Aaron was a slender boy of 16. He looked malnourished. His cheeks were sunken in beneath eyes that were a dull blue, having lost their sparkle years ago. His pepper blond hair was shoulder length and scraggly. There was a shadow of an incoming beard, now 2 months in the making. It was easy to ignore him, passing by with out a thought. If someone happened to notice him in a worn Alan Jackson t-shirt and torn faded jeans he had acquired out of a dumpster somewhere, they would cross to the other side of the street, saying something like, "Another alcoholic bum", or "That's what drugs'll do to ya." Reading this you may begin to wonder what this youth had done to bring upon such a life. He didn't, not in the way you're thinking. You may even begin to feel sorry for him. Don't. Your pity and worry are fleeting. I know because day after day good people like you walk on the other side of the street to avoid being asked for money. You know it's true. Nevermind the fact that he would not ask. One look at him and people like you already think you know him. So there he sleeps, in an alley, alone and ignored.
~to be continued~