I haven't slept in three days.
I think that maybe if I just keep hoping and praying and wishing, Abby will come through the door and hold out her single ratty rag doll.
She'll ask to play hairdresser.
Take out my mother's brush and scrunchie.
And I'll sit down and play with her.
I'll do anything.
I hear my father's drunken scream.
It's become more frequent since Thursday.
I know the routine.
I rush to the kitchen, grab the prepared sandwich.
I creep into the living room, placing the sandwich on the table. If he's distracted eating, he won't be distracted beating up me or my mother.
I'm not sure I'm worried about my mother.
I wonder if that makes me a bad person.
I decide it doesn't matter.