A/N: So it was recently brought to my attention that "crocodile tears" actually mean "fake tears". Where I'm from (Kentucky) I always thought that that meant really big, really sad tears. Probably I should have checked before I posted this story but I didn't really stop to think that my dialect would affect the way the story was read. I was wrong and I apologize for the mistake. But it has now been changed to "big and sorrowful tears" just to clear up the confusion. And thank you for the person that pointed this out to me. I really do appreciate that you took the time to correct me. From now on I'll try to make sure that what I'm saying actually means what I want to be portrayed before I publish. Anyways, on to the story.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time, in a jungle of concrete, there was a little boy with big, bright, dark brown eyes and long dark hair that fell in waves of silk down his small back. The boy was different, that much everyone was sure of. He was small and too dark to be true to his Cuban decent yet too light to be a part of the blacks that made up the neighborhood surrounding his. He was different in the way he acted as well. The men in his family were dominant from the day of their birth, but the little boy was shy and soft spoken, he didn't like the loud sounds of his sisters and brother playing roughly. He liked to cook. He spent most of his time in the kitchen with his mother rather than rough-housing in the streets with his siblings and the other children that lived on his street. He was always an outcast, he didn't like people. He loved having alone time in the peaceful kitchen, the wonderful smell of the Cuban cuisine surrounding he and his mother. He liked the talks that they had, about life and the things they hated and loved, he liked to ask her about her day. He felt that she was so underappreciated, not to say that his father wasn't loving and attentive because he was, but the little boy just felt like she would like to talk about her day sometimes.

He and his mother had always been closer than he and his father, his father was manly and strong. He liked to work on cars and do things in the yard and garage but the little boy always liked the 'womanly' things. Laundry and cleaning and cooking. The only thing that he really liked to do outside was gardening. The little boy loved flowers, he liked the smell and loved the colors that bloomed upon the petals. He would always take such good care of his flowers, they were his pride and joy. He loved no item more than he loved his little flower garden. Sometimes the little boy's brother and his friends would stomp through the small garden and try to kill his flowers, they would drown them with the water hose and laugh at the little dead lovelies. The little boy would cry silently as he tried to salvage even a few of his little friends. He would let the big and sorrowful tears stream down his tiny face in rivers as he would pat out new soil to soak up the water. His mother would help him fix the garden and would even chastise her older son for the terrible act. His mother would hold him as he cried for the little beauties that had died too soon. She would take him to the little store on the end of the street and he would spend his allowance on all different types of seeds, decided carefully based off of the beautiful pictures on the front of the packages, making sure to pick the most beautiful and colorful flowers he could find. He liked to wait for them to grow and then clip the prettiest ones to make flower crowns that he and his mother would wear.

Sometimes he lie awake at night and listened to the sounds of his mother and father fighting about him. The little boy had such a huge weight on his shoulders. He knew that he was the cause of their fights and he didn't want to ruin their love. He always looked up to them and hoped that he would someday find a love like theirs. He decided that he was going to end the fighting. He decided that he wasn't worth it. When he was 11 he decided that he was going to be what his father wanted him to be. The young boy straightened his shoulders one morning, and walked out to his little garden. His flowers were doing amazing. His bother was away at football camp and hadn't torn them up so they were finally fully grown and blooming brightly in the soft spring sunrise. He stood in the middle of his joy and looked down at his beautifully clean converse sneakers and whispered to his only friends. "I'm so sorry my little lovlies. I'm sorry that I have to hurt you but my family is much more important. I'll always love you though. I'm going to miss you." With that being said, he morphed his face into the stern expression that he had seen his father wear so often and he kicked. He kicked and stomped and started to scream. "Stupid fucking flowers!", he belowed, "I hate you I hate you I hate you!!" He stomped and kicked and shouted until he no longer had a voice and he looked slowly and sorrowfully around his once beautiful garden.

His mother was awake by then and came running out of the house. "Oh Ricky, what happened? Did those thugs rip up your garden again? I'll call the police on them. It's alright Ricky dear, don't cry. We'll go to the store and get some more seeds. Maybe we can get them to bloom before the end of the summer if we plant them quickly enough." she said comfortingly. He looked up at her with a broken expression, tears flowing down his newly chiseled face. "No Mama, I did this. These flowers are stupid. I'm stupid. I'm tired of being girly. I'm a man, Mama. I need to start acting as it." he recited the words that his father had screamed at her last night. He said them lowly and with so much pain that the words broke his mother's heart. "Oh Ricky, mijo, don't listen to your father. He's only afraid that you'll be picked on. He doesn't want you to get beat up by the thugs that are around here." she said sadly, such a sad and pitying look on her face.

He shook his head violently, "No Mama. He's right. I need to grow up and move on from this. I'm never going to get anywhere if I don't toughen up." he said gruffly. The young boy's mother was devastated that her little man felt that he needed to change for someone else. "You don't have to give up the things you love to be tougher my dear. You're already so strong, you just don't see it." she said. He shook his head again, getting frustrated and upset. "Yes I do." he clipped "I'm sick of everyone walking on me and I'm sick of giving them reasons to taunt me. I need to be a man to be treated like a man."

His mother was devastated. She had lost the little boy that she had hoped would stay forever. The one child that she had always loved most, the one that had truly connected with her. Her little Ricky. A lone tear dripped down her face, "Alright," she said softly, "I don't like that you feel this way, mijo, but I'll always support you. You'll never be alone, Ricky, you'll always have me. I promise." The young boy couldn't contain the tears that fell at his mother's beautiful and strengthening words. "Thank you Mama," he said brokenly, "I love you. I promise that I'll try my best to always be there for you as well."