Mum always had a thing for diaries. ‘Always write down your feelings’ she would say, ‘just in case’. See, I try. I really do. But I can never get past the date. I never know where to start after that.
I don’t even know the date of the month, only that it’s Thursday morning. This time is no different. I have so many thoughts buzzing around my head that it’s hard to find the beginning of them.
I can imagine him now, lying on that table again. No four year old deserves that. Ever.
That’s what will happen if he kills me; his son becomes a science experiment for a load of business men in suits with scalpels and a warehouse. It sounds obvious to say that I need to stop it.
I could talk to him, but that would mean going back there. It was hard getting home last time – I don’t know if I’ll be
