Some description of addiction and abuse.
He slammed the door behind him and raced down the worn wooden stairs two at a time. He knew he was safe down here in the basement. This was his space, the only place that he was away from it all. His dad never came down here. He was too busy upstairs pimping out his mum. He was used to it by now, it didn’t affect him. Or he’d fought so hard to hide his emotions that it amounted to pretty much the same. His dad’s “friends” were always too drunk or high to even find the small door at the back of the kitchen.
This was his safe place.
The kitchen had been full of his dad’s layabouts again. The reek of whiskey and cooked heroin were as familiar to him now as the smell of cookies to any normal eleven-year-old. He’d had to run the gauntlet, of course…
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