As I wait in the cold, dark, rainy street I realise he isn't coming. He never comes. Everytime, everytime he says he'll be there I stupidly belive him. Everytime I go, everytime I am disappointed.

My hopes raise and then they come crashing down like the rain crashing down onto the street.

I feel my heart sink with the faraway moon slowly disappearing behind the rain clouds. Everything is getting swallowed up by darkness. Everytime he doesn't show up. Everytime I sink.

I sink further into the world where time and feelings don't matter, where food and drink is no longer a neccessity, rather a hindrance. Where friends are standing with their back towards you because they can't trust you anymore. Where family doesn't even exist.

My family haven't existed for years now. Ever since Mum and Dad died in that car crash I have been living with my Aunt and Uncle.

I thoguht that he loved me, but he abused me. He abused my trust, my feelings. Why do I still trust anyone when my life has been one set of disappointments after another?

I never, not once, while it was happening wondred why it was happening to me.

I thought that it happened to all normal people, like it was a part of growing up or something. All the same, I never told anyone, just in case. It's not like I thought it was wrong at the time, I just didn't like telling my so-called friends a thing about my life.

I thought that it happened to everyone, I never once questioned his motives. I thought he did it because he loved me, like he said, not because he was a greedy, horrible man, like I know now.

I didn't like it, I hated the sound of the floorboards creaking, because everytime it happened I knew that he was coming. No one else walked around the house like that, so secretivley. I never wondered why he did that. Never did it hit me that it was because he was doing something he wasn't supposed to. Something he wanted no one else to know about.

I would sit in my room, waiting. He would open the door very quietly, everyone else was asleep. He walked over to my bed. I could see in his eyes. I watched him lie down on the bed and look at me. I thought I could see love in his eyes. I didn't know what love was. I still don't know. I don't think I'll ever know.

He did what he wanted with me. Then he left again. Like everyone did. They get what they want from me and then leave.

Even though I thought it was OK, I still had to get out. I couldn't stand them pretending to be such a perfect family, when behind closed doors…

I can't believe that I left like I did. My so called afmily, well, to me they are dead. I don't care if they are alive anymore.

They put me through hell and now I have broken away. No one cared about me. I have no family.

I had nowhere to go. I didn't have anyone.

I retreated to the back alleys and only ventured out at night. I became a feral scavenger, not caring about anything but staying alive. My mind was preoccupied.

When people saw me in the streets they looked horrified. I could see what they were thinking. A dirty little kid living in the streets. I felt so dirty, yet I chose not to do anything about it.

No one was caring for me except for me, and I wasn't doing a very good job of it.

It felt like nothing was going for me. I felt like everything I touched would turn to shit.

One thing I had going for me was my intelligence, and it was being watsed in a sespool of garbage, lies and deception. At least now it is being put to better use.

I spent a year of my life on the streets, sleeping in the gutter, eating nothing but the food scraps I could find and having people stare at me, spit on me and look at me like I was the scum of the earth. What a waste.

I wonder what I would do if my workmates found out about my past. "Vulnerable Amy, poor little girl, had a hard life." I couldn't stand them knowing. Pity has never been my thing. I couldn't live with them knowing.

And then he came along. He never told me his name or anyhting about him. But I didn't care. He cared about me, gave me a second chance and got me out of that vicious cycle. If he hadn't come along I would still be where I was then, over 10 years later. Dwelling on the horrible memories of my time at my Uncle's.

I still dwell on it, but it doesn't consume me. Every once in a while I think about it. I wonder why now.

I hated myself for never seeing him again. Every so often he calls, tells me to meet him here. I always come. He never does.

After years of being touched by my uncle, while I was on the streets I vowed never to let anyone touch me like he did. I vowed never to end up bitter and upset, but, well, here I am, waiting in the rain once again.

And the next time he calls, I know I will show up.

I live in the hope that something will change.

But it never does.