77 Ebrington Road

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Peeling icons stare down as he writhes on his bed. The sheets transformed into pythons, ensnaring his body; whilst the monkey on his back demands sustenance.

Yet until they leave he daren’t move. He had made promises, assurances.

The front door slams, parents off to work. Seconds later and he’s descending the stairs, past a young boy posing on a beach, climbing a tree, riding a donkey.

Outside the car is gone. Hungry fingers claw at the base of the lamppost, retrieving his shooting kit, wrapped in a dirty plastic bag.

Hidden treasure.

He retreats back inside, the monkey giggling.

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