Out there, somewhere in the darkness, the child is running towards you. You hear her running, but you cannot place her. Your sense of direction is confused. You sense her fear. It pervades the atmosphere. Fear is the child’s constant companion. It dominates her memories. It takes her breath away.
She believes you will save her, but she is wrong. You will fail her. She will never reach you, no matter how hard she runs. You cannot save her. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
She will die.
Because you are too late.
Because…

A high-pitched scream. It pierces the heavy air. There is the muted sound of a fist. Punching a fragile body. It ricochets in your head, growing in volume. Acid floods into your mouth.
There is a pathetic cry. Far in the distance now. A strangled whimper.
And then she screams again, the little girl who was running for you, desperate for you to save her. There is pitiful screeching as he tears off her clothes.
The stepfather. Reeking of bitter sweat. Smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Unshaven. His dark eyes boring into you. There is a deep well of madness behind those eyes.
The little girl has honey blond hair. She has eyes that stare at you with longing. So much pain. So much confusion. Sweet innocence mixed with childish hope. All of it sliced by the razor edge of terror.
Her mother is in the kitchen. In a different world. She irons whilst rock music plays loudly around her. Her mind is switched off to reality as she chain smokes filter tipped cigarettes and stares listlessly at a spot somewhere in the overgrown, litter-strewn garden.
The iron runs backwards and forwards over a small white blouse.
It will never be worn again.

The night is cold as you wake shivering and trembling in the pitch dark.