The Witness

The door is ajar. I am afraid to step forward. I am afraid of what I might find. Whatever it is it will be my fault. There is silence. Are they dead? Sleeping? Earlier my parents had been screaming and shouting at one another. Down in the lounge. I was in my bedroom, my hands over my ears, rocking backwards and forwards muttering ‘Please God, please God, make it stop.’ And He must have been listening because it did eventually stop. And I could cling onto the illusion that I had helped in some way.

And now it is morning and the dining room door is ajar. I step forward and push it open. There is no evidence of last night’s quarrel. I sit down to eat my rice crispies. It is just another ordinary day.

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