Call me Macaroni

            The night weighed heavily upon the bustling city; the mournful cry of the distant train echoed and reverberated through the dark and dreary alley ways. A fog clung to the harbor and stretched its fingers deep into the city, seeming to suffocate the very life from that place. This was not a pleasant night, despite what the warm glow of lights had to offer. They were only the shiny coating on a cauldron of slime. There was never really a safe night to be had in the city, or any city for that matter…

            The streets brimmed with quiet evil doings, flickering by under the streetlamps. The pubs and clubs spilled their night life onto the artificially lit streets. Writhing like maggots, standing around plotting, or conversing with each other over trivial or dangerous subjects. The alleys withheld secrets and dark deeds –egregious enough that it would be a deep shame if they became known to the innocents who joyfully live the day life. Though to the benefits of some they are known, and addressed on occasion. These passages cut through city blocks and provided a quicker way to safety, should one manage to make it through unscathed. It was a temptation that some could not resist, but a danger to all those that enter in the dark of the night.

            No one escapes the darkness of the alleys, not even her. With thin arms hanging at her sides, a delicate, long fingered, sharp nailed hand rested upon the purse that hung from those bony, but narrow shoulders. Dark brown hair draped in a ponytail over one shoulder, green eyes set in a gentle, matronly face. She was not the muscular type, not the anorexic skeleton, and not the majorly overweight.

             She was just a typical citizen trying to make a living. She was of average height, intelligence, and wore average clothes. Time beckoned her to strive through the shadows of the unknown. Home was where she needed to be and she was bent on getting there as quick as possible. She strove into the alley, eyes casting about for the danger that lurked: just waiting for an opportunity like this.

            It wasn’t long before it pounced, and when it pounced there was no stopping it, no going back. A shout startled her and threw her off-balance. Her wits abandoned her; her courage was left in the dust as she retreated to the far wall in an instinctive act of covering her own back. As if he’d melted from the shadows, the thief stood threateningly before her, bedraggled, glinting steel held menacingly in hand. Even in the dark she could barely make out the stained, beaten-up, and shrew face. There was no safety or comfort in those jagged, beady black eyes. The train whistled its cry once more, an echo of the terrified scream she couldn’t give.

            Truly this was the end; she had no money on her and the thief would be angry and kill her outright, especially since she had seen his face. She was terrified, and the situation was proving to be dire. However, she did not fear the death that she foresaw; she feared what it would do to her family. Her mother at home, perhaps in her rocking chair by the fire, lap covered in a blanket because she seemed incapable of sustaining body heat. She could practically see her two children sitting at their grandmother’s feet, all three of them staring up at the clock mounted above the fireplace, awaiting her return.

            But would she…? Would she return? Would they be able to survive without her, if she didn’t? Her mother was too old to work for long, her children too young to understand the concept of money, the father of her children having walked out long ago, and the “rainy day fund” had went into a humble funeral for her beloved father. What would happen to her family if she didn’t make it home this night, or the next night? The night after?

            These horrors plagued her mind as her assailant stepped closer and closer. Too afraid to shut her eyes, let alone resist or move, she watched as the hooligan reached for her purse, knife at the ready. Suddenly there was a pounding series of quick footsteps and they drew her eyes from the serrated edged dagger that could very well end her life. All she could pick out in the dim fogginess of the alley was a blur as the attacker was knocked aside and into the trash that lined the walls. With a great clatter came the defeated and breathless grunt of pain from her would-be-assaulter. Wearily, her eyes dragged from the sight and she beheld the blur clearly for the first time.

            Her savoir was wearing a white suit that accented his shoulders, pinched in toward the waist, and his pant legs and sleeves flared out pass the knees and elbows. A wide brimmed fedora of a snow white color, with a raven black band, sat tilted at a rakish angle upon his head. Glorious feathers swept from his hat in a beautiful display of colors, much so that a peacock would have been jealous. Like his tilted hat, his smile was crooked but sincere.

            “Stay safe, ma’am.” And he turned, his blue eyes breaking from hers. Those feathers stretched out gently, tracing his path in the air. He started off down the alley with a ghost-like grace. Frozen as she may have been, she could not help but feel a strong sense of gratitude and a need to express it to her rescuer. Slowly, she regained mobility and stuttered out a sound, reaching toward his retreating form.

            “W-w-wait!”

            He drew to a halt a few feet away and did not turn, causing her to hesitate as she withdrew her hand.

“Thank you… for saving me.” She paused only long enough to take a shaky breath and a hesitant step forward. “What… What’s your name…?”

            His head turned and one blue eye scrutinized her again. At first it seemed that he would not grant the knowledge of his name, and despair grew evident in her eyes. Then, thoughtfully, he half-turned. It had not been apparent to the woman but she was holding her breath, eyes wide in anticipation.

            “Call me… Macaroni.” He grinned for a minute, then, seeming to consider just how that sounded, he frowned. “See? That’s why it would have been better if I would have just walked away without another word; but alas, people always have to ask.” Again he turned, sliding his hands into his pocket and shaking his head as he walked away, mumbling to himself.

            The woman he had saved stood in the alley a moment longer, somewhat stunned. Eventually she managed to bring herself to continue toward home. But one of the most prominent things in her bewildered head was: ‘Note to self: don’t name kid Macaroni…’