"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.

The list contained boy, named Michael, likes black and now, pluviophile.

I should look up more of those. He thought aimlessly to himself.

Michael liked words. He didn't always know what they meant so he would look them up, but he didn't think it was the meaning that fascinated him. He wasn't really sure. He just liked words. It could be the combination of lines and curves that make up each individual letter or it could just be that he thought they looked nice. He just liked words.

A logophile. He could add that to his list to. A logophile liked words, and Michael liked words too.

When the thunder started Michael decided it was time to move, he didn't like thunder. Or lightning for that matter. He only liked rain. The other two scared him. Astraphobia. He thought. Fear of thunder and lightning. But Michael didn't count his fears as something positive.

With one last look at the street corner that gave Michael hope, the boy in black turned on his heel and set off towards his house at a brisk pace. He left his hope behind because; Michael knew he wasn't good enough to turn the corner. Turning the corner took him onto the street with the nice houses. The street with the nice whole families and the loving parents. Turning that corner meant you were good and looking a t Michael's list it was easy to tell he was made out of bad.

So he went home knowing that when he got home he would be punished for being gone so long and with no valid reason. And he knew in the back of his head that he wouldn't defend himself, knew that he couldn't even if he wanted to. And he wasn't sure if wanted to. At least the pain meant he was feeling, but Michael had created other ways of feeling pain a long time ago.

His converse clad feet guided him silently up the stairs to his house and he slipped inside eyes closed and wishing. Wishing as hard as he dared.

"Little f*cker finally came home did he?" his dad's voice called from just down the hall.

Michael held his breath and wished just a little harder.

"Answer me!" a beer bottle smashed a few feet from Michaels head and he let out an involuntary yelp.

"So it is the f*ucking faggot. Come here b*tch, I need you for a minute,"

Michael knew better than to disobey his father, but that didn't mean he wasn't petrified as he shuffled towards his father's voice. Michael knew what was coming, but the punch to his gut still had the boy gasping.

"Can't you even f*cking breath right?" his father asked.

Michael didn't answer he was preoccupied with trying to breath properly.

A blow to his jaw sent him reeling and he was seeing stars. Well, not actually stars. He thought that might actually be pretty cool. His vision was spotted with bits of black.

Knuckles connected with his cheek and Michael could taste the metallic tang of blood. He was used to it, but unfortunately for him it had always triggered a rather poor reaction from his digestive system.

Michael gagged and tried desperately not to puke as he swallowed back the saliva that was now mixed with his own blood.

He wasn't aware that he was on his hands and knees until his dad's hands were pulling on his hair. "Get up! Get the f*ck up!" his dad screamed.

Michael scrambled to his feet and stood as straight as he could in front of his dad.

"You're a f*cking disgrace. You shouldn't even be alive anymore. I'm not sure why you thought we f*cking loved you,"

Michael's dad grinned wickedly. He didn't know much about his son, but he knew enough to know that words hurt Michael more than injuries.

So he talked. Until Michael's mum came home and his dad dropped him to the floor to attend to her needs.

"Filth,"

The word penetrated deep into Michael as he slowly picked his mangled body up off the floor and dragged himself up the broken wooden stairs to his room.

Michael's clothes were soaked through and his hair was sopping. He was beginning to shake from the cold, but he didn't bother to change. He kicked off his shoes and fell into his bed drawing the covers up around himself and closing his eyes waiting for sleep to greet him.

His body though exhausted was restless and his mind would not shut up. It wasn't late at night perhaps nearing 8:30, but Michael had nothing else to do. Besides tiredness is a side effect of depression so Michael had a right to be tired.

It took a while for the boy in black to fall asleep; he kept turning in bed tangling himself in his sheets and fell asleep when the clock hit 11:14.

He awoke again at 1:38 in the morning and sighed as he realized it would be a very long night.

Words. He thought. Just think of words, Michael.

Ballistophobia fear of missiles or bullets. Coulrophobia fear of clowns. Didaskaleinophobia fear of going to school. Eremophobia fear of being oneself or of loneliness. Frigophobia fear of cold. Gelotophobia fear of being laughed at. Hypsiphobia fear of height...

