Sunday, 2 January 2011

You took me down into the cellar with the cordless telephone and took out all the walls so that the sound echoed. And then you shouted. The words echoed through my head and my ear lobes tingled. “I think I’m going to give up on her. Make sure that it doesn’t happen to the other one. It could happen worse. More bad. If she’s still around.” Then you went back upstairs to listen to a radio play and left me underneath the house with the corpses of family cats and the dastardly echoes.

I remember the times you caught me running away. Always wearing your high heels and your best red dress. I ran through the shops screaming at your grocery man, your butcher, your man that delivered your parcels and bank statements. “Give me ten of your finest carrots! And a stack of thirteen brown envelopes! Don’t hang about!” I peddled on the spot, my legs growing longer, lipstick and heavy cheque books in my pockets. You’d pull me back by my hair into dungarees and after school amateur dramatics clubs.

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