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Description
That was when I heard him.  Staggering up the path.  The gravel crunching under every, heavy, flatfooted footstep he took; his dry, cracked lips bellowing a tuneless song, informing us that he had returned.
I had stood above them, looking down in horror; feeling the deep, hollow, aching dread grow inside me, biting at my heart and squeezing my stomach.  An eerie white light illuminated the otherwise fire lit room, accompanied by a loud, arctic wind, freezing life and reminding us of the long, hard, miserable winter that was yet to come.
I needed to cry, to weep and wail, to let all the angry pain run away; but just the thought of tears had been fresh air to my drowning soul.  I could not cry, I cannot cry, not after so much.  Not after so long.
Struggling to cloud the forth coming events from my gaze, I had attempted to imagine a life with no pain – just warmth and happiness.  I used to dream of living in a monastery, or being an apprentice to a wealthy gentleman: but I had to grow up.  How could I desert my mother: after all we had been through?
That was why I had done it. . .

Love is greater than pain.  And I took one step to hell.
A scream of plea bounced off the cold, stone walls.  "No."  Her voice thick with pain.  "Please.  Stop."
Love is greater than pain.  Six steps towards the devil.
His face contorted with rage as he spat down at her, "How dare you shout orders at me."  He growled, low and slurred, "I. I who took your hand when no one else would.  I even put a roof over that bastard of yours.  This is how you repay me."
Love can conquer pain.  The penultimate step of Eden.
Then she spotted me, as I descended down the creaky, old, dusty stairway.  And a new look of terror now replaced her previous petrified face.  Vigorously shaking her head, thick, matted, unwashed hair jerking from side to side, framing her face;  Her large, dark eyes, so like mine, beseeching and pleading me.
For our sake I had to refuse.  For both of our sakes.
"Look at me," he ordered, his face half cast in shadow and only visible by the flickering rouge firelight.  But her eyes were firmly set, behind his shoulder: on me.  Whipping round, he clutched the wooden chair for support, and glared.  His small, bloodshot eyes narrowing in loathing and repulsion.  "Get out" he hissed: his saliva freckling my face and neck.
Courage raged throughout my body – how dare he tell me to get out; he is no father of mine, and no husband to my mother, not in my eyes, nor in God's.
"Please.  Please, James, just go."  Her voice just managing to ooze through her bruised, swollen neck.
"How dare you order him.  He will obey me."
"I was just . . ."
"Well don't.  I need no help, especially from you."  He turned and swung his right leg towards her, the apex of his worn, leather boot striking her powerfully in the stomach.  She curled up in pain, pulling her thin, bony knees towards her chest: while pitifully rocking to and fro.  Her dirty, pale skin streaked with a maze of dry, salty tears and her tattered rags sweeping the filthy floorboards as she shook and trembled.  "That should teach you."
I realised that this would be my only chance to make a difference – I had to do something, but what?  Plunging myself forward, I lunged at him, trying to knock him over.  Reaching out my arms, I aimed for his waist, lowering my head; I gritted my teeth and braced my body of the impact.  It never came.
Sprawled on the floor, I looked up.  His livid face still etched into my mind: a mental ghost forever haunting my dreams.  I knew what was to come.  I had always known – how could I even have thought that I, an insignificant child, a bastard, could do anything good – let alone anything helpful. I expected him to undo his belt, or remove a shoe.  But he didn't.
Standing stock still, his eyes staring at me in the firelight, with a look of unnatural, composed serenity: he reached inside his think, muddy, jacket.  Fumbling, he brought out a knife.  I jolted back.  Gasping for breath and quivering, I scurried backwards: clawing the dark wooden floorboards in a desperate frenzy.  He continued to stand there, embedded into the grain of the wood, staring down at me: with that same monotonous look.  His hands apathetically grasping the knife.   Leaning back I hit my head on the corner of the kitchen table, my pale fingertips splattered in deep red blood.  I stared from my bloody hands to his murderous ones.
I had to do something.  I could not live like this: I had to desert her: despite of all we had been through.

That is where I am now.  Alone, deserted, isolated.  On a forlorn journey, to God, and away from him.  A single tear trickled down my cheek: a shadow of her.

