Rohan lay on his bed and thought about the waitress. It had taken her just two visits to stand behind the counter with her friend and laugh at him. At least it took two visits. There had been many individuals who had laughed at him instantly. Rohan wished he knew what it was exactly that made people hate him.

He knew his clothes put some off. But he had no idea about fashion or the nerve to go into one of those fancy clothes shops. Besides he'd never had a lot of money to buy pants to fit his long legs so he always bought second hand. He got a lot of ridicule because he wore glasses. Rohan sighed, lots of people wore glasses. He thought about his hair. It was almost black. He parted it down the side with a little oil to keep it flat, the way he had been conditioned to wear it at school.

Getting up from the bed, Rohan looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered if he'd have the courage to go to a proper hair dresser and let them style it. The thought made him feel sick so he went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He sucked in a big breath of air, and then grabbed the bath towel.

As he wiped his chest, he ran his fingers over the scar left by an army belt buckle. There were others on his back made by various implements from supposed caring foster parents, who swore what they were doing was hurting them more than him.

At least he didn't have to look at those.

Rohan sighed again and wished he hadn't looked at the scar.

A souvenir from his abusive father.

A reminder of the weak alcoholic mother, who had allowed him to be beaten, and then taken away, put into foster care, to be beaten some more.

Gripping the edge of the sink, Rohan winced as memories of pain flashed through his senses. He inhaled, closed his eyes and tried to think of more pleasant things.

Books.

Books became his saviour and science his passion. He could hide behind books. This thought also caused him grief as the memory of kids calling him square eyes, nerd and pussy galloped through his mind. When he had tried to ignore them, they tore the books from his hands, shoved him to the ground and kicked the crap out of him.

Then more taunts as he grew taller but remained skinny. More beatings because he excelled in his classes.

Even the teachers, who were supposed to help protect him, jeered behind his back because he knew more than they did.

Rohan's mind jumped forward to his university days. That's when the beatings had stopped. It was too late by then. He had been moulded into this tall, pathetic, awkward man who shook his leg when he was nervous. A man who found it hard to talk to people.

Studying his image Rohan hated what he saw. He thought about the pretty waitress and snorted in disgust. Of course, she would laugh at him. Why wouldn't she when he was a coward. He had never stood up for himself. Rohan was sure people saw him as the weakling he was.

He felt the familiar surge of loathing catch in his throat. Rohan glanced at himself one more time, and then stormed to his gym set and added more weights.

By the time he was finished he was lathered in sweat. Punishing his body helped when hatred for himself thundered in his head.

*

He could tell the instant he walked into the staff room that it was Mercer's turn today so he turned around and headed down the stairs. Rohan couldn't take their torment now. He walked as he ate his sandwich and found himself standing across the street looking at the grubby facade of, Ruby's Café, with its potted daisies either side of the door. He heaved a sigh; leaned against the wall of the building he had stopped in front of and tried to see the waitress.

She was there, pouring coffee into a group of old men's cups. Rohan wondered if that would be him in fifty years. Sitting in some café drinking coffee, his friends a couple of waitresses and a group of loners who knew nothing about his past.

He tossed the rest of his sandwich and shoved his large hands into his pockets as he sauntered down the footpath.

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