Words (Muke)

One: Rain

"Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet"

~Bob Marley

The boy stands alone. Completely alone. Black jeans, black sweater, black shoes and alone. Maybe it's because of how he dresses. Or maybe it's the bruises that litter his porcelain skin. Maybe it's that he won't talk to you. Or maybe it's fear, fear of being like him, of being alone, fear of being an outcast.

Or maybe, it could be that rain is falling in waves drenching every inch of the boy. But that's only an excuse for this time.

He's not moving. He knows he should be at home. In dry clothes and preferably wrapped in warm blankets with a steaming cup of something warm to drink. He knows that he'll probably get really sick because of the rain. But he can't go home. Because home doesn't exist for him. It's just a house, a house with an alcoholic, abusive father and a drug addict mother. It's not his home.

"He just wants to look cool,"

"He's an underground street fighter,"

"He's mute,"

"He's a freak,"

He's given up on being 'cool' because all the cool kids are his tormentors. The only person he fights is himself. He lets his dad beat down on him willingly. He doesn't have anyone worth talking to or anything worth saying. He is a freak. He can't deny that one.

"Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,"

The boy doesn't turn as the singing grows closer. He doesn't move at all, just the rise and fall that shows he's still breathing. Sometimes he's not really sure if he even wants to be breathing.

"It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring,"

The singing got even closer and the singer changed songs to one that suited the boy in black more.

"He went to bed and bumped his head and couldn't get up in the morning,"

The boy didn't want to get up in the morning. He didn't even have it in him to go home let alone wake up tomorrow to face another dreaded day in this place.

"'Scuse me,"

The boy didn't react to the small girl's voice even though she was clearly talking to him.

"Lucy! Lucy don't talk to him!" scolded an older voice, probably Lucy's mum or sister.

"But mum he looks sad," Lucy told her mother.

"I don't care! Come on, Lucy,"

Lucy's mother dragged her away and the girl continued her singing. The boy relaxed when they were gone. But he still didn't move.

Don't talk to him, Lucy. He's a freak. The boy thought bitterly. Nothing but a freak.

The boy moved for the first time in an hour, he kicked at the ground and shifted his weight slightly. And then he was still again. Rain continued to fall in sheets around him and his clothes clung to him his pale dyed hair sticking to his face.

He watched the rain wipe away traces of blood that had dripped from his left arm and prayed silently to a God he wasn't sure even existed that the rain would wash him away to. That it would carry him far away from everything and everyone.

A bus drove by and sent water flying at him. The boy didn't move as it hit him. He was already wet after all. And besides he liked the rain. It showed him that even the clouds got sad too.

Pluviophile. He thought. Maybe I'm a pluviophile; a lover of rain. That's not so bad.

And so he added it to the heart wrenchingly short list of nice things that he could say to define himself.