Washing down the gutter between his legs, lapping against his left ankle, was the last of his meager meal for the day, carried on rain water already black with city dirt and grime to the nearest drain.
He looked up. The rain hit his face causing streaks of dirt and grime to etch it like a macabre mask. He opened his mouth and took in some water, gargled and spat it out. He wiped his mouth on the torn remnants of his shirt sleeve and forearm.
The sky rumbled and he looked up again, staring against the rain to see beyond the lights of tenement windows which surrounded him. The sky was black, black as pitch. Black as a void. Black with their rain; gorged, and now disgorging.
Black as he felt his soul must be.
A sound, not unlike the rumble of the sky, came from the alley behind him. He heard ash cans tumble, a dumpster shift against its metal wall, and the squeal of a cat caught suddenly by surprise. He looked down the street both ways. Nothing.
And no one.
He knew his van was nearby and was tempted for one desperate second to flee. But where could he go that he would not be found?
No answer came to mind.
He stood slowly, steadying himself on wobbly legs.
As he pulled his Glock from its holster and turned, the cat--a gray streak in the blacks and grays splashed on the walls by the weak light from nearby windows and the stronger darkness around him--tore from the alley, ignored him, and shot across the street.
He pulled back on the Glock's breech and verified that a round was still in the chamber. Snapping it shut, he faced the alley, arms now down by his side, pistol gripped expertly in his right fist, safety off, finger on the trigger.
"Life or death," he said, surprised by the sound of his own voice. "What the hell. I've had enough of life."
Slowly, he walked into the alley. "Let pain be your guide," he said in a mocking tone. Then laughed. "Lead on, 0 faithful companion."
The sky rumbled again, but still no lightning flashed.
And the alley swallowed him up.
)
