They sat side by side on a park bench, mindless of the drenching rain and the creeping darkness. They’re expressions were downcast and resigned. The tendrils of the dark night was kept at bay as the light of an overhead street lamp bathed them in an eerie neon glow. Their knees were drawn up their chests, arms wrapped tightly around denim-clad legs and their postures slumps in defeat; they were the children of the night.
He was the boy without a father figure because he told his father he wanted to become be a ballet dancer. She was the girl teased because she enjoyed sports and didn’t dress up. He was the boy forgotten because nobody believed his father abused him. She was the girl labelled a slut because she was a pregnant teenager, a rape victim. He was the boy tied to a fence and beaten to a bloody pulp by two straight men who thought he needed to be ‘taught a lesson’. She was the girl raped by her father because she was a lesbian. He was the boy disowned and without a home because he was gay.
They are the innocence, the youth, the future. They are the forgotten ones.