The only place where he felt safe. Safe from his father's drunken rants and from his belt, especially the belt. Safe from the boys on the street, those who always called him names, names that hurt more than his father's belt.
He did not mind the dust, nor the spiders who reigned over the place. The spiders accepted him. He did not mind the rats. They went about their business, just as he went about his.
He did not mind the musty smell of old clothes rotting from the rain seeping through the roof.
The rain did not get to his treasures. Those he had moved to the dry corner. The old trunk full of broken toys, the wind-up bear orchestra that no longer managed more than a few tinny sounds from their little drums and cymbals. The peeling Pinocchio with a broken nose. The one-eyed monkey. The china doll with a tattered dress and chunks of missing hair. He liked to line them all on the floor, his circle of trusted friends. Who would not judge or say mean things about him.
They took no part in his stories. He was too old to play with toys.
He played with his kitten. The scrawny little thing he had found walking back from school and hid it in his pocket. His folks would not allow pets. So he took it to the attic, where nobody ever came. The kitten was safe there. He was afraid the little thing would wander away and get trapped under the piles of rubbish. Then he got scared someone might hear the poor thing meowing. So he hugged poor kitty, tight against his chest, and the kitty was silent.
He placed the kitty back in trunk, where it now belonged, with the toys in the attic. The bears were impressed and the one-eyed monkey winked at him.
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