The first time Mickey swears he's nine.
It's not the first time he's heard a swear word, not in this house.
He's on the stairs trying to get away from the heaving, raging beast of his old man. Scrabbling up backwards, kicking out with his foot, not quite daring to make impact but so desperately clawing for freedom.
His dad's face is twisted, mottled purple and red with anger, spittle flying from his lips, teeth bared like some wild animal.
His mum's screaming at the foot of the stairs, one eye already starting to swell.
Just another Friday night.
"Get your scrawny arse down here now!"
"No!"
"I'm warning you Mickey."
"Leave him! Leave him" Rita begs, tugging at his arm.
The backhander sends her tumbling to the floor.
"Stop hurting her! I fucking hate you"
The sobbing panic infested screech stops time. Mickey lies there, heart pounding in his chest as the enormity of what he's said weighs thick and heavy in the air.
And then he's dragged down the stairs by his ankle, head bouncing off the steps, carpet rough against his back and arms.
Dazed, Mickey crumples at the bottom, pinned beneath his father's lumbering frame. He twists futilely in his grasp.
"Who –"
Smack
"the fuck-"
Smack
"do you think-"
Smack
"you are?"
And then he's gone, the front door slamming in his wake.
Rita rocks Mickey gently as he curls against her and sobs, his face an angry crimson, from the blows, from the tears, from the shame that his father has inflicted on them once again.
He hates his guts.