Dysfunctional family

You're only five. And your life isn't just a "dysfunctional family." It's hell. Every day, the same drinking bout: your parents and their perpetually drunk friends. The air in the room is thick and acrid, a heady mixture of fumes, cigarette smoke, urine, and vomit. It seeps into the walls, your clothes, and yourself. Bottles are strewn everywhere—some empty, others with cloudy residue that reeks of rottenness, and still others are shattered, turning the floor into a battlefield of shards.

With food, it's a matter of luck. If they have money left over for something other than booze, they'll buy milk and a loaf of bread. But if they get something more, it's a real treat.

And today they kicked you out into the entryway, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and thin shorts. It's winter outside, and even here, the air your uncle breathes chills you to the bone. All so you wouldn't disturb their "fun." You'd already climbed from the first to the fifth floor and back twenty times, trying to play with the syringes that appeared, but they were covered in dried blood, and that scared you. Then you clambered onto the grimy windowsills of the entryway... Utterly exhausted, you sat down on the cold, concrete step by your door and almost fell asleep.

Suddenly, someone's hand gently patted your shoulder. A tall man, about thirty years old, stood before you. He looked at you with bottomless concern in his eyes. It seemed to be the neighbor from the house across the street.