My feet winced in the cold as I trudged through the snow and ice. It was becoming more and more like Christmas, a painful reminder. The smell of Christmas hams and evergreen was coming from every which direction, something to remind me even more so of my mother.

Tiny Nana nestled into my arms. We were returning from the homeless shelter's daily feed to the poor. Our house had become even more run down then last year, mould eating away at every plank, the roof caving in, almost every window smashed beyond recognition.

Maybe it wouldn't be like this is mother and John were still alive. Maybe my life could have been carefree and joyful. But now, I was living practically alone, having to take care of myself, with little company of a stray puppy, Nana, and my unresponsive, substance abusing father. Now days, he just lies there, like a mannequin. Incapable of life, and yet somehow, still breathing. He leaves for "work" at 8pm, and on return smells of vomit and alcohol. Being beaten isn't a new tradition either.

I cautiously crawl in through the window, and tip toe upstairs. I have very few possessions left. A photo of the family, a small sewing kit, two blankets, two dresses, a nightie, my mother's comb, my brother's favourite teddy, a cup, a plate and of course the most basic cutlery (a knife, fork and spoon). My favourite possession would have to be my book of fairy tales.

Every night, I wrap Nana and I up in a blanket and I read to her, and we fall asleep cuddled together on the floor. It's nice. Something so normal in a world this twisted. And every night before I fall asleep, I look over to the window for some reason. And every night, I am reminded why it is I check.

It is the shadow of a boy.