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sam<br />
before I touch it. It’s not right, it doesn’t look right. I poke it,<br />
poke it again, but it just hangs limp. I pinch it, nip it. Harder and<br />
harder. I want to hurt him. Why won’t he wake up?<br />
I hit out at his hand, slap it over and over and over. I can’t stop<br />
thinking about that time in primary seven when he tried to hold<br />
my hand to walk me to school and I told him not to. My friends<br />
would laugh at me if <strong>the</strong>y saw. And <strong>the</strong> way his face looked as<br />
he said no problem and let go. For <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> day I couldn’t<br />
stop seeing <strong>the</strong> way his face looked when he said no problem<br />
and let go.<br />
‘Sam, Sam.’<br />
Mum’s on <strong>the</strong> floor next to me now. She pulls me away from<br />
his hand and squeezes her arms around me, gripping me against<br />
that warm over-sized belly. She strokes my hair and whispers<br />
to me and it’s only <strong>the</strong>n that I realise I’m crying. The tears blur<br />
everything and I can’t see her properly. I feel her fingers squeezing<br />
my shoulders, her voice soothing, telling me over and over that<br />
she loves me and it’s going to be alright.<br />
17
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