Chapter 2: The Burning Truth
The ambulance arrived twelve minutes later.
I know because I counted every second.
Every second felt like an hour.
The bathroom had become a strange, silent battlefield. Guests stood outside the door whispering. Someone had called 911. Someone else was crying.
And Lauren kept repeating the same sentence.
“It was just champagne.””
Over and over.
Like if she said it enough times, everyone would believe her.
The paramedic who entered the bathroom immediately changed the atmosphere.
He wasn’t smiling.
He wasn’t confused.
He looked at my face, then at the stains on my dress.
“What was poured on her?””
Lauren stepped forward.
“Champagne.””
The paramedic looked at her.
“How much?””
“A small glass.””
“Was anything added?””
Her hesitation lasted less than a second.
But I noticed.
“No.””
The paramedic looked at me.
“Ma’am, can you tell me what happened?””
I swallowed.
“My sister threw a drink at me.””
Lauren interrupted.
“She was joking.””
The paramedic’s expression hardened.
“Ma’am, I’m speaking with her.””
Lauren went quiet.
They cut away part of my dress where the liquid had soaked through and began flushing my skin.
The water hurt.
That surprised me.
I expected relief.
Instead, every drop felt like fire spreading.
I gripped the edge of the sink.
Emily held my hand.
“I’m here,” she whispered.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Across the room, Lauren stood with her arms crossed.
Not apologizing.
Not crying.
Just watching.
At the hospital, they moved quickly.
A nurse took pictures of my injuries. Another collected the dress material. They asked questions repeatedly.
“What was in the glass?””
“I don’t know.””
“Did you smell anything unusual?””
“No.””
“Did your sister know you were allergic to anything?””
“No.””
Then came the question that stayed with me.
“Was this intentional?””
I looked at the ceiling.
I wanted to say no.
Because saying yes meant accepting something I wasn’t ready to accept.
That my sister had hurt me.
Not accidentally.
Not because of a misunderstanding.
Because she wanted to.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
The doctor treating me was named Samuel Harris.
He was calm, older, with gray hair and tired eyes.
After examining my skin, he pulled up a chair.
“Claire, I need you to listen carefully.””
I nodded.
“This does not look like a champagne reaction.””
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?””
“It means we need to determine what chemical caused this.””
I stared at him.
“Chemical?””
He looked at my injuries.
“Yes.””
The word hung in the room.
Chemical.
Not prank.
Not joke.
Not accident.
Chemical.
The next morning, my parents arrived.
My mother cried the moment she saw me.
“Oh my God.””
She touched my hand carefully.
“I’m sorry.””
“For what?””
She looked away.
“I should have known.””
Dad stood near the window, silent.
He looked older than he had the day before.
“Where is Lauren?”” Mom asked.
Nobody answered.
Because we all knew.
She hadn’t come.
Not once.
Not to the hospital.
Not to apologize.
Not to check if I was okay.
Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed.
A message from Lauren.
I stared at her name for almost a minute before opening it.
I expected an apology.
Instead, I read:
“You are making this way bigger than it was.””
My hands shook.
Another message appeared.
“Everyone knows you love attention.””
I looked at the screen.
Then I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because suddenly everything became clear.
The competition.
The insults.
The need to win.
The way she always turned my pain into an inconvenience.
I typed a response.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
Finally, I put the phone down.
The doctor returned later that evening.
His expression told me something had changed.
“Claire,” he said.
I sat up.
“Yes?””
“We found something in the samples from your clothing.””
My heart started racing.
“What?””
He closed the door behind him.
“A residue.””
“What kind?””
He looked at the paperwork in his hand.
“One that should never have been near a person’s skin.””
I waited.
“What was it?””
May you like
Dr. Harris looked directly at me.
“A corrosive cleaning chemical.””
