Mike stares down at you, his eyes filled with concern as he walks around your small, one story house.

He feels like he's going to puke when he looks around and sees glass shards on the ground, beer bottle everywhere, trash and dirt on the stained floor, the smell of pot and weed in the air, magazines of things a child should never have to see, and just a pure mess.

For a little backstory, you were thirteen. You were living with your dad since your mother left after you were born. He was, obviously, an alcoholic. He barely got by, working a 9 to 5 job at a supermarket. Growing up you didn't have many friends and money was tight. You barely had any toys or food either. All your clothes were dirty and tight, and hard to wear.

One day, you were at the the park with your friends when you saw a young, tired man walking around. You walked up to him, starting to talk to him and walk with him around the sidewalk. After awhile, he seemed to be enjoying your little conversation but it would soon turn into you telling him all the trauma you went through, not even knowing that what was happening to you was wrong. He then wouldn't believe you and asked you to show him.

When you finally showed him, his reaction was..worried to say the least.

"You...live here?" He asked, a tone of worry and concern in his voice. He didn't even know what to do about this.