Tattered Strings and Tear-Stained Wings.

It was raining outside.

The streets looked blue and the flickering streetlights looked pale. Thick webs of water trickled down the window, leaving tearstains and long skinny rivers along the way. A roaring drumbeat of raindrops droned in my ears, turning the music in the room into nothing more than a muffled noise.

The restaurant was nearly empty today, probably because of the storming rain. The few people who were inside were all either half-drunk or half-dead. But I guess I couldn’t really blame them. Being stuck in a rundown restaurant with nothing but a bar, cheap music, and even cheaper food probably does that to you. Heck, I would have been either if it weren’t for the fact that I work here.

I leaned my back against the chipping plastic booth cushion and crossed my legs underneath me. Placing my head against the window, I sighed contently. After the long, busy day, even the freezing cold glass against my cheek seemed comforting. The tapping of the rain began to lull me to sleep. How nice. Sleep is nice.

Then there was a loud applause from the sky—a cloud-lions roaring; a thunderbirds flapping. And I nearly fell off my butt. The lights began to flicker like lightning, then they were gone. It was dark and silent, the bulbs dead as the quiet in the room.

But the silence felt warm. It was mellow and calm—the only sounds being trickling raindrops and quiet murmurs. It was almost comfortable, which was odd—out of place, even. But I didn't question it. It was nice, for a change.

But before the gentle tapping of the rain could lull me to sleep, I was interrupted by a bright light shining in my face and past my eyelids. I opened my eyes, squinting against the brightness of a flashlight held by Ole' Stevo, the full-time bartender and my boss. He gave me a crook-toothed apologetic smile, handing me a raincoat, umbrella, and flashlight. Ole' Stevo didn't talk much, but I knew what he meant. Sighing, I pushed myself up from my comfortable seat next to the window, taking the supplies and heading out the door to go on a dangerous quest for the electric box.

Before I left, Stevo came padding behind me and put a baseball bat in my hand. Just in case, he had said. I grinned at him and left.

The umbrella didn’t keep the rain from pouring.

Little water droplets kissed my skin as they splashed off the grey pavement, leaving a misty stain of moisture on my bare legs. It was cold outside, but it was the nice kind of cold—the kind that you wanna take a blanket and snuggle up in. It smelled nice, too. People say cold doesn’t have a smell, but I don’t believe them. I inhaled, and I could swear that there was a scent of cool in the air.

But the cold immediately went foul when the sidewalk turned narrow into an alley. The rain was less spiteful under the shutters, but the cold went from warm to heartless. It felt empty and maybe a bit frightening—feeling so cold that it almost burned. I couldn’t understand how or why the atmosphere suddenly changed—it was almost ominous. But I brushed the thought away quickly. Surely it was only because of the bad things associated with alleys.

Although the rain was no longer mercilessly pouring down on me, the constant echoing drip-drip of single water droplets was much less appeasing.

The steady beat of my tapping shoes suddenly accelerated as I quickened my pace. I couldn’t help but feel a slowly seeping glue of paranoia—a feeling of being watched beginning to soak over me. I pushed the feeling as far back into my mind as it would go, but it only dug the thought deeper and deeper until it was finally drilling so much that it almost became pure panic.

It was when I finally took the time to stop did I realize that I was lost. Completely and utterly lost.

I groaned, banging the back of my head against the alley wall and sliding down to sit on the puddled grey pavement.

I sighed, defeated,and folded my arms over my knees, resting my head in them. But then I heard tapping. Footsteps, in fact. My head shot up, a dark figure entering my vision.

I debated asking him for directions, although it seemed more like something to keep my mind busy than an actual option to consider. Despite this, however, I reluctantly got up to trail behind him. What could it hurt to ask? Clearing my throat, I tapped him on the shoulder. I gave a pathetic, "Hi." and coughed a little.

He stopped in his tracks, paused for a few seconds, then slowly turning around to meet my gaze. I smiled victoriously. "Hi!" I said again, forcing just a bit more enthusiasm in my voice.

I mentally slapped myself. I was trying to get directions, not sell a vacuum. I sounded like a perky entrepreneur-slash-girl-scout-selling-cookies.

I cleared my throat a little and tried again, "Hi." Better. "Umm, do you happen to know a way out of here?" I asked, tentatively meeting his eyes.

I didn’t notice that they were closed until he opened them. I saw electricity. His eyes were cold—colder than the cold from before. So cold that it almost hurt—but it didn’t burn like the other cold. It was more shocking than searing—like lightning. And although his eyes were a striking bright blue, they didn’t seem very bright at all. In fact, they looked more along the lines of dark—frightening, almost. I suddenly tasted something bitter in my mouth, and a painful clenching in my chest. When I looked away, the feeling disappeared.

"You need directions?" He asked.. I snapped out of daze, and nodded my head slowly. He smirked. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to talk to strangers?" I opened my mouth to retort, but he continued. "I could be rapist, for all you know. Take you, kill you, and throw you in a dumpster. No one would ever know." He flashed me a bright grin. I rolled my eyes. "It would be our little secret. Or rather, just mine, if you're dead."

"Do you know where to go, or not?" I said, feeling a slight hint surge of annoyance making its way into my voice. I guess, if I thought about it, my rude retort was much more foolish than brave. What if he really was dangerous?

He shrugged. "Maybe so, maybe no." he replied. "It really all depends," He inched closer, close enough for his breath to brush against my cheek. The only things I could think about were the fresh scent of mint, and the drum of my heartbeat in my ears, and wondering if he could hear it too. "Because if you're hitting on me, you're really not my type." he whispered, ever so quietly. "I'm not really into the type who follow strangers into alleys."

He had a glimmer of amusement in his shocking eyes that told me that he knew quite well that I was completely lost, and not at all stalking him. He was simply trying to piss me off.

The corner of my lip twitched, and I resisted the urge to slap the asshole--or better yet, hit him with the baseball bat in my hand. I flexed my fingers around the handle, honestly considering it for a second. "You know what?" I said stiffly. "I can find a way back on my own." I turned on my heel and began walking away. I was stopped when he caught my wrist.

He paused for a moment or two. "See you around then, Layla."

Funny thing is, I don't remember giving him my name.