Bone Song by Sherryl Clark

times, shaking and crying and trying to hide in the wardrobe? She’d drop me like a hot biscuit.
    See, now she’s ignoring me. She doesn’t know when she’s well off. Never had to run from anything. Probably the only time she’s ever been in hospital is to visit some relative.
    The ER is the worst place, like some of the descriptions I’ve read of Hell. All these dying, injured bodies everywhere; people shouting and pushing trolleys; sitting in the hard, plastic chairs with the man next to you coughing his guts out, being told you’ll have to wait because your mum’s injuries aren’t serious and they’ve just had a triple car pile-up in. I could write scripts for one of those TV shows.
    I still remember Mum clinging to me, sobbing her heart out at the same time as she’s saying, ‘I’m OK, Lissy, let’s just go home, I don’t want to cause any bother,’ while I’m fighting the urge to shake her until her head rattles clear and she sees what she’s doing. Giving in again. Letting him get away with it. When we finally saw a doctor, she stitched up the cut on Mum’s cheek, checked the huge lump on her head and tried to talk to her about reporting the attack, but Mum wouldn’t listen. She kept shaking her head, then she said, ‘I fell down the stairs.’
    Yeah, well, she could tell herself the stairs story all she liked (she keptalternating that with the ‘walked into a door’ one) until the day Dad actually cut her with the hunting knife he kept in his desk drawer, sharpened like a meat worker’s. He sliced a neat line across one breast, over her heart. That’s when he told her that if she ever left, he’d finish the job by cutting her throat.
    If he knew I listened outside their door, he probably would’ve said the same to me. But he always acted like he was the best father in the world. I had every toy I wanted, the latest fashions, big hugs all the time. It got so every time he cuddled me, I had to keep swallowing so as not to throw up.
    After that first time in the ER, I had to eavesdrop. I knew Mum wouldn’t protect herself. I had to do it. When he cut her breast, I nearly burst into the bedroom to try to kill him. I thought hard about the gun he hid in the drawer on his side of the bed, but I was pretty sure he didn’t keep it loaded. After that, I couldn’t get the knife out of my head. It’s my fault we ran and it’s me who has to keep Mum going, hold herup. If I let her down, she’ll crumble and go back to him. And eventually she’ll be dead.
    There’s a cracking, splintering noise and I look down at the pen in my hand, or what’s left of it.
    I shouldn’t have said anything about dragons. What was I doing? Looking for sympathy?
    I can feel Dobie watching me. Doesn’t matter what she says, I’m going to shut her out. She’ll soon get the message, then she’ll go back to being horrible. That’s safer, easier.

CHAPTER 10
Dobie
    Something’s changed. I can feel it, like something died in here and the smell’s just got worse. Hey, Goody’s just smashed her pen. Weird. Why did she do that? That algebra must really be getting to her. I could help, but… I don’t do that kind of thing. Especially for someone as weedy as her. She always looks so pale and skinny. Must have a bit of strength, though. That pen is history.
    ‘You want to borrow a pen?’
    ‘No, thanks.’
    Goody’s acting like I offered her arsenic.What is going on in her head? Man, it stinks in here!
    I’ll have a go at opening that miniscule window up there. I climb on a desk, flick the catch and push as hard as I can. It’s stuck. Maybe if I thump it. It shudders and the paint along the sill cracks so I thump it harder and it moves. Some dickhead has painted it shut. By the time I finish pushing and banging, it’s open about four inches. The glass is cracked, but that’s too bad. I can actually smell fresh air seeping in.
    I jump down off the desk, bending my knees to land, and hear a sound. Shit! I know