The broken man

He was a broken man, but a man just the same as any other in the world. His grey clothes hang loose on his skinny body, and dust had gradually gathered in the thoughtful creases of his face. He had his hood up to protect himself from the cruel London cold but his fearful eyes were still visible through the shadow. They told a story of one who was crushed, defeated and cheated by life, left in the gutter to die: unloved and unwanted by anyone. He was like glass; seemingly he was hard and tough, but so very breakable and fragile. He had been dropped and shattered, his dreams lay in useless puddles at his feet, trodden on and sniggered at by all passers by.

He was past crying. Now, he simply existed. When people saw him they usually turned away, embarrassed, and picked up the pace just to be free of the guilt. He could hardly blame them; he was the poster boy for the disregarded societal problems, the ones they didn't know how to deal with, so they threw them aside with hard eyes and an aching heart. It was delusional, but to them he was nothing, nothing but a bad image on a perfectly respectable city.

When you've hit the bottom, how do you find the strength to pick yourself back up? Sitting, hunched in a darkening street, cold autumn rain running down the back of his neck, he had no idea. There was nothing to be done, nothing more to give. He would sit here until death took pity upon his soul and swallowed him up.

Drowning in his own miserable thoughts, he was almost oblivious to the black car that pulled up just beside him, spitting rainwater from it's tires as it grinded to a halt.

A woman got out in a hurry, holding the door open impatiently as a small child came tumbling out behind her. Dressed in a dainty red raincoat, the girl ducked away from her mother's opening umbrella and slipped into the rain, a smile on her face. She lifted her tiny head to the dark angry sky, her palms in the air to feel the rain as it splashed playfully around her. She then spotted the man, sitting there in his corner, and she stopped. Her smile froze. Her mother made to grab her and drag her away; to pull her away from what would poison her view on reality, but the child stood fast.

“No mummy. Look at that man. Why is he out in the rain? Tell him he can come to our house, mummy. We have lots of spare rooms that he can stay in,” she pointed, and the mother desperately tugged at her daughter's arm, her eyes flitting from the man's haggard face to the puddles at his feet.

“You don't understand, we can't,” she hissed angrily. The child started to cry, hot tears wetting her already dripping cheeks, the shrill sound piercing the cloudy air.

“Why mummy? Why? He shouldn't be out here in the rain,” the child squealed as she was flung onto her mother's shoulder. She watched the broken man with sad brown eyes, her face a picture of despair and simple anger. There was no understanding, because it made no sense: this man should not be out in the rain. He smiled as they disappeared into the night, appreciative of the beauty of the mind of the young. If all could see like children, the world would be a better place. Sometimes we just need to start looking, and with our hearts as well as our badly trained eyes.