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INTRODUCTION

I dreaded the light streaming in through my bedroom doorway. I kept my light off in an attempt to hide from the demons, my head buried beneath the ruffled sheets. I spot a flicker of red as he shines his pentagon about the lit corridor and slithers in through my doorway. I'm at his mercy. There is no where to hide as the re-occurring nightmare begins again. I am fraying. My tears break as I squint into the darkness, acting dormant in my consciousness. I roll towards the wall, shedding oceans silently, wishing inaudibly to god's open ears. It feels as if no one cares, I'm trapped. I'm all alone. Bound and gagged within a cell. I can't break free as my melody shatters the glass panes of another shred of innocence. I wait anxiously for someone to see me, but no one does.

BRANCH ROAD

I remember the court so vividly. Even now just the thought of it conjures visions of laughing in the sun shine, eagerly climbing elm trees and sweet, brightly coloured popcorn static in my palm. I remember the neatly self-contained units strategically placed one after the next, bound together by a grass circle in its centre. It was the heart of the court, its core, and yet it was just a roundabout. Flourishing young elm trees kissed the nature strips as they brought upon us summer, winter, autumn and spring. Our days where filled with laughter, tears and the promise that tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that would bare our souls within the soil.

I remember my fifth birthday party. I am wearing a pink and white checked dress, frilled above the ankle. The shoulders are ruffled and add two full inches, as was the style back then. My stockings are a thick ply and clean white. They compliment my petal decorated pink sandals. I liked the sound of the buckles on my sandals clinking as I walked, a fond reminder of a carousel that once sang me to sleep. I had sat at my tiny tot table in the days before as my mother sat sewing the dress; her contribution to my special day and a memory I would hold dear for a lifetime longer. It stuck in my mind as the years went on as did the hand crafted tot table and chairs my grandfather had lovingly toiled over, one for each of his two girls; myself and Jezebel. Mine was painted peach to match my bedroom de-core and Jezibel's was pink for the same reason. This was a traditional labor of love. Granddad, with his agile hands was an expert crafts man. He was a cabinet maker by trade and spent hours in his vintage workshop constructing pieces

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