On the wall opposite me was a childs poster. If I pulled my hair around my eyes I couldn’t see anything else, just the cute puppy and happy kitten as they nuzzled each other, all fluffy ears and doleful eyes. I could almost feel their fur under my finger tips and hear them purr and snuffle. There were times when I could fall asleep like this and sink into a warm soft dream where they had names and we played together. Sooner or later though an awakening always came. The sound of barking from outside, the bang of a car door or the rattle of a chain would slide into the dream, changing its tone and flavour until it was no longer warm and soft, but damp and hard like the room I was in.

Then my eyes would open, always against my better judgement and the first thing I saw was the poster, but also its edges and the crumbling wall it was attached to with peeling crispy sellotape. The perspective widened as sleep withdrew and I would became aware of the black plastic bucket in the corner, the bare floorboards and the greasy sacking laid over them. There was a chink of light through the boards nailed across the window, a pathetic notion of the outside that I craved, like the tendril of burnt cheese aroma that sometimes came creeping under the door and made my mouth water. As the last hint of warmth from the dream drifted away I would curl onto my side, pull some sack around me and whisper the names of the puppy and kitten over and over, waiting.

It didn't happen every day, but sooner or later the drum of boots on concrete would begin getting closer. Next the scrape of metal as the bolt was drawn, the click of key in lock and then the sudden in-rush of air as the first door opened, followed by the creak of the hinges as it shut again. These sounds had a rhythm I knew so well, they were the theme music to this recurring scene in my story. For a moment there was silence, the time when I held my breath, focussed on how thirsty I was and ran my tongue over the ulcers on my gums, because the pain distracted from the anticipation. Shortly came the sliding of the bolts on the door to my room and the handle turning.

This would have been the time when I would cry and scream, but I learned that singing was better, albeit quietly, under my breath. I didn’t know many songs other than lullabies and eventually they became confabulated into my own composition. When the shadow stood over me and the hand stroked my hair, I would stare at the poster and moan my strange song to the puppy and the kitten. But like traitors they always just sat there, looking at me in silence until the boots left again.

I see them now, still there on that wall, hating me. They don’t even play in my dreams anymore.