Mum and Dad were yelling again. Me and my brother were hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, our eyes glued to the cracks between the planks in the door. But we could only see the hall carpet. I heard a voice shout 'Let me go', and the door slammed so hard that the vase fell off the telephone table and smashed. I was so afraid of the swinging fists, the shouting. Of being hurt again. My brother sobbed – he was only three – and I froze. I put my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. His eyes were big, tear-filled, sorry. I heard footsteps, and shrank into the dark, holding my brother tight. The door was yanked open, and I saw dad's face, looming in the doorway, shadow against the light. He knelt down and crawled in. Scooped us into his arms. Put his tear-wet cheek against ours. Told us that he was sorry that he hadn't been able to protect us. That she was gone. And that now everything was going to be all right.
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Writing short fiction, monologues and plays