I recall my earliest memory as a girl, I was five. I remember a staircase obscured by a door, hidden in a room, locked as a store, a space for everything displaced, unwanted, used, a place for memories.
It was the middle of the night and a nefarious gathering of privilege. I remember a corridor stretching before me as I crept passed a succession of rooms. Behind each door a debasement of life committed in the vilest manner. I remember my urgency and a key held tightly.
My bare feet, out of step, desperate to find the firmest points in the floor and those that gave at the slightest weight. At all costs I was to avoid making any sound lest some devil would expose me. My fingers moved in silence like spider legs across each banister, across each wall, timing each limb to move with the screams from behind the doors I passed.