Michael slowly lured himself back to sleep as he thought of fears. They were some of his favourite words. Perhaps because they were so different and complex. Just like him.

Michael woke up next when his phone was going off with his alarm.

It was 4:00. Most people thought it was early and Michael used to agree, but in order to get out of the house without seeing either of his parents it was a necessary rule.

He didn't bother change his jeans, but slipped out of the black sweater for a white one and pulled a black jacket on top of that. Grabbing his school bag, he forced his shoes back on and left his room for the bathroom.

He brushed his teeth and fixed his hair to the best of his ability and left the house.

No breakfast, no nothing. Because there hadn't been actual food in Michael's house for weeks now. His measly job didn't quite cover groceries. His dad's job covered the house and whatever take out he bought and Michael's money went in a carved out book under Michael's mattress.

He always carried cash on him and used some today to buy himself a much needed coffee and a chocolate chip muffin that he picked at.

Michael could easily count his ribs if he wanted to. Half because there wasn't anything to eat and half because he didn't want to waste the food on himself when he wasn't important enough.

Michael played with his sweater paws as he sipped on his coffee and felt the stare of the employee who gave it to him from across the room. Michael wanted to tell him where he could shove it so very badly, but years of being bullied and abused had taught him to keep him big mouth shut.

He couldn't help but look though. And then suddenly he couldn't help but stare because the boy was truly beautiful.

He was tall, much taller than Michael, and his hair was styled in a quiff that Michael's hair would never quite manage. His eyes were blue, but the longer Michael stared into them the more he saw. He saw the different shades of blue knitted together with bits of grey to make a whole new colour. His lips were thin and in Michael's mind completely kissable, but Michael realized he knew this boy. This boy went to his school.

Michael looked away the second he realized this and focused on not freaking out because he would have to see the boy in History, and English and this boy saw. He saw the fresh bruises along Michael's jaw and cheek. He saw how Michaels breaths were shallow as to try and not hurt his ribs which were slightly pained.

But he saw Michael come in ten minutes earlier with tears in his eyes and his posture defeated. He saw Michael wounded.

And Michael hated that.

Shoes scuffed the floor near Michael and he kept his head down ignoring the fact that the boy was walking over to him. Through his lashes Michael saw the blonde sit across from him and his back stiffened.

"Do you go to my school?" the boy asked him.

Michael didn't answer the boy and kept his eyes locked on his muffin on the table, his head angled so the boy couldn't see the bruises.

"Yeah, yeah you do. Your names Matthew right?"

Michaels eyes snapped up to look at the boy.

Matthew? Are you f*cking kidding me? Michael thought.

"Michael," he mumbled as quietly as he could. But Michael still spoke.

"Oh. Sorry mate. I got the M right though," the boy was still talking to Michael and it thoroughly confused the boy in black and white.

This boy hung out with the normal kids so what the hell was he doing talking to scum like Michael?

"I'm Luke,"

Luke.

Michael liked the name, but he didn't say this.

"Can I call you, Mikey? I feel like you're a Mikey," Luke continued.

What is wrong with this kid? Michael thought to himself. First he talks to me and now he's giving me nick names? Does he not realize I'm no good?

Clearly the answer was no because Luke kept talking until Michael stood up abruptly and threw out his finished coffee and half eaten muffin.

"Oh, um. Bye, Mikey!" Luke called out after him.

"Bye Luke," Michael muttered. But Luke didn't hear him.

In truth Michael liked listening to Luke talk. Luke had a nice voice if anything. He didn't know words like Michael, but Michael liked how he kept talking even though Michael wouldn't answer him. He thought maybe Luke realized how lonely he was. Maybe Luke would talk to him at school.

Don't be stupid, Michael. Guys like Luke don't like guys like you. He told himself.

With his mood dampened Michael began the long walk to his school that he hated, but he didn't have the money for a bus ticket, he was saving to get out of his parents' house.

He realized that there were homes for people like him, but Michael was very independent he like to do things on his own. This just so happened to be one of those things.

He was already dreading first period History when he turned the corner away from the little shop Luke worked at. But in a way he was excited and Michael loved that he was feeling something good for once.