Lara said something about him being with ‘lovely people’. Does this mean he is no longer with Mrs O’Malley? And Herbie? My thumb is starting to twitch, violently, and I wonder if this is the beginning of some rare neurological condition. Could this be why I am the way I am? All jangled and out of tune and harsh? I clamp my left hand over my right thumb and hold it a few moments, closing my eyes, trying to access that place I dip into sometimes during the rosary, when the chatter has subsided and there is only a background drone of others chanting. Try incanting the Hail Mary, but it just intensifies the jitters.

I quickly check the corridor to see that no one is coming, then go back into the bedroom, give myself a vigorous shake, climb under the quilt, stick my twitching thumb in my mouth, curl up into a tiny baby shape. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sonya’ – I can hear my father’s voice – ‘less of the histrionics.’ I sit upright, push back the quilt and try again. Find your adult, Sonya. Be an adult.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Tommy… And Herbie? Perhaps you could be so kind as to let me know where are they, how they’re doing? NO, scrap that. I don’t want to know second-hand how he’s doing, and my grammar stinks. I need to see him for myself. Perhaps you could arrange a time that suits to bring Tommy to see me? I’m sure it would be very good for him to see me again… You could at least let me know WHERE they are, HOW they’re doing. WHY do you feel this is a good idea? WHAT is it about me that you feel the need to do this? The tears are flowing hot and salty and I lick them, in case they fall on to the page. Won’t be sending him this draft anyway, might as well cover it in snot and tears and, hell, blood if I like. I push the nib of the pen into the page, the pressure tearing the paper.

I hope you and Lara (I cover her name in little devil’s horns, which makes me surprisingly giddy) are happy and healthy. Again, I extend my apologies to Lara (won’t say sorry, no way) and I look forward to hearing from you v v v v v v v soon, you motherfucking, lame-ass, twittlefuck, shithead asshole so-and-so. So there.

Your murderous daughter,

Sonya.

One round of anger therapy out of the way; why does no one suggest writing uncensored vile shit to people; why is the focus always on being contained and serene – when what led most people here in the first place is a pent-up ravening rage? Anger is considered a ‘defect of character’ and some of these guys who are sitting on decades of unexpressed legitimate stuff then beat themselves up for feeling it. I know the whole place is sitting on a silent scream – I also know I wouldn’t want to witness it.