You jerk forward, awakened by a bang on the door. The thought that it could be people armed with guns on the other side, leaves you shivering. They had broke into your neighbor’s house a few weeks ago. You wonder if it would be heroic to call the police. But that might either let you live or get you killed. The police were never on time: your neighbour’s stolen goods is proof. Hiding behind the curtains, you see your mother staggering towards the door. She must have been sleeping before the bang. You twitch your eyes and lift them to see the clock hanging beside the aging altar: it was past bed time. The door fly’s open and your mother takes more than a step backwards. It must be them. You let your mouth part as the fear in her movement increases the one your thoughts had already birthed. You are at the peak of setting your bladder on lose when a familiar voice echoes, “What took you so long to open the door, you devil?!” Most days, you forget that you have a father. Your mother, still trying to calm his already altered temper, whispers, “Honey, Anna is asleep, please not tonight.” While returning from school, you caught him at the pub down the street, not far from home. He had been drowning all day. You didn’t wish to call him your father, but you had been raised so well. You remember seeing two movies that featured characters like your so-called father. In the first, the man’s kinsmen were against his inhumane treatment. They held meetings. You don’t know any of your father’s relatives, except Aunty Jenny who lives a few streets away. She keeps telling your mother to be a lamb as if she had been a goat. In the other movie, the couple divorced. Your mother could never do such a thing. She loved him. Now the sound of his elbow launching into her chin set you off your day dream. This was how she lost a tooth three months ago, you recall, and lied to the neighbours a day later that she tripped on an unknown force. You have forgotten the art of crying. Your eyes swiftly captures the vase on the shelf, which was purchased when they got newly wedded. You tip-toe until your hands are cuddling the vase, and launch towards your father. You see blood on the dirt-free carpet and the sight calms you. “This little demon, who taught you that?!” He barks and you let out an innocent chuckle. “Who taught you how to molest a woman?” you reply.