The night is dark and cold. Curtains of rain billow across the tarmac, collecting in black pools on the crumbling tarmac. The alley is strewn with broken bottles. Drunken laughter breaks across the sound of the rain for a moment, but is quickly drowned out again.
I shouldn’t be here. This is where dangerous people lurk. This is where people come when something breaks inside them. But I linger anyway, rain trickling down my face and through my clothes. I wonder whether I came here because I am a broken person.
I don’t know. Maybe we’re all broken, somehow.
It’s not raining any more, but the night is colder, and darker. The alleyway stinks of litter and stale alcohol. I have to go.
Time passes, regardless. The drunken laughter is back, no longer inhibited by the rain: Wild and broken. I am quietly broken with it.
Sometime later, I leave.