Fainting on Purpose? No, I'm Just Dying

A suffocating, near-death sensation suddenly seized me, and everything went black as I collapsed onto the donation table.

The needle was yanked sideways, and the blood began to flow back.

Ms. Ritter shoved me hard and impatiently pulled out the needle.

"I'm drawing your blood—can you just stay still? Now I have to stick the needle in all over again!"

When I didn't respond, a flicker of disgust crossed her eyes. She pinched the needle and jabbed it viciously into my arm.

"Oh dear, it went in crooked. You don't mind, do you?"

Ms. Ritter deliberately botched the insertion several more times, stopping only when my arm was black and blue.

However, I could no longer feel the pain.

Without even lifting her head, she swapped out the blood bag and muttered, "Fine, I give you credit for putting up with it. But you have no sense of collective spirit at all. You fake being sick and fainting just to get out of donating blood.

"It's only 400 milliliters—what's the big deal? Everyone else donated, but you have to be so dramatic about it. How could an outstanding man like Mr. Bradshaw have a son as selfish and irresponsible as you?"

The classmates behind me in line whispered to each other.

"I heard he's severely anemic, yet he still showed up to donate blood. What if he actually dies?"

"That's not possible. Didn't the nurse just say he's faking it to get out of it? Besides, Mr. Bradshaw usually dotes on him the most. If something was really wrong, would he still be standing there so calmly?"

Amid their chatter, the looks they cast at me grew a little more contemptuous.

I floated in mid-air and looked at Dad in a panic.

He was staring down at my body, his brows furrowed tight with disappointment and disgust.

"Ronnie, stop pretending. All your classmates are watching—get up right now!"

However, I remained motionless.

Ms. Ritter, who was pressing down on my arm, paused mid-motion. Then, she sighed and said to Dad, "Mr. Bradshaw, with Ronnie being so uncooperative, should we even continue drawing blood?

"I've only drawn 100 milliliters of his blood so far. The other students all gave 400 milliliters and none of them had such a strong reaction. Moreover, Ronnie just threatened me.

"He said he's your son and told me to record the blood donated by the other students as his; otherwise he'd file a complaint against me at the hospital. Maybe we should just call off his blood draw."

I instinctively tried to explain, but I couldn't make a single sound.

Dad's expression darkened, and he kicked me fiercely in the lower back.

My body was already limp, and the force of the kick sent me crashing heavily to the floor.

"You've truly disappointed me. When did you learn to bully others by throwing your weight around? How could I have raised a son like you?"