The lines start off a very pale, whiteish-yellow before breaking into a pinkish-blush within a fraction of a second. It feels warm and as though my airways suddenly open up and allow the breath to properly fill my lungs for once; my shoulders drop and my heart beats and I can feel it. It’s a good feeling. And then the little beads appear; one by one following the path where the piece of mirror came down, each line glistening as they cross, one over the other, carrying the hurt and the fear and the anxiety and the rage out of my body as they go. I press my tongue against them and taste that reassuring metallic tang as the sharp sensations shoot up my thigh from where my saliva mingles with the scratches.

I remember sitting in a small room in Alder Hey hospital when I was about 13 and the woman dealing with me saying my scratches were superficial. I knew she meant in terms of injury, but I was still offended: I meant every single one of them and they’d each helped far more than any appointment or hospital stay. The scratches and the bites and the punches and the head slams are exactly why I can still breathe.