31
In my dreams, there’s a strange sound. At first it’s vague, unfamiliar, but then it changes as my spinning thoughts start to dwindle.
It’s the sound of scrubbing.
I slowly open my eyes, the back of my head pounding, my mouth dry as a bone. For a moment, I don’t recognise my surroundings. The white walls, the cream-coloured carpet, they seem so alien, like I’ve woken up on someone else’s couch, in someone else’s living room.
But this is home. And the walls seem different because they’re covered with specks of blood. And the sound of scrubbing is coming from Mum. She’s on her hands and knees, trying to remove Tony’s blood from the carpet.
“Oh, f**k!” I utter in horror, springing up. “Tony!”
Dripping with sweat, Mum looks up at me from the floor, and then returns to the large, soapy
