A small boy walked across a freshly cut lawn, the air was filled with all the smells of summer, fresh cut grass, bar-b-Q, and the sounds of children playing. Surrounding the boy where three, three storied buildings, no not buildings, apartments. The kind of apartments with brown roofs and metal steps. This small scrawny freckled nose boy is not playing though; he is not walking towards the other kids. He makes his way to the stairway and looks up with tears in his eyes. His worn-out sneakers hit a loud clanking noise. He knew what was ahead of him, he knew what would be waiting for him when he reached the top of the stairs, nothing, and when he reached the door and opened it, nothing. This thought...this thought that a boy this young should not have had to face everyday made him stop. After mere seconds of silence the clanking started again. His small hands grasped the handrail so he would not fall. He reached the top and no one was there. He walked to apartment 243 and pushed the door open still no one. His sneakers stopped making noise as he stepped on to the brown carpet. He looked around and saw a woman, his mother, lying on the couch, with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. The child took the bottle out of her hand and took it to the fridge, a simple token of life he dealt with on a daily basis. he cringed to see barren fridge, but a jar of pickles his favorite food lay in front of him. He opened the jar and ate one crunchy Vlasic pickle and went in his room to play....