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I can see it.
Screaming and flailing. Punching my head, kicking
the wall. I don’t mean to be violent. I don’t want to be
out of control. It just happens. And I’m hardly aware it is
happening. That’s because my mind has gotten smaller,
lost a few of its other functions. It’s gone into fight-or-
flight mode, as if I’m a caveman confronted by an earth-
quake or a dinosaur attack. Actually, some scientists call it
the reptilian brain response. But I’m too young to know
any of that. I’m only four years old.
I’m in the middle of the floor now, standing on my
toes. There are blood-smeared tissues lying all around.
And one in Mum’s hand. She’s holding it up to her
eyebrow. I can see she has two purple bruises on her arms.
She has a big purple-yellow one on her calf too. They
look like they were drawn on with markers; I sometimes
do that on my own skin. And the walls. And the clothes
in the laundry basket.
She leaps forward and wraps her arms around me.
I scream and throw my head back. We twist and stumble,
headed for the floor. Then my arm is free, out of her hold.
