atropa was getting ready for the yearly christmas gala that their family hosted, blood-red nails clicking against the cold gold of the necklace that they were going to wear. as she stared into the mirror, she could almost picture her hands dripping with blood. the loud ringing of her phone snapped her out of the moment and she said, âhey siriâ to get the phone to automatically answer the call. her motherâs line came over the line with empty platitudes of reasons why their father wouldnât be able to attend and she zoned out again as she gazed into the mirror. only this time, the blood dripping down her arms belonged to her father. the distant sound of her motherâs voice dragged her back into the moment, and in a monotone voice she replied, âtell him to stay home!â