... because I didn't want the pills to block,

I didn't want the nightmares.

I didn't want the flash-backs, slap-bang on the bus, reading books, watching films,

seeing nothing on the telly.

Didn't want my kid to see me sobbing uncontrollably

from nowhere

out of nothing.

She was five and what she needed was for me to stay awake, stay alive,

so I forced myself to find a way,

to carry on being Mum,

to find some semblance of normality.

 

Didn't want to rattle on the way home from the pharmacy

or seek my older sanctuary,

wrapped in cotton wool

to numb the sense

of who I am and what had happened;

the chasm now between me and the people

this has

never

happened

to

and never will.

I hated them and craved their quiet lives and inner peace,

days when they did not need to explain the scars away

or the ceiling-leap reflex to a rummage

in the drawer

or the absence of a father

or why we had to move.

 

And everybody said how fucking terrible it was

and how they never thought he'd do it

but the questions and the judgements

rolled in daily, unintentional but still

that word 'deserve'

that word 'provoke'

that subtle nudge of blame,

'What did you do? What did you say?'

Like there could be an explanation

for the frenzy.

Like you could justify

the five steps from the kitchen to the slaughter.

 

I did want to talk.

I wanted exorcision

from the silvershine reflected in his eye, in his hand,

from the hilt buried deep in his fist, meant for me

 

the only thing that I could see for years in my dreams,

and his face

and the noise he made above me.