Written in Moss

  You ease off the accelerator and glance in the rearview mirror. What little moonlight there is glistens off the blood still oozing from your sore nose. You gently press the faded tea towel back in place, grip the cold wheel with your other hand, and speed up again down the dark country lane.             It’s not the first time mum’s caught you with her elbow or fist, flailing in panic as you try to clean her up. Those last scraps of atrophied grey matter are in a permanent muddle now. No longer daughter, forever an attacker. Because who else would be taking her clothes off and touching her there? Night after night, your endless routine, ducking and dodging the left hook of an 86-year-old woman covered in shit and screaming for help with true terror in her voice.             You check the passenger seat again for your overnight bag. The one you keep ready for times lik...