Page 4

I unfold the lid panels and there he is. Reddy, my teddy bear. I squeeze her probably tighter than I did as a kid. She still smells of home. I hold her close and steady myself, leaning from doorframe to bannister to doorframe and eventually flopping onto the bed. Afternoon Sawyer made it for me, what a good egg.

I kick Dan’s pillow to the floor. “Enjoy the rubber bed, cunt.” I’m petty, and what? And I curl up in the foetal position.

Just me, and Reddy Bear. “Alexa - play the Falling Into You Album by Celine Dion” and Reddy transports me. Back home. Car rides singing along to the radio. My Dad carrying me and Reddy up to bed while I pretend to still be asleep. Playing on the swings in the back garden. Paddling in the sea, not a care in the world. I can almost hear the gulls cawing, and see my mum bringing us all ice creams. That girl hopes to sleep soundly tonight.

Two

Young Sawyer (Age 5)

My tiny fingers grip Reddy tight underneath my blanky. Trying to stifle the sound of my sobs so I don’t make him angry.

“You stupid fucking bitch! Who burns chicken, you’re fucking useless, I should’ve left you on the street.” The yells echo through the hallway.

Her pained shouts turn to whimpers with each snap of his belt. I squeeze my eyes closed as tight as I can.

“It’s OK, Reddy, we’re going to be OK. Just sshh and he won’t hear us,” I whisper, to my comfort. Almost silently. My tiny body trembles, praying that his angry footsteps pass my bedroom door. My heart stops at the same time as the creaking floorboards. Right outside my door. Maybe he’s just doing his belt back up. Or tying his shoe. Maybe he doesn’t want to come into my room tonight.

I curl up under my covers as small as I can, holding my breath. Trying to not make a sound. His weight dents my mattress and I roll to him.

His voice is so soft and gentle. I wish he was kind and gentle, too.

“Hey, it’s okay… you don’t need to cry…”

Maybe he’s not mad with me tonight. I didn’t make any mess, and I didn’t wet my bed tonight yet. Maybe he’s happy with me.

“We don’t need your tears, you’re a big girl now, remember…”

I feel sick, my tummy still hurts, and so does my bum. I got sent to bed because Mummy made him angry. He’s not my Dad. I remember my Dad, before he died. If I squeeze my eyes tightly enough I can still see him, but I’ve forgotten his voice. It makes me cry if I think about it too hard.

But he makes me call him Daddy and I don’t like it, but I don’t like it when he’s angry.

He pulls back my sheets and looks at my nightie. It’s wet because I’ve been crying.

“I didn’t wee wee!” I tell him.

“Well this nightie looks dirty, sweetheart, let’s get you changed.”

I don’t try to stop him, and I don’t tell him I don’t want to take my nightie off. That doesn’t work and it makes him very cross.

“Look at you, so big now…” And he licks his lips.

I don’t like it when he looks at me like this. It makes my tummy feel funny. His big, hairy, wrinkly hand sits on my leg, rubbing me with his thumb.

I don’t feel sick anymore.

I don’t feel anything.

It’s better like this.

I try to turn my brain off and wait for it to stop hurting.

Three

Sawyer

The next morning starts much the same, if somewhat less enthusiastically. The holiday feeling is wearing off as worries like money and safety start creeping into my consciousness. I do my best to push them to the back of my mind, not because they don’t matter, but because I recognise the futility of stressing about something that frankly is way outside of my control. Let’s be honest, everything is out of my control now, I’m just along for the ride.

I’m not simply resigned to “oh no, the gang life has me now.” I’m just not naive enough to have not weighed up my options, my leverage versus theirs. I’ve done the maths, and it ain’t mathing.