Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- Extract from To Keep You Safe
- About the Author
I just wish that I knew who I could’ve been if I hadn’t done what I had done. My eight-year-old self made a flash decision and it’s still shaping my life. I don’t even remember making it. I understand why I killed my father, but who I could’ve been if I hadn’t, I will never know. Who my parents could’ve been, what would’ve become of our family, I will also never know. There’s a lot of sadness in that. That’s a sadness that was between my mother and me – she never told and I never told. Even to the end, she protected me.
I think in life, all the love songs and all the poetry are about wanting that connection with that special someone who understands us – truly understands the bones and blood of us. Friends, lovers, even children, see us for who we are and it’s a real self. But it’s that special connection that is one in a million: it’s the love that, if we are lucky, we have once in a lifetime, that tortures.
I could never have that connection.
Oh yes, you’re a handsome man, we could fall in love, get through all that shit that everyone gets through – but not have the same thing in common. We like the same songs, we love the same literature but we don’t both know what it is to watch a sharp knife held against the skin of our father’s neck and see it pressed hard enough so it didn’t just cut, but cut deep enough to end life.
No one knows how I feel and I can’t tell them about the memories that shadow me. So I can’t share who I am.
Oh yes, we went through similar things, didn’t we? We know what it is to watch how quickly the blood pumps out of an open wound (shockingly so) and how the eyes do open. He was asleep: but he didn’t stay asleep. Despite the suddenness of his death, he was afforded one last waking moment. I alone saw his eyes open and meet mine. I alone saw his stare: his shock, anger, fear.
Then the hurt of betrayal.
About how the hands don’t reach for the knife-bearer, but instead clutch at their own throat, blood pushing through the fingers. And then there was no grip.
It’s a memory that keeps me alone; an archipelago of one. No one knows about the road I have taken. The person I might have been, I will never know.