She smiles kindly at the two of us.
“Speaking of love, I have something I want to show you.”
???
We follow her down the hallway to my old bedroom.
I fend off the wave of fear that surges.
Because memory has latched on to every square inch.
It all gives me the ick.
Every door frame, every dead potplant, every scent and texture.
You're not a defenseless kid anymore, I tell myself.
You're not trapped here anymore.
He's scared of you now.
He buggered off like the chicken shit he is.
Has this room always been so tiny?
There’s my little bed, in the same corner by the window.
The window where I pressed my nose against the glass countless times to see the sky.
Midnight was my favourite hour.
Midnight often meant that my dad was drunk enough to sleep.
Or pass out in a ditch somewhere. Same thing.
When the stars appeared, it meant that I was almost safe again.
When the stars appeared, the noise softened.
So darkness became a friend.
And so did the river.
In many ways, that river was my real home.
More of a haven than this bedroom had ever been.
And now it’s the only space inside this house that is truly hers.
The one room Ray avoids.
Something else has changed.
No more stripey tattered blanket.
Just a black quilt.
Black, the colour of mourning.
