Istand at the counter watching steam rise as water descends over the jagged bits of ginger below. The mug is too hot to hold, so I wrap my fingers around the handle and carry it over to our grey couch. My first book, a memoir, has just been released, and I feel like I’ve finally finished a long trek up the mountain. Suddenly I hear cries of what must be a wild animal, only to quickly realize it’s my own voice, harsh and primal. I feel something trapped deep in my right upper leg and vagina, a bear’s fangs sunk deep into layers of skin. There is nowhere to escape the aftermath of boiling water.
“Are you sure you still want to travel tomorrow?” Shakil, my husband, asks a short time later. He’s done his best to support me as I sit doubled over at the dining table, tears dripping into silence. I survey the enormity of the trembling raw skin now covering most of my upper thighs.
