You don't sleep. Not properly anyway. Not until the front door goes, "Snank." Drunkenly. A bit spaced out.
Fridays bad. Saturdays worse. At three o'clock you can hear his footsteps from half a mile. Thank Christ.
Andy, Irish, Miles, Maz. My beloved son, Alex. Mosher, Freak, Weirdo, Twat. All carry scars. And night time is a litany, praying for the fear of the worst to pass.
But it's what, seven? And Alex is fine. Because he's in the hall with Johnnie. At this time?
"Park," says Johnnie. " A gang. Hospital."
This was the beginning.
we write our words
on Sophie's coffin –
frost laces the grass
betrayed by man
I find I have no god