footsteps
3pm. saturday afternoon. dad is home. 7 years old.

i'm upstairs playing with gillian and thomas or something. maybe we're building a giant elaborate functioning town for our lego families. maybe we're playing our favorite sorcerer game on the ice-age computer.

footsteps.

panic rushes over me. i can never tell if gillian or thomas were affected this way. with each footstep up the stairs - increasingly loud, increasingly near - a new fear knocks at my gut.

step. i've done something wrong. i've left something lying around downstairs.
step. i've done something wrong. the upstairs isn't clean. my room isn't clean.
step. i've done something wrong. i left the computer on.
step. i've done something wrong. i was rude to mum.
step. i've done something wrong. a teacher called them to discuss my work (this one was bull, i was a perfect student).
step. i've done something wrong. i stayed at a friend's house too late.
step. i've done something wrong. i didn't read their minds and know to wash the dishes or help pick strawberries.

i've done something wrong. i've done something wrong. i've done something wrong.
if i get a hiding, i'll fully deserve it. i shouldn't come between my parents like this. i shouldn't be the one they fight about. i shouldn't do anything wrong. it is all my fault.

i didn't do anything wrong. not this time. but it didn't matter.
it's too late.