I spent most of my youth in a two-bedroom flat in a quiet street in central London, a quiet space that looked out over the bustling capital.

I was a big fan of the Beatles, the Beatles and the BBC, and I’d never really seen anything like this.

The walls were painted in vivid colours, the carpet was green and the kitchen had a massive TV that was set up in a corner.

My parents would watch the Beatles in the evenings, and my mum was the only person who didn’t like watching them at night.

She’d always come home and say, “What’s happening?

You’re watching the Beatles?

You can’t tell?”

There was always the risk that someone would wander into my room and start playing some new music that would be hard to stop.

When I was 12, the next time I was in the flat, I tried to stop my friends from playing music that had nothing to do with the Beatles.

They got up and left the room.

They were in the middle of the street.

But that night, I didn’t hear the sound of music.

I thought it was someone breaking into the flat.

I went to my room, opened the door, and there was no sound.

I didn.

I just remember being terrified.

And when I was 16, I got a call from my mother, saying she had been found and that my sister had been murdered.

I had no idea what was going on.

I got on the phone to my mum and said, “Is there anything I can do?”

She said, no, she was dead.

I told her that I was going to call my dad.

I rang the police, who told me that there had been a burglary.

The next day, I rang my dad and he said, “‘What do you want me to do?”

I said, ‘I’m just going to leave the house and wait for my mum to come home.

She won’t come home.’

I left the house.

He said, `What?

You think I’ll let you leave?’

“I thought, ‘What do I do?’

And I thought about my mum, and she said, ”Don’t you dare do that.

Don’t do anything to her, she’s dead.”

So I went home, put the phone on mute, and called my dad’s sister.

I hung up the phone and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning and I realised that my phone had been hacked.

It was just a piece of paper with my number on it.

I called my mum.

She said that she had died and that I’d just done something stupid.

I said that I had gone back to sleep.

And she said that the police had come.

She was really upset.

But then I realised something else.

When the police were in, she got up to leave, and they were all standing around her, laughing.

She went back to the house, and when they came back, she said she’d been raped.

She had no clothes on.

They just had her under a blanket and she had no shoes.

She didn’t have any money on her.

I don’t think she even had a pair of shoes.

I remember her crying and saying, ‘This is my mum.’

I thought: She’s dead.

She’s my mum!

But she never saw her again.

But I was very lucky.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that this was the story of someone who’d just been murdered by her ex-partner.

I never really got to tell it to anyone, and it was hard for me.

And it was really hard for my family, because they’d never known.

There’s a certain amount of guilt and a certain degree of fear.

When my mum died, my brother was devastated.

He was in his twenties and he was also an artist, but he didn’t think that he would be able to do anything about it.

And so he was very reluctant to talk about it with anybody.

He couldn’t even speak to his mum’s brother.

I felt very alone.

And my sister didn’t want to go to the police.

She just wanted to forget about it, and go back to her normal life.

I’d only known my sister since she was 12.

I started to understand that my mum had died because of something that she’d done, and that she was in pain because of it.

In the summer of 2013, I was working as a construction worker in the south of England.

The heat was coming on in the early days of the summer.

So I was wearing my winter coat, which was black and grey.

And I was sitting in the heat trying to keep warm and get my legs moving.

But in the end, I could not stay in the same place as I was at the start of the year.

I couldn’t walk in the garden, I couldn´t do anything.

I spent all of summer at home in my room with my brother, who