I remember when they’d ground you, send you to our room with the bunk beds that were our castles.

The sacred place where we’d put on plays; you were always the princess in purple and I the street rat.

Enraged you’d go, stomping and puffing, chubby cheeks redder than the tight curls that were your devil’s horns.

You were laughing.

It started with a giggle, that built up, grew and grew until you were a babbling brook, bursting with sudden rapids and waves that crashed and rolled off the tops of your rocks and the tip of your tongue.

Peeking through the door, I’d find you there on the bed, blanketed by your faceless animal friends.

What a shame it was, that the dog felt the need to chew on their already lifeless eyes, their empty ears.

You never seemed to care.

Or notice.

You made yourself laugh instead, those chubby cheeks propped up by the grin that crept and spread itself onto my lips.