Wolfgang knew about his father's past. It wasn't talked about much, but when it was, Wolfgang's mouth would perspire saliva and he would swallow it with fear. His past scared him, scared him so much one time while listening a small puddle began to form around his left leg.
His father had never hit him or anything. His friends, they all got the belt, slap across the butt. Wolfgang tried to explain to them the stories, but they all thought he had it easy. The stories consisted of a kid, a non descriptive child. Wolfgang guessed it was supposed to be his dad. The stories were of the same idea, of a kid being bad and getting punished for it. But they weren't your butt slapping punishments like all the other kids got. They were kids locked away in basements for the rats to eat, getting sold on the street to dirty men, things to the degree only the grotesque mind could imagine such a horror.
But when Wolfgang was really menacing or his dad was drunk he would tell the story of the kid in the closet. The kid in the closet story scared Wolfgang so much he wouldn't dare get near one.
The night had fallen and the dealers came out just after dusk, so Wolfgang moved his toys from the corner and walked up the apartment stairs. As his little twelve year old legs climbed the steps, he had to pass the bums that lay cold on the steps with their bottles of liquor. Once to the top of the staircase he passed a late dealer, and headed toward his home.
As Wolfgang reached to the door it swung open nearly swiping off his arm. 'What the hell do you think your doing out this late?' It...