The stench of alcohol clung to the small apartment, the room smelled bad.
The walls were old and dirty, the peeling wallpaper was stained with cigarette burns and the light bulb was weak and kept going on and off.
Jack sat on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, He wanted to hide himself because he was afraid.
Jack could hear his parents fighting again in the next room, his dad laying accusations, and his mother's sharp retorts.
"Where's the money, you bitch?" his father roared. "You spent it all on that crap again, didn't you?"
"At least I don't waste it at casino gambling!" she snapped.
Jack flinched as a loud crash sound echoed through the apartment. Something heavy had smashed against the wall, and the sound sent a shiver down his spine.
Another argument had escalated, and another object had become a victim of their rage. It didn't matter who won this time; Jack always lost.
He knew the drill by now. The shouting would continue, growing louder and more intense.
Accusations would fly, and insults would be hurled. And then, inevitably, the violence would erupt.
Jack would try to make himself as small as possible, curling up into a ball on the floor, hoping to disappear.
He would close his eyes and count the seconds, willing the time to pass. But the noise would always pierce through his defenses, reminding him of his helplessness.
He learned early on that survival meant staying quiet, staying unseen. But even that wasn't always enough.
"Oh Boy!" his father barked, storming into the room. He reeked of sweat and cheap liquor, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "Come here."
Jack froze.
"I said come here!"
Reluctantly, Jack stood, his small frame trembling as he approached his father.
"Where's the money I left on the counter?" his father demanded, his breath hot and unpleasant.
"I—I didn't touch it," Jack stammered.
"Liar!" His father's hand shot out, striking Jack across the face. The force sent him sprawling to the ground.
From the corner of his eye, Jack saw his mother watching from the doorway, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. She didn't say anything or help Jack. She just walked away.
Jack lay on the floor, his face stinging his body curled into a protective ball, too afraid to move.
He could feel the warm trickle of blood running down his cheek. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. He wished he could disappear, vanish into thin air.
He had seen this before, countless times. His parents' fights always ended the same way with violence. And he was always caught in the crossfire.
Jack lay there for a while, his face throbbing, tears mixing with the blood trickling down his chin.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He hated them his father, his mother, this miserable life.
He thought about running away, escaping this nightmare. But where would he go? He had no money, nor skills, no one to turn to, and was only a child. He was trapped, a prisoner in his own home.
As the silence settled over the room, Jack slowly got up. He wiped the blood from his face and limped to the bathroom. He washed the wound, careful not to touch it too hard.
As time went by, Jack got used to being neglected and abused. He learned to take care of himself, stealing food when he was hungry and hiding when his parents were angry.
By the time he turned 11, Jack had had enough. The final straw came on a cold winter night when he overheard his parents arguing about selling his few belongings to pay off a debt.
"He's just a kid," his mother said, though there was no compassion in her voice.
"A useless one," his father replied. "Might as well make him earn his keep."
Jack didn't wait to hear more.
Jack didn't want to listen anymore. He slipped out of the room, careful not to make a sound. He knew what was coming next another round of insults, another cycle of violence. He had learned to recognize the signs.
That night, Jack made his decision. He couldn't stay here, not another day, not another hour. he packed what little he had a worn hoodie, a pair of sneakers two sizes too small, and a half-eaten loaf of bread he'd hidden under his bed.
The city streets were cold and unforgiving, but they were better than the hell he was leaving behind.
Jack wandered the city streets, the neon lights reflecting off the wet pavement.
His stomach growled, and his body ached. But for the first time in a long time, he felt a strange sense of freedom. He was alone, truly alone, and it was terrifying, but also exhilarating.
He found a dark alleyway and curled up behind a dumpster, using it as a shield against the biting wind. The ground was hard and cold, but it was better than the floor of that cursed apartment.
Jack stared up at the sliver of sky visible between the towering buildings. Stars twinkled faintly, their light a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounded him.
"I'll survive," he whispered, his voice shaky but determined. "No matter what."
As he closed his eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking him, he felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time in his life, he was in control of his fate.
And he vowed never to go back.
Jack shivered in the cold alley, his mind racing. The city noises, once comforting, now seemed to mock his vulnerability.
He was alone, a tiny speck in a vast, indifferent world. But he was free. Free from the abuse, the fear, the constant dread. He was free to starve, to freeze, to be lost.
His stomach growled, a painful reminder of his empty belly. The bread he'd stolen was long gone, and he had no idea where his next meal would come from. He couldn't beg, couldn't ask for help. He was too proud, too scared. He had to survive on his own.