GINGER:

The steam from the food curls into the air, dancing above the plate that sits in front of me. Roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, and a slice of buttered bread stare back at me. The smell should comfort me, because it's the kind of meal Mum made when I was sick or had a bad day at school. But here, in this strange, dim-lit dining room, nothing feels right.

The pain from getting hit from behind has stopped, but the one in my heart is still fresh as I sit stiffly across from my father, ...