Six years old. I wake as a ball. Arms clasped across my chest. Braced. Shielded. Fists tight, fingernails pressing into pink palms. Chin down, shoulders up towards my ears. Back curled and knees drawn. Untouchable. Protected. Safe. Every night, in my childhood bed with blankets over my head and fingers in my ears, I cry quietly. The red transistor radio under my pillow does its best to drown out the bad things outside. It fails. I am terrified. My body aches. My legs long to stretch out, my shoulders yearn to release, but no, I keep small, tight, I barely breathe. My sister sleeps in the bed next to mine. Another in the room next door, but I cry, fear my captor. The neighbours are restless. They argue. Drink. Fight. Across the road screams are heard. Tyres burn. Glass shatters. Faces in the window. Our window. They have come to try and see us. The single woman, the three girls. Draw the curtains tight. Lock the windows. Go to sleep. She says. Fifty-one
Words and pictures.