Describe the Place You Grew Up

There were a couple of rooms. It was dark. Dirty. Cold usually. Strange men came and went. I heard them grunting through the walls. Her soft cries, pretending pleasure she never felt. But they paid more for that. Screams, for those that paid for that. When they were there, I was to stay out of sight. I stayed in the corner. Read. Drew. Tried to block out the sounds. Other times I'd slip out, wander the streets. I wasn't supposed to, but I could only stand so much of it, the older I got.

There was a nice set of rooms. Warm. Clean. Bright. The only men who came there were tutors or friends. There were books. There was music. Plenty of food and clothes that weren't patched to wear. There was laughter. No more screams. There were long conversations at night by a fire built up warm. More lessons. There was magic. There was love.

There were walls, painted in blood. A pool of it on the floor. The walls pulsed with terror and rage and screamed at me to run. So I ran.

There were alleys. Doorways. Rat infested rooms. Never enough food. There was a man. There was grunting. There was screaming. There was a knife. There was blood. More men. More blood.

By the time there was warmth and food again, I was a child in no way but age.