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January. 

It started, as always, in the driveway of my mum and dad’s house. We kissed and hugged each other, I nudged my brother awkwardly on the arm, and we waved at the across-the-road-neighbours. “Happy New Year,” we shouted, our interaction with them over for another twelve months. 
Everyone drifted up to bed and I was left with him. He was drunk and I really hated him drunk. He tried to kiss me and I moved away. 
“Say something nice,” he said in a low, serious voice. “For once, say something fucking nice to me.” 
I sat and thought for a minute. “I can’t think of anything.”
We went to my old bed in the loft. I slept close to the edge. 

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