Out of the bedroom, away from the knife and the unmoving body of Sara, stumbling down the stairs. I need to move faster, but I can’t seem to do it, I’m falling over myself, slowing, and I’m so tired and all I want to do is sleep, but the front door’s ahead, and I’ll make it, I know it, and I’ll find another house, and I can taste the sweet air and the bite of the wind, and a new beginning, and the longing is so intense and—

I trip.

On the edge of a rug. The scissors fly out of my hand. It’s laughable that something so mundane, so ordinary as a threadbare rug could bring me to my knees.

Stupid, clumsy Brinley.

Then she’s on me, knife in her hand.

66

How long does it take to die?

When I draw in my last breath, will I know it’s the end? Will angels sing and trumpets play? Or will the clock simply stop, mid-tick? Aunt Peg had faith in a merciful God. I don’t have faith in anything except the belief that our bodies become earth and air. But if death means I’ll see my mother again, I will throw myself onto the blade.

A torch flicks on, throwing shadows down in challenge.

My cheek is pressed against the tiles of the hallway floor, my head turned to the wall. The fall has accelerated the bleeding in my shoulder and the warmth spreads beneath me, but it’s so cold my body is shaking. I’m lying on my stomach. From here, I can see our shoes and coats and scarves. A pair of wellies. An umbrella and a couple of walking sticks in a stand. My eyes close and open.

I have nothing left to give.

The shadows move, making me flinch. Head twist. Knees pulled into stomach. Turn on my side, to see what’s coming next.

Shannon is standing above me. The knife is in her hand. All she has to do is bring it down. But she doesn’t. She cocks her head again, as if she’s listening to something. A noise from upstairs, a thud of something heavy falling to the floor.

She steps over me and walks to the bottom of the stairs to listen again.

From a place inside the locked corners of my heart, my mother’s voice urges me on. Familiar and forgotten, loving and firm, impatient even. She sings to me, and I drag myself to my hands and knees, head swimming, walls rippling, and crawl through the pain to where the coats are hanging.

I try to hold it in, but it slides from me, the sound of dying, and Shannon turns and walks back, knife extended, arm raised, as if she’s a revolutionary, as if she is killing for the cause she believes in.

I suppose she is.