"Penelope? Penelope wake up, it's time to go."

My eyelids slowly lift and the sunlight attacks my eyes. I groan and flip the covers off me. I see mum hovering over my bed with my schoolbag in hand.

"Mum? What are you doing?"

I lift myself off the warmth of the bed and stand up. My head becomes dizzy for a moment but clears quickly. I look at mum, her sweet hazel eyes and short black hair stand out. But what most stands out is the big blue circle on her cheek. That wasn't there before.

"Mum what happened...."

She hushes me and gives me a hug. It feels cold for some reason. I look up at her and notice a red mark on her throat, a thick red line circling her neck. I look up at her face, her loving eyes now turned charcoal with no emotions in them. Her face has become pale, almost paper white. I back away from her. She still stands, her arms outstretched to me, begging me to return to her. Against my instincts and my wills, I keep backing away. And then I fall.

Cold sweat drips down my forehead and I find myself shivering on the cold ground next to my bed. I hug my knees in an attempt to calm down and wipe the salt tears that are falling down my face. I miss mum, with all my heart I miss her. But this dream is not how my mother was. She was sweet, caring, in her mid-thirties but barely looking her age. This was some kind of monster. I reach for the bed, with still shaky hands I lift myself on it and fall into a dreamless sleep.

I wake up screaming. Coldness surrounds every inch of my body and I find myself covered in water. I look up to see my father holding a big jug of water in his hands.

"Breakfast's downstairs."

He mumbles before disappearing out of the room. It smells like bacon and eggs this morning, I'm glad it's Sunday. I quickly find a pair of clean jeans and a shirt and go to the bathroom to get changed and towel dry my hair. I walk out of the small bathroom and head for the kitchen, following my nose and the smell of frying bacon. Walking down the house stairs is always a risk, the old house hasn't been repaired since it was built by an old man during the last war. It's now in a serious need of renovation. I grip tight to the railing and put my foot down where I know is safe and slowly make my way down. The small table is filled with cereal, eggs, bacon, French toast and jugs of juice. In the middle of the table, sits a lonely daffodil in a glass vase that mum bought for us from Europe. That was a long time ago. Eric and Poppy are already there, stuffing their mouths with whatever they can find. They have no table manners at all and the whole scene looks more like a zoo than a family breakfast. I go to sit down on the last free chair when the doorbell rings, no one seems to hear it so I go to open it. The great wooden door opens easily, being the only part of the house which is deemed safe. The cloudy winter morning lets no sunshine in and the people standing at the doorway look as gloomy as the weather does. Without acknowledging me the walk in, their muddy boots leaving prints every step they take. There's five of them. There's been five of them ever since I remember. Debt collectors? Ex-policeman? Assassins? Thieves? Their identity is securely locked under their poker faces and alcohol smell. They find spare seats and sit at the table. The man with the blue coat takes my seat and I am left unnoticed at the door, staring dumbly at them.

After two more men come in and sit at the breakfast table, Eric goes off to do whatever it is that older brothers do and Poppy goes to put on a mini dress and eventually too leaves. That leaves me alone with these strangers, dad becoming one of them each time they come. I make my way back to my room safely but the baby starts crying as soon as I walk past his closet room. The closet room once was a broom closet but since a woman burst in a few months ago and dumped the baby here, he's been stuck in the closet ever since. The peeling grey walls and the wails of the baby make the room spooky and I leave, holding the baby close to me. His cries now silenced, I sit him on my lap in my bedroom. The same peeling walls surround my room but the colour purple makes it somehow less frightening. I let the baby toy with my hair while I change his nappies. Dad hasn't given him a name and I can't think of one that fits. So he remains 'the baby'. He can't walk yet, or talk. The mumble jumble which comes out of his mouth is not proper words. He wouldn't know any too, no one talks to him. I get my old sock which I have decorated with buttons and strings and put it on my hand. The baby grins. And then he makes the most joyful sound I have ever heard. It fills my chest with something warm and spreads through my body. The baby's big chestnut eyes shadow the sock as I move it around his face and out of his reach when he tries to take it. He smiles every time I make the sock come close to him. It's a nice change. This house hasn't seen a smile for years.

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