TIE YOUR MOTHER DOWN

- Show me your knickers.- she said- No....- I said, avoiding her gaze.
- SHOW ME YOUR KNICKERS! You've wet yourself again, haven't you?

 My face went all red.

- No...- I said in a shaky voice.

She pulled my knickers off and sniffed them. My eyes started to water as my whole body trembled. I knelt on the floor, still not looking at her face.

- I'm sorry Mum, I let go a few drops. I promise it won't happen again...

- I knew it! You filthy girl...

She pulled me onto her laps and smacked me on the bottom, first with her hand, and when her hand was burning red she used her belt on me. I cried in silence, as usual. I was just six years old, and this was not the first time this had happened.

Little did I know then that she had problems of her own. I tried to tell my Dad about it, but he wouldn't believe me. Every night, after dinner, I would lock myself in my bedroom and use my pillow as a punching bag. I remember hitting the pillow until my hands hurt. If I was really angry I would hit the wall until I got myself bruised. I knew they could hear me from the living room shouting at my pillow. I wanted to get their attention. I wanted to get anyone's attention. I just needed somebody to care.

I learnt not to get on my Mum's way. I learnt to carry an extra pair of clean knickers in my schoolbag and get changed on the bus. That worked for a while, until one day she noticed the other pair in the laundry basket. I hid under my bed and tried not to breath, childishly thinking she wouldn't find me there.

That night I showed my Dad the marks on my bottom. He didn't say anything, but I saw from the look on his face that my Mum wouldn't harm me again.

And she didn't. At least not in that way.

AFTER THE STORM

There's a place in my thoughts where I hide whenever I feel sad. It's my Satis House.

Windows are closed, doors are locked, and there is nobody to see me wandering around memories and boxes of emotional baggage, while I walk over different pieces of broken dreams.

Mirrors are covered because I despise looking at myself in them. Clocks don't work as Time is not an issue there. Day or night, the house is dark. And I feel safe enough to let my sadness engulf me, making no effort to stop my floodwaters.

And when the storm has passed and there's no more tears, it's time to face the sun again. I get out of the house, lock it up and follow my path. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll stay hidden for too long. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll die inside the house and nobody will ever know I was even there.

There's a place in my thoughts where you won't find me. Nobody will. It's my Satis House.

BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

No good can come from someone or something that shines as much as anything you can see in Tiffany's. If you actually look right at it, it paralyses you 'till you're doomed.  And then it's the end. Even if your brain ordered your legs to move and safe your life, your legs would stay still gazing at the spectacular light that makes all that's grey or dark disappear. Your eyes follow the sparks and dance at their rhythm. You relax. And then "BAM!". You're dead. You've been run over like a stray cat in a dark road.

It doesn't matter if you're an Audrey or a Marilyn.

No good can come from someone that shines so much.