The scent of pine needles and Mum's gingerbread cookies is the first memory I have that feels truly real. I'm perched on the faded floral sofa, the itchy fabric digging into my legs, but I don't care. It's Christmas Eve. The coloured fairy lights, draped haphazardly across the mantelpiece, cast a warm, flickering glow on the room. My brother, Liam, a whirlwind of energy even then, is sprawled on the floor, commanding his action men.

Liam and I, we were a team. Sure, there were squabbles over the last biscuit or whose turn it was to choose the TV programme, but most of the time, we were inseparable. He, the boisterous adventurer, and me, lost in my own little world of dolls and make-believe. He'd build elaborate forts out of blankets and chairs, and I'd furnish them with miniature tea sets and boss my Barbie's around.

He had Debbie, his invisible friend. A mischievous pixie, he claimed, who was always getting him into trouble. I had my own? thing. We called it the Grumble. A hulking, shapeless monster that lived under my bed and only I could see. Looking back, I wonder if the Grumble wasn't just a childish manifestation of something darker, something I couldn't quite understand then.

We both loved school, surprisingly. I adored Mrs. Billings, my Year 2 teacher. She had a smile that could melt glaciers and always smelled of cinnamon and library books. My best friends were Sarah and Kerry, two inseparable sisters who lived three doors down. And then there was Jackie, their mum, who was Mum's best mate. Our street, in that 'upper-class' council estate as Mum liked to call it, felt safe, normal. A haven of scraped knees, hopscotch, and the comforting aroma of dinner cooking.

Our house, a three-bedroom semi, was our castle. It was always filled with noise, laughter? and sometimes, something else entirely.

Wednesdays and Fridays were Father days. He'd arrive in his beat-up Ford Cortina, a cloud of exhaust fumes announcing his presence. I wasn't close to him. Even at that age, I felt a strange disconnect, a sense that he was a visitor in our lives rather than a permanent fixture. I couldn't articulate it then, but it was like a piece of a puzzle that didn't quite fit. A piece I actively tried to ignore.

Mum, on the other hand, was my sun, my moon, and all my stars. I genuinely believed we were best friends. I confided in her about everything, from playground dramas to my secret crush on the boy with the gap-toothed smile. She was my confidante, my protector, the centre of my world. Or so I thought.

But the cracks were there, hidden beneath the surface, like fault lines waiting for an earthquake. I didn't have many friends outside of Sarah and Kerry. I always felt like an outsider, standing on the periphery, looking in. I was different, somehow. Too sensitive, maybe. Too prone to daydreaming.

Then there were the days off school. Lots of them. My attendance record was abysmal, a dismal 43%. "She's just a bit delicate," Mum would say, her voice tight with a forced cheerfulness. Dad would argue, his voice rising, words like "coddling" and "attention-seeking" thrown around like grenades.

The arguments? they started subtly, a low hum in the background of our lives. Then they escalated, becoming volcanic eruptions that shook the foundations of our little world. The shouting, the slamming doors, the tears? and sometimes, the physical altercations.

I remember the flashing blue lights of the police car parked outside our house. I remember hiding behind Mum, clinging to her legs as Dad's face was red with rage, shouting something I didn't understand. I remember the cold, sterile smell of the police station waiting room, the sickly yellow glow of the fluorescent lights.

Mum would use me, weaponize me, in these battles. "If you leave me," she'd scream at Dad, her voice laced with venom, "I'll make sure she never sees you again! I'll take her away, and you'll never know where we are!"

The thought of not seeing my dad didn't scare. I'd no idea why.

The arguments grew more frequent, more intense. The happy facade of our family life began to crumble, revealing the raw, messy truth beneath. The Grumble under my bed grew bigger, darker, whispering anxieties and fears that I couldn't name. Debbie, Liam's invisible friend, seemed to disappear altogether.

We developed coping mechanisms, Liam and I. We retreated into ourselves, building impenetrable walls around our hearts. We became masters of denial, pretending that everything was fine, even when it was clearly falling apart.

But the worst part? the most devastating part? is the gaping hole in our memories. Years of our childhood are simply? gone. Swallowed by a black void. A void that grows larger with each passing year.

Liam and I, we've talked about it, of course. Tentatively, carefully, like archaeologists excavating a fragile site. We piece together fragments, snippets of conversations, fleeting images, but the whole picture remains elusive. It's like trying to grasp smoke.

There are things I know, things that have been whispered in hushed tones, things that I've overheard when I wasn't supposed to be listening. Things that make the Grumble under my bed seem almost quaint in comparison. Things that explain the fear in my mother's eyes, the anger in my father's voice, the constant undercurrent of tension that permeated our home.

The more I try to remember, the more I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, peering into an abyss. And I'm terrified of what I might find if I look too closely.

Maybe it's better to leave the past buried. Maybe it's better to cling to the fragments of happy memories, the scent of gingerbread, the flickering fairy lights, the sound of my brother's laughter. Maybe it's better to let the Grumble remain a nameless monster, lurking in the shadows, rather than confronting the true horrors that lie beneath.

But deep down, I know that the truth, however painful, is waiting to be uncovered. And one day, I will have to find the courage to face it. For myself, for Liam, and for the ghosts of our lost childhood. Because until we do, we will always be haunted by the memories we can't quite grasp, by the secrets that whisper in the dark, by the Grumble that festers beneath the surface. The happy Christmas Eves are gone forever, replaced by a gnawing sense of what was lost. And that, perhaps, is the greatest tragedy of all.