watching as my mother is dragged up the stairs
by her arms and hair

I get pushed down them for my efforts to try and stop him,
she is shouting screams into the wall -

they go into the bathroom ,
on the other side of the locked door, my blood runs cold.
next to me my siblings and aunt cry.

only screams and whimpers escape under the crack in the door
words of : “please stop”
“help”

      “no - you are hurting me”

he said “ i just wanna talk to you” . then my memory stops until the police are inside the house

Question them both. My mother in the kitchen  -
he is .. i don’t remember , it doesn’t matter....
i sit on the stairs that he painted white not that long ago , where my friends and i had stuck mirrors on each step , making the stairs look like they are floating.. kinda... i do not feel.

The cops stick around for less than 20 mins , arrest my step-dad.
As they take him away , i run upstairs watch from the window. It is a grey london day , they duck his head into the car and drive.

i do not feel.
the downstairs bathroom with stone + aqua tiles , collage of posters , family photos , newspaper clippings, postcards and play pamphlets become’s my hole in the wall for the next few hours. i cry. it is rain, matching the growing darkness outside.
i feel bad for letting the police take him away without saying anything.
i do not feel.

the shouting arguments
heard whilst i try to fall asleep , night
after night had been hiding the extent of unhappiness
of sadness expressed as anger in them both. At the time i could only smell fear
on their breath.
The next time there would be a yellow green bruise on her face and
screams at 4am.

11 year old me
has few memories of home.