Wake me up when September ends

Avery would sing when he was gone

The innocent can never last

No one could hear her but Billy, but she still sang

Falling from the stars

She couldn't even remember the words properly, not in order anyway. She blamed that on lack of practice

Like my Fathers come to pass

Her father would never let her sing. Thankfully, Billy's father was rarely home. She had asked him about his mother, but the child was sketchy on the details. That was fine with her, she'd be his mother. She was also his friend, caregiver, father, sister, brother… funny how you could be a child's everything when there wasn't anything of you left.

She was there when he got off the bus, she fed him, played with him, read to him, sang him to sleep, sometimes sat up while the child slept wondering if his father would come home tonight. She hoped he wouldn't.

Most of the time she could protect him from his father – soothing the man's anger before it boiled - but she insisted that she shouldn't have to. Even when he was being kind to Billy she hated his presence. She couldn't play with him then, the boy's father enraged at his son's imaginary friend. The kindness was just a lie – one her own father had told her enough. A trick she had believed every time despite her better judgment. The monster always came back no matter how kind the prince could be - Was he a monster that turned into a prince, or a prince that became a monster?

She tried to help when the monster came out, but her fists went straight through the man's back and her screams went unheeded. She frequently had to remind Billy not to mention her around his father, not to worry about her when the monster came out. No one could hurt her anymore.

She had never been allowed to watch television, at least not that she could remember. She lived at the library when she was younger, hoarding books like a squirrel. She hid them from her father – he often burned the ones he found. She stopped bringing books home at some point, choosing instead to memorize the tales. She'd whisper the stories across the dark room to her sister. May had been afraid of the dark but father wouldn't tolerate nightlights.

Avery whispered the same tales to Billy when he couldn't sleep. She didn't have to whisper anymore since Billy was the only one who could hear her, but she whispered all the same. When Billy was asleep she'd lay awake and imagine that his father simply wouldn't come back. The neighbors would call the cops, hell; she'd walk Billy down to the police station herself and coach him in what to say. But as long as that man came home they were stuck. Billy wouldn't leave his father – even if he would, that man would sweet talk his way into anger management classes again.

She fantasized about finding a house in the woods somewhere, the two of them living like the brother and sister in the Grimm's tale. Somehow she doubted that there was enough wild land left anymore to hide them. A hundred years ago, maybe there would have been. She occasionally tried to convince the child to run away with her, but he always backed out.

She kept the house immaculate for Billy to stave away his father's wrath. She'd be cleaning from the time Billy left for school to the time he got back, singing as she went. It was liberating, being invisible and being silent to the world. Avery had been wishing for that since she was five. She was happier now than she'd ever been. She'd help Billy with homework; cook the meal while he cleaned more. They had yet to fail an inspection since Avery arrived. When his father came home – those days when he bothered to come home – Billy would go about his business, acting like Avery wasn't there. She'd stand at attention, watching his father's facial cues and body language, coaching Billy on what to say and how to behave.

Most outbursts could be nulled that way. Some never could, the problem being something other than Billy. She'd advise him even then, telling him when crying would enrage his father and detecting when tears were what the man was after. She had mastered reading people even if her sister never quite had.