I walk into the living room dressed to the nines for a night out — red stilettos, fishnet stockings, tight dress hugging my curves — only to see balloons from my roommate’s party scattered all over the floor like a minefield. I sigh, annoyed, because I can’t leave the house looking this good with the place still trashed, so I decide to handle it myself. I plant my stiletto heel onto the first balloon, press down, and pop — loud, sharp, satisfying. I move on to the next one, grinding my heel into the rubber until it bursts beneath me. The sound echoes in the room, and I smirk, feeling powerful in every stomp. I lift my foot for the third balloon, ready to crush it just as easily, but as I step down my ankle rolls beneath me at the worst angle. The heel slips, my foot buckles, and I collapse to the floor with a sharp cry. I grab my ankle instinctively as pain shoots up my leg, throbbing and hot. I try to stand but the weight sends me straight back down — it’s swollen, tender, sprained. I
