The attic was a strange place for a child to play. Not because of the dusty, ash-filled air, or even the slithering snakes. It was an odd place to play in because of the toys crumbling in there. Dolls with their pale white faces marked by ebony and their perfect blushes chipping away looked horrifying to most. The tricycle that tucked away my precious memories was now bent and broken, a terrifying dent in the beauty of the attic.
By a dirt-filled road filled with stinking lumps of dung was an old outhouse. Dingy and alone, it stood there, hidden by the bushes creeping ivy. Despite the fact that they looked like they could topple over at any minute, the thin dogs that trotted there were proud little things. Nevertheless, I still avoided them at all costs.
These are my earliest memories.