The house we lived in was far away from everything , placed at the centre of its own world of possibility . For miles around there was scrubland and waterways , forested hills with the occasional clearing to mark a healing scar in the landscape . There was endless space for endless things to grow . The darkest nights – the ones with rain that made the windowpanes rattle like loose bones – were when my fearful relatives told their darkest stories .
I wander naked up and down the sodden carpeted hall . The steam is lively , spirit-like , and the walls drip warm . Every time I get close to the source of the heat , I feel smooth , like I was born to become scaled . I start to slither slick through the wet air , and this time when I reach the doorway to the bathroom I contort myself , hooking my body and pushing it through the crack so as to not let any more of the heat out than is necessary . I slide into the coastline room , slipping onto tiles .
Aged eight , the rural summer felt tropical . It was hot for weeks , with barely any clouds to dull the glare . The temperatures were stifling in the night : air sat weighted on top of my small frame , pushing down . It was as if the wild environment wanted to strangle me into my sleep . When the rains eventually came in late August , they brought a flood . My world turned swampy – there was always someone watching over me , afraid because one step off the porch could mean being swallowed by the bog . Looking back , I understand now that they wanted me to fear the water that was creeping closer to our doorstep by the day . They wanted me to pick my way through the