The bruises would soon fade, Star knew, but the cuts to her soul would take a while. How could her father accuse her of such awful things?

Hank had whup'd her, rampaging and roaring like a wild animal, until he threw a punch as she curled up on the floor and he missed, smashing his fist open on the broken glass and spewing blood all over them both. He had cried then, landing flat out on his ass and cradling his broken hand. Star had held her tears as she picked the glittering shards out of her father's flesh, cleaning and bandaging the wounds, which were fairly superficial, with whatever she could salvage from the small bathroom cabinet. She had even kept herself together when her father had cried like a baby, wrapping his good arm around her rigid shoulders and weeping a half-hearted apology, as he so often did. In the morning, he would only remember his injury because of the blood-spotted bandage and the stiffness in his fingers. His words would be chased from his memory by the hangover from hell.

Star pulled her knees up to her chest as she lay on her bed many hours later. She had helped her father to his room, pulling off his socks as she shoved his feet under the ratty blanket that was stiff with who knew what. Fetching him a glass of water for when he woke, though she knew it would probably be the whiskey he reached for, along with his packet of smokes, she flipped the light off and limped to her own room down the hall.

Her back ached; a thick, dark bruise blossoming from her left side and twisting up along her spine where Hank had driven his foot into her. Her head pounded and her lower lip was split. All in all, she'd had much worse before. The tears came then, as she curled around a small, white lace pillow and squeezed her eyes shut. A small black and white photograph in a cheap tin frame lay on the bed beside her; a close up of a dark haired, dark eyed beauty that could have been Star but for the broader nose and chin. It was the only photo she had of her mother, Kiera, who had taken her last beating one particularly hot morning, fifteen years before. She'd packed a small bag when Hank had finally left for work and tearfully kissed her children, two year old Ellora and her four year old brother, leaving them with Mrs Laws next door. Kiera had no money, not a nickel to her name, and no real place to go. She knew that despite the beatings she received, Hank had not lifted a finger against their children.

'But when will you be back, dear?' the grey haired widow had asked in surprise, peering through her thick glasses that magnified her milky blue eyes at the tear-stained Kiera hovering by the kitchen door.

'I don't know,' the thin young woman had replied, wringing her hands as her pretty face contorted with anxiety at leaving her children. 'I don't even know where I will go.' She held back a sob, pressing the sound back into her mouth with the back of a shaking hand as the tiny Ellora had looked up at her, clutching a chubby fist full of her mother's threadbare mustard coloured skirt. 'Go play with your brother, Ellora, go on. Mommy will see you soon.' Kiera had pulled her skirt from the child's hand, urging her into the lounge where the girl's brother was already hunting for Mrs Laws' fluffy grey cat to torment.

'I can't feed them much, I won't get to the store til Thursday when my son Billy will pick me up. I don't have much by way of toys, either,' the old woman protested.

'Mrs Laws, please, don't trouble yourself. Their father will be back around noon, put them out in the yard if they become too much trouble.' Kiera held an index finger under each eye and blinked furiously for a moment, willing the tears to stop falling.

'You don't have to do this, dear,' Mrs Laws had said, shuffling forward to lay a wrinkled hand on Kiera's arm before the younger woman could leave. 'There are people that can help, don't leave your babies.' Another sob threatened to spill from her trembling lips.

'I have to find a safe place for us, get some money together to give them a good start. I can't stay, he'll kill me. And what kind of a mother would I be then?'

Mrs Laws nodded. 'I understand, dear,' she said. 'Here, take this to get you on your way. It's not much, but it's better than nothing.' The grey haired woman pressed two crumpled dollars into Kiera's hand, shaking her head at her protests. 'I insist. A good man would never raise his hand to a lady, no matter how angry he feels. Now, I don't believe your Hank is a bad man, not bad enough to hurt them kiddies o'yourn so don't you go worryin' about that. A father provides for his family and a mother does what she has to, to help her kids survive, so you do what you gotta do. I don't blame you, hon, for leaving. But take this, use it towards a bus or a cab or whatever and then do everything you can to get these little'uns back.'

Kiera nodded.

'I'll write them, I'll write every day if I can until I get them back. Just please, promise me you'll watch them Mrs Laws, make sure they're safe.'

'I promise, dear,' the old lady had said, and she kept that promise for four years, before pneumonia killed her. Kiera had also kept her promise of writing to her children, though the letters weren't as frequent as every day, and they gradually grew less and less frequent as Kiera slipped further into the new life she had built for herself in L.A. A year after Mrs Laws had died, Hank had a call from Kiera's mother informing him that Kiera had been involved in a car accident with her new husband and had died instantly with the impact. That's when Hank had really turned to drink, slipping from the few beers after work to the odd bottle of bourbon every other night. He hadn't even known that Kiera had remarried, as she had never written to the children – or him - about it.

