A young boy, no older than 10 sits alone. He's in an alley behind his new home with his aunt who didn't know all that well. He knows he has to be home soon, but this is where he goes to be alone. To think.
It wasn't my fault he thinks for the millionth time. Not believing it for the millionth time. Knees tucked into chest, head in hands, he feels the warmth a tear roll across his face. The feeling was accompanied by the cold loneliness around him. Both things he'd grown rather accustomed to in the last few months.
No matter what he told himself, no matter what he decided to believe, there was only one thing that really mattered. He missed his family. He missed playing with his little sister, running around in the yard. He missed the stories his dad would tell him every night, the ones that made him sure he could do anything if he set his mind to it, although now he began to doubt he could make it through this. He missed the warm hugs his mom would give when he was upset, knowing she was there if he needed her. In that moment he decided never to rely on anyone for anything. He sat up a little straighter, wiped the tears from his eyes. Then he pulled up his pant leg as high as it would go, and looked at his upper thigh. He did this every so often, hoping the scar wouldn't be there. Hoping it was all a terrible, sick, twisted, nightmare. But alas, it was there. He sighed, picked himself up, "Me against the world,"he whispers as he heads back into the pottery shop to help his aunt, the only family he has left. For now that is, he'd soon discover it wasn't just him against the world...