The light is dim. I can’t feel the safety of their love and I’m afraid. It can’t be you. I shiver in the middle of the wooden flight of stairs and I can’t move. But suddenly a scream is heard and I’m running, almost falling, from the stairs and find myself in front of the living room. My bare feet feel the change on the floor, the cold marble against the soft, warm soles. If only I had wore my shocks. The door of the living room is half open and I can see a part of the glass table. I am a bit scared of that table; I do not lean against it. It was after a glass made my dad bleed that I started being afraid. So much blood and not a whisper. Dad is brave. The voices have stopped but silence is heavy. I gasp desperately searching for some air. I feel that I wait for something. Dad’s voice. But it’s a voice full of anger, full of wrath. We learned at school the wrath of God and I think that it is like my dad’s now. Then mum is heard and she shouts too but she has no anger in her voice. No anger, only despair. Which is stronger, wrath or despair, whose voice will win? I thought mum and dad loved each other. They told me that I was born from their love. What is love? I know it’s hugging and kissing, laughing and missing but it can’t be screaming and crying and hurting and lying. I close my ears so that all these terrible words will not have been spoken, will not have been thought. I tell my feet “Walk” but I’m still out of the half open door that now is wide open and they are looking at me crying. We all cry. But they are not mum and dad anymore.