I no longer feel scared. I have felt afraid for so long, fear constantly brushing against the very edges of my nerves, fraying them, until I feel I might dissolve. But not now. I try to picture his face, but it won’t come, my mind’s eye is just a blank. It’s gone, like I don’t know who he is. As if I never knew who he was. All I can see is the anger, the fear, the suspicion. I don’t want to think about what he has done, what has gone before. What has led to this moment, led to me on the stairs, icy cold and broken. I catch sight of myself in the darkened glass of the window. Dark eyes in a white face. Tangled hair. A smudge of something on one cheek. Battered. Broken. That’s what I see in the reflection shining back at me, but not fear. I am not afraid. I whisper it under my breath over and over, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl in the darkened bedroom. My heart still bangs hard in my chest, my breath raw and bloody as it rattles from my throat. I am not scared, but I am still anxious. Anxious to do what I must, before they come. They won’t be long; I am sure they are already on their way. If I don’t do this, everything will tumble down around me, fracturing. Like soldiers made of glass. Everything splintered and shattered. I think of my mother, of how she will respond when she finds out. I picture her house, so far away, everything in its place, neat and tidy. The smell of wine on her breath. After, when all this is over, I will go there, to my mother’s house, back to the beginning, as if none of this ever happened. To my home. And I will crawl beneath the heavy blankets and my mother will sit on the edge of my bed, the way she always does when I am upset. She will hold me, and stroke my hair, and murmur little familiar sayings to me, telling me I never should have left, that she was right. I will be home, and she will make everything all OK again. My hands shake, but my feet are steady on the stairs, one step, then another, climbing towards the top. This is not who I planned to be – not what I planned to be – but this is my only option. Fate, if you like. There is only so much a person can stand before you have no choice but to take steps to protect yourself. I tried to tell them. I tried to warn them all. Shadows crowd in the entrance to the room, where soft breaths hum in and out, and they feel familiar, warm, egging me on. Telling me this is how it is; this is how it should be. This will mark the end of what has come before, will herald a new beginning. Darker, more unfamiliar shapes dance across the back wall, goading me, taunting me. I am an outcast, that is what they have made of me. But after all this, I won’t be anymore. I’ll be free. Fear rises like bile in my throat.