It's noisy as usual, the playground filled with the typical lunchtime sounds: boys playing a game of football, girls cheering for them on the sidelines, the social outcasts hanging on the edges, hoping for some chance at that life. And me. I'm not in any of those groups, not a boy, and certainly not interested at all in how their game is. And I'm not one of the social outcasts; I'm just there. None of the others notice me, as if I'm too small, too insignificant to be a part of that world. It all seems so surreal to me; sometimes it's like a window into another world.

And then I notice him, his pale, almost white skin, reflecting the sun, blinding me. His skin is so different from mine, smooth, clean, compared to my rough, calloused, dirty hands, worked too hard on the farm. He's perfect, like an angel, sent to deliver me from evil.

Again, I notice the others, all like him, all different from me, perfect. I know that I'm different. I want to be like them, but they don't see me, I'm just a part of the background. It's like I don't exist, as if I'm not alive. Maybe… no. I've been raised better than that.

There are others like me, who aren't seen, lurking in the shadows. They see me- it seems like we are only seen by each other- but they pretend not to. They are my people, but we don't want to be a part of our people anymore, we just want what the other's have. If we ignore our own people enough, maybe… no. Too much wishful thinking. But we do it anyway.

I go home and take a shower. I remember the times my mother used to bathe me, scrubbing hard, getting rid of the dirt. There always seemed to be dirt left, and she'd sigh and hope that people wouldn't notice.

I scrub hard now, but the dirt stays there, like yesterday, like the day before, like all those years ago. My skin starts to turn red, but you can barely see it under the dirt. I shake my head and close my eyes, willing the dirt to wash off. I open my eyes, hoping for a miracle, but it's still there. It always is.

There's nothing I can do about it now, except try and forget about it. But I know I never will. After all, it was the dirt that killed my mother.

I remember that day so clearly. I'd just come home from school, and I'd taken a shower as usual, scrubbing, much like I did today. Then I ran downstairs, wanting to show Mama how clean I'd made myself. But she wasn't there. I searched everywhere for her. And then I found her. She was sleeping in the chook shed. I had run over to her, trying not to get dirty again, but she'd changed. Her skin wasn't like mine anymore, it was red. And then I knew what had happened. I remember sitting there and crying, tears running through the dirt.

My father had come home and taken her away. It was the last time I saw her, all covered in blood. It was spread over her, like a blanket of red satin. She had loved satin.

The police had found out how she died. One of them, those perfect angels, had killed her. They'd told her she was dirty. And then they'd killed her.

I start scrubbing again, hoping for one last time that the dirt will disappear; I don't want to die because of the dirt. But, again, it stays there. There's nothing I can do now, so I step out of the shower.

The house is silent. My father hasn't come home yet. I shouldn't be scared, but remembering my mother has scared me. The neighbours wouldn't care if I was in trouble. We are of the same people, yet they don't want anything to do with us. Just like we don't want anything to do with them.

I jump, as the shrill ring of the phone sounds. Hesitantly, I pick it up, and a pure, clear voice comes through, an angel. I know it's him. But what is he doing? He's not supposed to notice me, not allowed to notice me. Out of fear, I place the phone back in the receiver, then regret it. A part of me hopes that he rings again.

As if on cue, it rings again. This time I pick it up and answer.

Suddenly, I hear the door bang shut and slam the phone down, hoping he'll understand.

My father walks into the room, a questioning glance written in his eyes.

I don't let on about anything, but he continues staring at me. The phone rings again. I reach for it, but he stops me, his hands rough on mine.

He picks it up.

My father replies to the angel, in his low, gruff voice, his eyes glaring at me.

I cower in fear. I've never seen him so angry.

He hangs up and turns to me, his eyes ablaze, like fire.

I'm scared, even though I know what will happen.

And then it starts, just as I had thought. Not for the first time, most likely not the last.

His hand lands on my cheek, the force pushing me to the ground. His legs kick my stomach, as if I'm just an insignificant lump. He yells at me, his anger penetrating into my soul. This time I know why. Other times… he just wanted to.

I don't understand why we have to be like this, why we have to blend into the background, why we aren't seen by them. I just know that it has to be like that, always has been like that.

The blows keep coming. I feel the bruises forming under my skin.

And then everything goes black, like dirt. I can't hear him, I can't feel him.

I'm just there.