Description
That was when I heard him.  Staggering up the path.  The gravel crunching under every, heavy, flatfooted footstep he took; his dry, cracked lips bellowing a tuneless song, informing us that he had returned.
I had stood above them, looking down in horror; feeling the deep, hollow, aching dread grow inside me, biting at my heart and squeezing my stomach.  An eerie white light illuminated the otherwise fire lit room, accompanied by a loud, arctic wind, freezing life and reminding us of the long, hard, miserable winter that was yet to come.
I needed to cry, to weep and wail, to let all the angry pain run away; but just the thought of tears had been fresh air to my drowning soul.  I could not cry, I cannot cry, not after so much.  Not after so long.
Struggling to cloud the forth coming events from my gaze, I had attempted to imagine a life with no pain – just warmth and happiness.  I used to dream of living in a monastery, or being an apprentice to a wealthy gentleman: but I had to grow up.  How could I desert my mother: after all we had been through?
That was why I had done it. . .

Love is greater than pain.  And I took one step to hell.
A scream of plea bounced off the cold, stone walls.  "No."  Her voice thick with pain.  "Please.  Stop."
Love is greater than pain.  Six steps towards the devil.
His face contorted with rage as he spat down at her, "How dare you shout orders at me."  He growled, low and slurred, "I. I who took your hand when no one else would.  I even put a roof over that bastard of yours.  This is how you repay me."
Love can conquer pain.  The penultimate step of Eden.
Then she spotted me, as I descended down the creaky, old, dusty stairway.  And a new look of terror now replaced her previous petrified face.  Vigorously shaking her head, thick, matted, unwashed hair jerking from side to side, framing her face;  Her large, dark eyes, so like mine, beseeching and pleading me.
For our sake I had to refuse.  For both of our sakes.
"Look at me," he ordered, his face half cast in shadow and only visible by the flickering rouge firelight.  But her eyes were firmly set, behind his shoulder: on me.  Whipping round, he clutched the wooden chair for support, and glared.  His small, bloodshot eyes narrowing in loathing and repulsion.  "Get out" he hissed: his saliva freckling my face and neck.
Courage raged throughout my body – how dare he tell me to get out; he is no father of mine, and no husband to my mother, not in my eyes, nor in God's.
"Please.  Please, James, just go."  Her voice just managing to ooze through her bruised, swollen neck.
"How dare you order him.  He will obey me."
"I was just . . ."
"Well don't.  I need no help, especially from you."  He turned and swung his right leg towards her, the apex of his worn, leather boot striking her powerfully in the stomach.  She curled up in pain, pulling her thin, bony knees towards her chest: while pitifully rocking to and fro.  Her dirty, pale skin streaked with a maze of dry, salty tears and her tattered rags sweeping the filthy floorboards as she shook and trembled.  "That should teach you."
I realised that this would be my only chance to make a difference – I had to do something, but what?  Plunging myself forward, I lunged at him, trying to knock him over.  Reaching out my arms, I aimed for his waist, lowering my head; I gritted my teeth and braced my body of the impact.  It never came.
Sprawled on the floor, I looked up.  His livid face still etched into my mind: a mental ghost forever haunting my dreams.  I knew what was to come.  I had always known – how could I even have thought that I, an insignificant child, a bastard, could do anything good – let alone anything helpful. I expected him to undo his belt, or remove a shoe.  But he didn't.
Standing stock still, his eyes staring at me in the firelight, with a look of unnatural, composed serenity: he reached inside his think, muddy, jacket.  Fumbling, he brought out a knife.  I jolted back.  Gasping for breath and quivering, I scurried backwards: clawing the dark wooden floorboards in a desperate frenzy.  He continued to stand there, embedded into the grain of the wood, staring down at me: with that same monotonous look.  His hands apathetically grasping the knife.   Leaning back I hit my head on the corner of the kitchen table, my pale fingertips splattered in deep red blood.  I stared from my bloody hands to his murderous ones.
I had to do something.  I could not live like this: I had to desert her: despite of all we had been through.

That is where I am now.  Alone, deserted, isolated.  On a forlorn journey, to God, and away from him.  A single tear trickled down my cheek: a shadow of her.