When we assured him, ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ he kicked at the already unsteady leg of the stool, buckling it. He roared and bucked, declaring it was all our fault, all our fault, all of it, before he slumped back on his armchair, falling unconscious immediately, making soothing snoring sounds that signalled it was safe to lift him into bed.

I pull the sheets off my bed, go to the kitchen to fetch the bucket with the well water, and submerge the stain into the cold clear water, which turns pink as I scrub. I don’t dare put the water on to boil. I scrub, rubbing my knuckles against each other until they are red and raw. Mama would not want me to use the soap for this purpose. The staining won’t disappear; it changes from red to rust to brown. I must get to Mama first thing in the morning, before Papa or my brothers hear that I have hurt myself climbing trees.

After I’ve cleaned myself, changed my clothes, padded my underwear with tissue and hid the bucket under the bed, I sit on the sill of my bedroom window and open it wide. Hues of dawn are leaking into the corners of the black screen of night. I wonder if the Sandman could still appear. Papa always said that if you didn’t close your eyes late at night a man would come and fill them with sand. When I was tiny I asked Papa what this would feel like. ‘Stingy like salt, dirty like grit from the back yard, and sore like an attack by stinging flies,’ he said. Although I didn’t really believe him, I made sure to close my eyes after midnight. So, we will see, Papa. No wonder Mama throws her eyes towards heaven when he speaks, or sometimes she blesses herself when she thinks no one’s looking.

My body feels charged with electric energy, so sleep will not come. I take out my notepad: My Summer Holidays, by Nicoleta Zanesti. I write about strange images of spiky branches that pierce me and the river running red as I swim through it. I want to wash myself clean, from the inside out. My cheeks are blushing at what has just happened. My body feels like it doesn’t belong to me; there is a dragging sensation deep inside. I’m not sure who is writing this thing that seems to whisper and cackle in my ear, flowing to my hand, the pen, the page. Miss Iliescu would not recognise these words, these secret words of shame, as mine.