It's the same cycle each day. Wake up, dread going outside, hide. It's become a companion for Spock, a friend and foe. Others would shy away; he, on the other hand, accepts it.
Spock doesn't know what he did to make others hate him. Taunted, tormented, teased, and pushed around.
But he accepts it.
He's reminded of how he's not good enough, how his mother is a whore, his father an idiot and disgrace. He's an abomination, a wrong in the universe full of rights; a constellation of emotions waiting to burst out.
But he lets it slide over him.
Sometimes.
On the particularly bad days, when nothing is going right, his parents are fighting, he hides.
He's learnt to hide. He's become invisible, blending into the shadows that threaten to engulf him. Taking refuge in empty classrooms, run down buildings, under the bed and anywhere else he can squeeze into.
Like a tree, he's learnt to build his defenses. Roots that grew around his heart, so no one could hurt him. Nothing can touch him, no one but his mother. Instead of falling apart, he stills the shaking leaves of his turmoil and bites his lip. Sometimes he lashes out, resulting in bloody cheeks and split lips, sometimes he doesn't.
But it's become his life.
Spock doesn't think he'll achieve a friendship, not until he leaves Vulcan and goes to a different planet. He could escape on a shuttle, meant for transporting foods and supplies. But each time he thinks of running away, the image of his mother, crying and broken, floods his brain and he knows he can't leave.
Not yet, anyway.
When it storms on his planet, though rarely, the abuse seems to grow tenfold. His peers are antsy, ruffled by the taste of dust in their mouths, the trickles of water that their robes can't quite absorb fully.
This is the time Spock dreads the most.
Empty rooms, dark, the stench of mold and insufficient use high. Holding his body, barely keeping it together, strings becoming frayed; dirty with dust and secrets, gathering in age.
Huddled in a corner, drenched in his own tears, hidden away from the world. He listens to the sounds of the outside world, the occasional shriek of a le-matya, the whir of a passing shuttle and the murmurs of others. The ticking of a clock, of sandals and bare feet, against wood and tile. Hollow, loud, digging into Spock's chest.
He won't be able to forgive or forget soon.
A muffled whimper, a sob that threatens to tear him apart. A click of a door, a gasp as the door is wrenched open. A glimmer of hope passes through Spock, maybe someone cares. Perhaps someone heard and is here to comfort him. Before he has time to dry his eyes and recollect himself, the hooded cloak is sneering. Locking him, closing him off from the outside world, those who don't want him, prefer him gone, shut off and lonely.
Maybe one day it will be easier.