Him

He wakes up at 5. Everyday. He doesn't have a roof to cover the sun shining above him. He considers himself lucky. He doesn't get to sleep at all on rainy days. He feels weak. He slept late yesterday on an empty stomach. He gathers himself and everything he has and slowly leans on the wall.

You can't make much out of his face. His face is covered by dark black hair. His dirty, torn shirt is too big for him. His pants are stitched in different shades of gray, and his feet are wounded as he doesn't have any shoes to wear. He wears a worded headband, but he has no idea what it says; he has never attended school. He has a watch on his wrist, but it is of no use to him. He has all the time he needs, but so little that he actually deserves.

 

He doesn't remember his parents. He doesn't know his own identity. He is what society made him: an orphan who lives in the street. He has a name but it doesn't matter. There is no one to call him by his name. He doesn't remember since when his life has been like this. His best memory is from the day when he got to wear new clothes and sleep on a full stomach. His worst memory, he can't remember; there are too many of them to count. He doesn't want to remember his worst memory.

 

The kids his age around are afraid of him. They don't talk to him; they don't even look him in the eyes. Is it his long black hair? His face? His clothes? He doesn't know. He wishes that they talked to them, but they never do. The ones who pretend he doesn't exist are the good ones for him. The ones who notice him, are the bullies. He gets hit, he gets robbed. They kick the only little doll he has and tear its body apart. He found that doll when he was searching for food in the bin. He always kept it beside him, his only friend. He doesn't know what he has done to them to be treated this way; he sits in the corner and cries. It is all he can do.

 

He wants to fight back. He's probably stronger than all of them, as life has tested him every step of the way. He thinks of breaking their noses so that they'll finally leave him alone. But he is unable to. He remembers the one time he pushed one kid, and the whole society poured on him. He wonders why society to a little kid, who doesn't have a voice, doesn't have a roof, doesn't have a family, treats like this.

 

He has a voice. But he cannot raise it. Even if he does, no one will hear it. He doesn't complain because he fears what the consequences will be. He has learned to forget. He has forgotten to feel. He has forgotten to question. He used to pray a while back, but he thinks his prayers too, are like his voice. Nobody hears it. He doesn't believe in God anymore. His faith has led him nowhere. "Why would a god, who made everyone equal, discriminate against a little kid so badly?" he wonders every day.

 

His stomach rumbles; he doesn't remember the last time he had a full stomach. He wanders during the day with hope in his heart. Hope that he'll get to eat something, and wear something less torn. Everything depends on how lucky he is. There have been days where he's treated like a king and days where he has been treated, to simply put it, inhumanly.

 

He looks at other kids, with their parents, in new clothes, traveling around the city. He has nothing to do; he observes them. Their cheerful expressions, perfectly coiffed hair, clean clothes, bright eyes, security, and love. He sees it all and wishes his life was like theirs. He wants to go to school, hold a pen, and write whatever little kids write. He wants to draw, wants to read. 

 

People look into his eyes. The small, dark, round little eyes of an unlucky little boy. They pity him; he can tell by the look in their eyes. Most of them help him however they can; they give him food, clothes, and toys. The kind ones smile at him and pet him on the head. Those are the times when he feels absolute joy. Most of the time, people see his gloomy face but not his sparkly eyes; his yellow teeth but not his mesmerizing smile; his dirty clothes but not his clean heart.

 

He's heard that every dog has its day. He wonders when his day will come. His eyes are tired from waiting for that day. He imagines waking up one day and discovering that everything before that day was a dream. He sometimes wonders if his day has never come because he isn't a dog. He laughs at himself for being silly. He teases himself for thinking like a kid. He's a kid, but in everyone's eyes except his. His responsibilities have taught him to think like a man, act like a man. 

 

He isn't as lucky as you and me. He has no one to take care of him when he's sick or when he's afraid. There is no one to heal him when he's hurt or to pick him up when he falls. He has no one with whom he can share his joy or his sorrow. He has the biggest responsibility of us all: to take care of himself at an age where he shouldn't have to worry about anything. He is twice the man we are. He has seen everything that life could've shown, and life still hasn't left him alone; he's tested every day.

 

When days are hard on him, he curses himself. He curses the fate that has given him this life. He curses everything he sees and everything he feels. He's too little to control his emotions, and also too little to have to go through everything he goes through. He stares into the open sky and thinks of flying away. He wishes for the star to give him wings when he wakes up. His teary eyes get as heavy as the heart holding him together. He wakes up the next day with swollen eyes but a cheery heart.

 

Sometimes, he hears on the radio about kids being rescued from the streets, given shelter, and given a home. But no one comes for him. Everyone who's in black pants, wearing a card and a cap, and holding a notebook excites him, for he thinks that's how social workers are dressed. He wants to find them himself, but he doesn't know where they are, or who they are. He waits patiently; there is nothing else he can do.

 

He's as much of a human as we are, but he isn't treated as one. A gentle, kind smile while looking at him is enough to keep him going throughout the day. He finds happiness in little things, as life has shown him how cruel it can get sometimes. He is not constrained by his very existence, as we are. He's free to roam, free to fly, and free to disappear, but he doesn't. The trees, the birds, the animals, and even the people who hate him are all his friends; they are his world. His little world, where he's seen it all, felt it all, been everywhere, and done everything. He knows every rock there is; he has named every plant and every bird. The animals around him love him and understand his language—the language of struggle in this human world with no humanity.

 

His smile is everything he has. We smile when we have a reason, but he doesn't. He rarely gets a reason to smile, so he has taught himself to smile all day, every day. He smiles even more when he sees his smile, bringing a smile to others' faces; he becomes proud of himself. He has weaponized his greatest weapon and uses it to pierce people's hearts. His purity is unmatched.

He has a dream. A dream to grow. A dream to succeed. A dream to show himself, what he is meant to be. A dream to be the world, know the world. He doesn't care what society thinks of him, as he has no obligation to it. He has a dream to buy himself every little thing that he has ever thought, a dream to feed himself every food that has ever been cooked, a dream to take himself to every place there is, and a dream to make himself every man there is. He has a dream because he has hope. A hope that life has something destined for him; the world.