Niamh

My mother thinks we can run away from him. I can see she thinks she’s worked it all out, imagining us in a small cottage with pretty curtains and a front door my father doesn’t have a key to. But he doesn’t need one. If he wants to break in, a lock won’t stop him. Nothing will.

I imagine my mother’s picture of sunlight and peacefulness ripped down the middle by my father’s cruel hands, before he tosses the pieces aside.

“We’ll go somewhere safe, Niamh. Until I’ve talked to a lawyer.”

He won’t listen to lawyers. There isn’t anywhere safe. When he gets out, he’ll come and find us. And this time, he’ll hurt her far worse than before. That’s what she doesn’t realize, but she doesn’t watch, like I do, as each time, he hits her harder, for longer. Each time, her wounds take longer to heal. This time, she was unconscious when he’d finished. Next time, or the time after that, he’ll kill her.

She can’t stop him. The police won’t, either. The only person who can do that is me.