Those letters, so lovingly anticipated at the time, held too many thorns for Ellora now. Star, she reminded herself, my name is Star. Ellora is gone, Star is who I am. She kept them in a shoe box under her bed, unable to read them as she once had. The thin, flimsy paper was so like her mother, she often thought, full of nothing but empty promises. She wondered whether her mother had also sent Hank letters, promising to try again, move him out to L.A with her and the children, because she had heard of someone who thought they could get her a big break in a picture. Perhaps that was why he turned to the bottle, and later, on her and her brother.

She must have cried herself to sleep at some point during the night, because the rumble of an idling motorcycle engine woke her. Star hadn't pulled the piece of lace that hung at her bedroom window so she could see it was still pitch black outside when she sat up with a frown, it was still night. But the night was inside her room too, bizarrely. Thick, black clouds of night swam in front of her as she stood up, confused, the acrid smell making her nose itch and her throat burn. Panic suddenly rose in Star as she stumbled to her bedroom door where the clouds seemed to be the thickest, pouring like liquid from beneath the slight crack. She began to cough as the smoke wound its way up her legs, deadly tendrils caressing her skin as a snake seemed to hiss outside her door. Was it a snake? No, she pushed that wild thought instantly from her mind as the hiss sounded more like a crackle as she drew nearer.

'Dad?' she called, her voice hoarse already. 'Dadd-y?' Star coughed, feeling her lungs tightening as though they were being squeezed by a burning hand that had reached down her throat. 'Ahh, shit!' she cried, snatching her hand away from the brass door knob she had burnt her hand on.

'Fire!' the shout came from somewhere outside the condo, muffled through the walls and the smoke.

'Fire?' Star whimpered, trying the door knob again with a yelp of pain. 'Daddy, Daddy are you there?!' Banging on the panel of her door, Star could feel the white painted bubbling with heat from the other side, she could feel the cheap wood warping beneath her fist and hear the splintering of something beneath a steady blazing sound as hot tears began to leave tracks on her already-sooty cheeks.

'Fire! Is anyone in there? Call 911!' Again, the shout came from outside as other voices joined the ruckus.

Stumbling back from the door way Star doubled over with a hacking cough, panic rising as she struggled to get her breath. Thick, choking smoke continued to pour from beneath her door and so she turned towards her bed. Practically crawling along the floor, terror causing her heart to pound loudly in her ears and her lungs to scream and burn with the need for fresh air, Star fumbled at the window catch, trying to shield her mouth and nose from the hot, acrid air with the crook of her elbow, as she reached the other side of the room.

She hadn't realised just how high the temperature in her bedroom had risen until she found the strength to push her window up enough to lean out her head and shoulders. The cool summer air washed over her immediately, swirling into her mouth and nose in a sweet-salty rush that made her retch and cough harder. The sound of the roaring consuming fire was louder out here for some strange reason, as was the buzz of the crowd drawn by the flames. A fire engine stood at the far end of the condo, dark, busy figures running beneath the spray of the hose as little crowds of horrified neighbours huddled round.

'Star!' The familiar voice was a welcome relief, cutting through the frightening, unexpected noise of the chaos of the night. A pair of cold, strong hands gripped her forearms and Star found herself lifted bodily from the window like a child and cradled against a band t-shirt she recognised.

'Dwayne,' she rasped and then coughed again, her ribs aching with the effort and her bruised back burning at his touch, but she didn't have the strength or the breath to tell him to handle her more carefully. 'Dwayne…'

'Shhh, Star. Its ok, you're ok. Are you hurt?' Dwayne growled in concern, torn between holding her tighter against him and laying her down to check for any burns.

'I- just my..' again she spluttered and gasped. Two medics accosted them at that point, rushing over with a tank of air and a bottle of water.

It was another hour or so until the fire fighters managed to get the fire under control, round about the same time the medics were satisfied that Star had suffered nothing more than mild smoke inhalation and a few cuts and bruises perhaps sustained from bumping around in a blind panic trying to escape. She wouldn't need to go to the hospital.

Hank, however, was beyond any medical intervention. Star couldn't bear to look when the body bag was lifted carefully onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. She turned her face away, burying it in the cold leather of Dwayne's biker jacket.

'I guess that's it then,' she had practically whispered sometime later. 'We're officially orphans now.'

Dwayne had nodded silently, his big hand stroking his sister's dark, bowed head as she shivered beneath the woollen blanket one of the medics had wrapped her in earlier.

'Where will I go now?' she asked, fearful and trembling. She was numb to everything except the worry of what would happen next.

Dwayne kissed the top of her head as he pulled Star closer, his heavy arm protective and possessive around his little sister. How like their father to almost burn her to death with one of his smokes as he lay in bed, pissed out of his face without a care or thought for anyone other than himself and his stinking habits.

'You'll come with me. Me and the Lost Boys. We're all orphans now.'