I still think about what happened every day. I wonder if it was all my fault, whether I could have done something to prevent it. She was just a little girl, but so was I. Little girls are different from little boys, they’re made of sugar and spice and scar for life. I’ve still got my scars, just because they’re on the inside doesn’t mean they’re not there.

I heard her get up and creep around the room that night. I had my back to her but my eyes were open. I heard her light a match and I smelt it burn. I thought she must be lighting a candle or something, the electricity sometimes went off at her house, her parents always struggled to pay the bills. Then she went out into the hall. I waited a while, but when she didn’t come back, I got up to see where she had gone. It was always cold in their house so Mum had packed my new pink dressing gown. I wrapped it tightly around myself and tied a knot.

I crept out onto the landing, tiptoed past Claire’s mum’s room and stood at the top of the stairs. All the doors were closed except the door to the bathroom and I could see that it was empty. I heard a noise downstairs and made my way down the first couple of steps, trying to be as quiet as possible. That’s when I saw her, it was such a strange sight. I crouched down and watched through the banisters as she walked around the kitchen.

Claire was wearing her school backpack over her pyjamas and I watched as she stood perfectly still in front of the old white oven. She turned one of the knobs and just stood there, staring at the cooker as though she was waiting for something to happen, then she turned another. I stayed where I was for a while, like I was frozen. Then she turned her head really slowly in my direction and I thought she could see me there on the stairs. It was like she was looking straight at me, her eyes flashing in the darkness, like a cat. I remember having an urge to scream then. If only I had. She looked away and turned back to the cooker, twisting another knob.

I stood up as quietly as I could and crept back upstairs. I didn’t really understand what was happening but I knew that it was bad and wrong. I tried the handle of her mum’s room, it was locked. I should have knocked on the door, or done something, anything, but I went back to Claire’s room and got into bed, still wearing my dressing gown. I think I just hoped it was all a bad dream.

It soon started to smell of gas even up in the bedroom, like an invisible cloud was spreading itself around the house, filling up every space, every dark corner. I pulled the duvet up over my head, hoping that would be enough to save me, then someone pulled it away. I opened my eyes and saw Claire, still wearing her backpack, standing over me. She shook me as though I was asleep, even though I was wide awake, then she smiled down at me. I’ll always remember what she said then.

I’m always going to look after you, Amber Taylor, take my hand.

I always did what Claire told me, I still do. She stopped in the bedroom doorway as though she had seen a ghost. It was dark and at first I couldn’t see what she was staring at. Then she bent down to pick up her Nana’s cast iron doorstop and put it in her bag. It was shaped like a robin, a tiny statue of a bird that would never be able to fly away. She led me out onto the landing, then stopped again and turned to face me, putting her finger to her lips.

Shh.

She held my hand tight in hers and pulled me down the stairs, the smell of gas getting thicker in my nostrils with every step. At the bottom of the stairs she turned right, away from the kitchen and towards the front room. She sat me down in an armchair and bent down next to the fireplace. Her mum always had a little fire built and ready to go but they only lit it on Sundays. It was just a little pile of newspaper and sticks, sometimes with an old candle thrown on top. Claire lit a match, setting light to the small pile of kindling. Then she threw the box of matches on top of the pile, took my hand and led me out the front door, which she closed behind us. I didn’t have any slippers and I remember the cold gravel biting my feet as she dragged me down the drive. She held on to my hand so tightly, as though I might run away if she let me go. Then she told me not to cry. I hadn’t realised that I was.

We went to sit on the wall of a house on the opposite side of the street, I could feel the cold of the stone even through my dressing gown. We sat on that little wall for what felt like a very long time. She didn’t say a word, just held my hand too tight and stared up at the house smiling. I was scared to look at her for too long, so I mostly just stared at my little bare feet, turning blue in the cold. Even when she started singing, I didn’t look up.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,

Like a fire in the sky.

Claire loved nursery rhymes. She said they reminded her of her nana, but she was always getting the words wrong. Claire is the kind of person who sees what they want to instead of what’s actually there.

The house didn’t explode exactly. It was like it just slowly burst at the back. There was a bang, not as loud as you hear in the films, but like the silence was pulled out from under the bricks. The front of the house looked exactly the same at first, but I could soon see the flames dancing behind the windows. We heard the sirens way before we saw the fire engine. She was silent then, the smile slid off her face and tears ran down her cheeks. She cried for her parents for hours then, like a tap that couldn’t be turned off. I’ve cried for them ever since.

The smoke became a part of me that night, so that no matter how many times I washed my hair or scrubbed my skin, I could still smell it. It twisted itself around my DNA and it changed me. She said she killed them for me. She said she thought it was what I wanted, so that we could stay together, so that she could keep me safe. I’ve spent my life since wondering what it takes for a person to do something like that. She said they didn’t love her; I don’t know if that’s true. There are different kinds of love, one word could never accurately describe them all. Some are easier to feel than others, some are more dangerous. People say there’s nothing like a mother’s love, take that away and you’ll find there is nothing like a daughter’s hate.

The sound of an ambulance outside startles me and shakes the memories from my head. I stare at a tile on the hospital ceiling that doesn’t quite match the rest and it takes a good few seconds before I realise that my eyes are open. It doesn’t feel like a dream, it feels real. My eyelids seem to have just decided to roll up by themselves. The room is dark, and I can’t move my head, but I can see, I’m sure of it. I blink, then I blink again. Each time my eyes close I’m scared they won’t open again, but they do. Slowly, my eyes start to adjust to the dark and I can see my room. The window is right where it is supposed to be, but smaller than I had imagined. I can see a table next to the bed, there are some get well cards, not many. Just beyond my useless, broken body stretched out in front of me, I can see the door. I hear someone outside and see the handle start to turn. Instinct tells me to close my eyes and I plunge myself back into the darkness, back to my world of being seen but not heard.

Now

New Year’s Eve, 2016