I flip up, on, into the moment with no memory of what's just happened.

I'm holding a coffee mug in one hand and a small screwdriver in the other.

We're in the kitchen.

We're both standing.

We're opposite each other.

Charlotte has a bruise bloom and a small bright red vertical cut on the side of her head.

She's trembling.

She's crying.

She's holding both hands to her chest and has her back pressed right up against the worktop. There's cereal splattered all over. A broken bowl still clatter-shakes, teetering, before it settles.

"What did I just do?" I whisper.

"Jesus," she hisses back at me through tears. "You're a freak."

"Charlotte, listen to me,"...I move one step forward towards her. "What did I just do? Did I hit you?"

"Are you serious?" She lowers her arms by her sides. "What are you - brain damaged?"

"Charlotte-"

"You didn't hit me, Dad. You just knocked stuff over. And I fell over. It was a second ago - literally a second."

"Charlotte listen-"

"You're scaring me! What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing I-"

"Yeah right... nothing." She starts crying again. "It's Mo's things isn't it? They're doing this!"

"No! No, they're just things Charlotte. This is us, this is between us...maybe it's what her things are triggering-"

"IT'S HER THINGS!" she shouts, her voice echoing. "WHERE ARE THEY FROM?!"

My arms, my hands, are suddenly incredibly heavy. I put the mug and the screwdriver down on the table.

"We need to get rid of them." She leans forward and wipes her eyes quickly at that idea. "Let's burn them."

"No," I insist. "We can't burn them."

"Why?!"

"We just can't."

"Well, at least bin them then. Just throw them all out. PLEASE, Dad."