for your own good."
After thousands of injections, I started to believe her. I was born to be out of control.
On the night of the family's St. Jude's Gala, my mother was to take my sister.
That day, a stray peanut triggered a violent allergic reaction.
I collapsed onto the carpet, gasping, "Mamma, I can't breathe... It hurts... Save me."
My face was flushed, and I was drenched in a cold sweat.
My mother merely glanced down at me before retrieving a syringe.
"You'd cause such a scene just for attention? Pathetic."
She injected me with a dose far exceeding any safe limit, then turned, took my sister, and slammed the door shut.
Mother had to be right. My body was just… out of control. It probably didn't even hurt. It was just a scene, another pathetic grab for attention.
I'm sorry, Mamma. I wish I could be the perfect daughter you wanted.