It is not the future the boy is afraid of, but the past.

The worn bus sign swings over his head, the sound melting in the heavy rain. His eyes focus on squelching sneakers, shoulders drenched from the cruel downpour; raincoat forgotten in his scramble to vanish. He tilts his head back, small droplets quickly covering his face. Ears filled with the violent rain, wind pushing plaits of drowned hair into his eyes. Failing to notice the downpour, his mind wanders elsewhere.

He has always liked the rain. It falls onto him easily, accepting him; it doesn't question or complicate. Each droplet falling so often and intensely, that he wonders if it could truly erase him into nightfall. The rain slanders his memories. He doesn't want to live with them anymore; he no longer wants the burden of the past.

It is not the future he is afraid of, but repeating the past.

The low rumble of the engine arrives, the sound polluting his ears and trampling his brain. He lays unnoticed, overlooked by the shield of the rain.

Unaffected and shadowed by the night, he lingers in the past, waiting for time to consume him.

If only he knew that yesterday is gone and took its tale along.