Beside the tombstone, he waits. He waits without an umbrella as the raindrops fall from the heavy clouds, drumming against rooftops and drenching his hair.  He waits as grease and dirt and dust slip under his fingernails, crouching and digging his hands into the soil. He waits as the sun descends past the horizon, lavender and a tangy orange and a blazing, fierce red filling his vision. He just waits, his knees tucked in against his chest and his brown locks clinging onto his skin. 

He waits because he has nowhere left to go, anyway. A disgusting smell drifts into his nose and he frowns, leaning against the tombstone. It was as if something was burning. Mouth dry and stomach in pain due to the hunger constantly gnawing, he doesn't stand. He only sits and waits; waits for something, anything to happen that will change his life. 

He waits because that's the only thing he's good at doing. Failing in school and too weak; too clumsy for athletics, he has only mastered the arts of waiting. That -- and singing. He used to like to sing, but now all it does is give him horrible flashbacks of his painful past. His lips part only to sharply take a breath of the polluted air, and it promptly closes a split second later. 

He waits and waits and waits until finally, the sun is peeking at him, its aureate rays shining on only a few areas of the cemetery. His legs struggle to straighten; his hand grips onto the tombstone for support. He smiles at it. 

"Good morning, dad." 

He begins prodding homewards, where his dear sister, age 7, will be wailing for food. He slowly walks homewards, where his mother, deranged and distorted, will be cooped up in her room, mumbling to herself and occasionally screeching curses, throwing herself at the wall. He knows that once his duties have been finished, he'll be ignored; he'll be fading away. 

Still, he's waiting. 

He's waiting for someone to take his hand and squeeze it warmly and come home with him. 

Still, he's waiting.