AZ Pascoe
I rise in the wee hours of the morning, when the air is cool and patient. I tug dirt-stiff jeans and my oldest shirt on, and then I leave the house before there’s enough light to see my reflection in the hallway mirror. The imprint of his fist is still stamped on my face, and I’d rather not see it.
Last night, I unplugged my laptop and my TV. I pressed down hard on my iPhone’s power button, and I covered the digital displays on the stove and the microwave. I wanted it to be pitch black, as dark as it could be, then I sat in the creaky rocking chair on the back verandah, and felt the night swaddle me.
Now I inhale the cool pre-morning air and bask in the silence and the gloom. The sun is still mantled, and dawn-dark is my favourite time, heavy with the latent promise of day to
