“Aye,” I reply, looking into the sad eyes of five-year-old me.
Even though I don’t remember this photograph being taken, I do remember the pools of blood on the white carpet. I trace my finger over one in the background—it was where my ma took her last breath.
“Who did that to yer face?”
“I did,” I reply, remembering drawing each line with precision to reflect the injuries inflicted on my ma. “This is what they did to her, Cian. They took a knife and slit her mouth, ear to ear, to silence her screams.
“And after they were done rapin’ her broken body, they slit her throat,” I reveal, running two fingers over the black paint over my throat.
“Fuckin’ hell, mate. I’m sorry,” Cian says, his disgust clear.
I’ve never told him or Rory the details of what happened that night. I didn’t see th
