You are lying in bed,
Listening to the gentle whistle of passing cars,
And the roar of a passing train.

You bite your lip,
Nervous.
Why?
Because that is all you can hear.

A month ago, the sounds of the city outside
Would be accompanied by the screams and shouts
Of the two people downstairs
That brought you up.

Sure,
Sometimes they forgot dinner time.
Or that you hadn’t been bathed in three days.
And all they’d do at night
Was fight.

Insult after insult,
Tears and a piercing smash.
And you’d lay awake and wonder
What you’d find in pieces the next morning.

As much as you’d squeeze your eyes shut,
And bury your face in the pillow,
You couldn’t help but be lulled to sleep
By the turbulence below.

It was your familiarity.
And sometimes,
Familiarity comes in the cruellest forms.

And now
There is silence.

You can’t hear
Your Father chugging alcohol.
Silently sobbing
Under the stark, white kitchen light.

It takes two to fight.
And now there is only one.
And now you can’t sleep.
Because there is nothing familiar about this at all.