My Mother's Crimson Data

From the moment I was born, I was branded ‘flawed.’ A mark carved into me by my own mother, the renowned sports psychologist Dr. Isolde Vance.

She said pre-competition nerves were an unforgivable weakness. Especially for a top athlete. Especially for the heir to a champion.

From the day we started skating, she made us wear the ‘biofeedback bracelets’ she had invented. One for me, and one for my twin sister, Hailey.

The bracelet would flash red at the slightest fluctuation in my heart rate. Then, my mother would press a button, injecting me with a 'neuro-calmer' to suppress my physiological responses.

But my sister Hailey's bracelet? It always glowed a steady, placid blue—the color of perfect calm. Even when she botched a triple jump, it would only flicker gently.

And me? I just had to whisper to myself before a competition, "Wren, don't be nervous, you can do this," and the bracelet would erupt in a glaring red light as my heart hammered against my ribs.

What followed was the sting of the neuro-calmer, a cold fire invading my veins.

I used to argue. But my mother always had the same retort.

"Data doesn'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 broken.

On the night of the National Figure Skating Championships, my mother was taking my sister to the victory party.

The day’s brutal training had left my nerves raw.

The bracelet flashed red, and my mother began her ‘correction.’

But this time, the bracelet malfunctioned, injecting a massive overdose into my wrist.

I collapsed onto the carpet, pleading, "Mom, the bracelet… it hurts so much… help me."

My bracelet was flashing red, a frantic, desperate pulse.

My mother just glanced down at me, drenched in a cold sweat, before pressing the button for the maximum dose.

"You'd fall apart this easily just for a little attention? You're pathetic."

She turned, took my sister, and slammed the door.

But a small, insidious voice whispered in my mind… Mom’s right. The bracelet is red. It doesn’t really hurt. I’m just being dramatic, playing the victim.

I'm sorry, Mom. In my next life, I’ll be the perfect daughter, the perfect champion you always wanted.

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1

One moment, I was curled in agony on the living room carpet.

The fire of the high-concentration neurotoxin tore from my wrist to my chest.

The biofeedback bracelet flashed a frantic, blood-red light.

The doorknob turned. A flicker of hope ignited within me.

"Mom!" I struggled to lift my head, my vision blurred by sweat. "You came back… help me…"

My mother was a doctor. One of the world's top sports psychologists.

She must have sensed something was wrong. She was here to save me.

But she just stood in the doorway. Her authoritative presence washed over me, a familiar, cold wave of pressure.

Her gaze locked onto the flashing red light on my wrist, and her face hardened into a familiar mask of disgust.

"Red again. Out of control again?"

"No!" I tried to sit up, but the poison sent me into another spasm, and I collapsed back to the floor. "I… I just have sore muscles from training… My heart is racing…"

"Enough!" Isolde strode toward me, grabbing my chin and forcing my gaze to meet hers. "Eighteen years, and you're still peddling the same pathetic excuses? Look at your bracelet. Data doesn't lie. Your weakness is an insult to my Vance Method."

My vision was hazy, but I could still see the profound disappointment and contempt in her eyes.

It was the look I knew best.

"Isolde, we have to go."

My father, Richard, called from the doorway, his voice urgent. "The victory party has started. The sponsors and the head of the federation are waiting…"

His eyes lingered on me for a second, a flicker of concern in his gaze.

"Shouldn't we… leave something for Wren to eat?"

"Feed her what?" Isolde sneered, dropping my chin. "She already devoured all the desserts at last week's victory banquet. The kind that cost several hundred dollars a serving. If she's that gluttonous, let her starve and reflect on why her condition is always so unstable."

I tried to tell her it was Hailey who ate them, but all that escaped my lips was a weak whimper.

The bracelet’s needle pricked my skin again, a sharp sting that dug deep, and the light flashed red once more.

"Lock the door," Isolde ordered my father, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Don't let her out until the bracelet turns blue. She needs to learn control."

"Mom, please…" I reached out a trembling hand, trying to clutch the hem of her gown.

She recoiled from my touch as if I were a leper.

Just before the door closed, I saw my sister, Hailey, standing in the foyer.

The bracelet on her wrist glowed a steady, gentle blue, like a halo.

She looked at me and mouthed two words.

Loser.

The door slammed shut. The electronic lock clicked into place.

The house fell silent.

It was just me and the chemical fire raging inside me.

It hurts so much.

Mom is right. Data doesn't lie.

The bracelet is red. This pain must be fake. I'm just putting on an act.

It doesn't hurt at all. I can control this.

I squeezed my eyes shut, repeating the words like a mantra, a desperate attempt to believe the lie as tears streamed down my face.

I don't know how much time passed, but the pain finally began to recede.

With the last of my strength, I crawled to my desk.

I had to write a report. That was the rule.

Every time the red light came on, I had to write a thousand-word 'reflection report' on my laptop, detailing my 'loss of physiological control.'

If I write it, Mom will forgive me, right? She'd give me the antidote, right?

With trembling hands, I opened the cold laptop.

The screen was full of my previous drafts, a litany of my failures saved in a private blog.

I always wrote the same thing: "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I will better control my pre-competition state."

But this time, I wanted to write the truth.

A strangled sob caught in my throat.

My vision was fading. I typed with the last of my strength, tears falling relentlessly onto the keys:

"Mom, I really do love you."

"It hurts so much. Why won't you believe me?"

"The bracelet is broken. I was never out of control. I deserved to be a champion's heir."

"I just wanted a hug. I just wanted to hear you say everything would be okay."

"For eighteen years, I never hated you. Even when the bracelet tortured me with poison every day, I never hated you."

"If loving you and craving your approval means being out of control, then I am guilty as sin."

As I typed the last word, the pain vanished, replaced by a lightness I had never known.

My body felt weightless, as if it were about to drift away.

I looked down and saw myself, slumped over the desk, motionless.

The bracelet on my wrist still pulsed with a lonely red light, like a bloodshot eye staring into the dark.

So, this is what death feels like. And I still hadn't learned to control my nerves. I'm sorry, Mom.