in bed, scratching at the cold wall, waiting for the sound of footsteps. I knew he would come today, that there was nothing I could do about it. All I could do was hope, pray, that today’s treatment would be psychological. A test. Questions. I can’t face anything else, not today. Not the hose. Not the belt. Here they come: the footsteps. Slow but steady. He comes into the bedroom and orders me to follow him. We go down one set of steps, then another, through the door and into the damp, frigid air of the basement. ‘Take off your robe,’ he tells me. I try to protest but he picks up the belt so I
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