He sat there, his cold hands against the damp bricks at the top of the wall. The light the sun emitted behind the full moon illuminated his face eerily, you could see the shadows of his long eyelashes and his nose on his cheeks and chin. His skin looked paler than usual, almost ghastly.
The alleyway was simply lit with a dim streetlight at the opening of it. The walls consisted only of the brick and cement of the Tesco's on one side and a cafe on the other. There was a door into a lawyer's office on the side of the Tesco's. At the back, there was a gate separating a car park from the alley, and stairs leading to an underground music studio. The door was open, and you could hear a loud rendition of Muse's Hysteria coming from the inside. However loud it was in there, the noise was scarce on the outside.
His eyes unfocused on the pinhole scene before him: cars driving up and down the high street, people walking up and down. The only person whom he saw in the alleyway other than himself was a tall man who looked as if he was in his twenties, a guitar on his back and a long black rain jacket on him, a hoodie under that.
"You alright?" asked the man. "Are you waiting to go in or something?"
"No," he replied, his voice low and husky. "I'm fine, though."
"Alright, have a nice day." And the man disappeared down the steep gravel steps, through the white wooden doorway and into the building.
He just continued to sit there, his jeans growing damper by the minute as the light drizzle made its way down. The only thing he wore on his upper half other than a beaded bracelet from South Africa that he had gotten on holiday was a deep red flannel with white checks. The sleeves stopped only at his sheet white knuckles, bloodless from gripping the wall he was sitting on. The tips of his fingers were calloused from a year of playing guitar; they were long, thin and agile, which was perfect for the instrument.
Why he was in the alleyway wasn't important - it was more of how was he in the alleyway? He didn't know anything of anywhere within a five mile radius. His house was a while away, but was it even a house? Just a room. An enclosed space, the size of a small, one-doored closet.
He didn't have anyone who cared for him, nor did he care for anyone. The person whom he had confided in the most these past three years were strangers like the man with the guitar on his shoulders, and he said seldom more than a sentence to him. His only entertainment was watching people go about their lives, wondering what they were doing and why they were doing it. Sad, perhaps, but he had already denied himself the simple but scarring pleasure of emotions.
Moments later, he slid off of the wall and paced out of the alleyway. As soon as he went past the walls of the alley, a strong, chilling breeze hit him, cutting through the thin flannel of his shirt. He looked around at the city lights, his cropped chestnut hair whipping about with the wind. His mind wandered back to the man with the guitar on his shoulders. What would it be like to wander around the streets of London with a guitar on your back, plastic picks in your pocket, a song stuck in your head and a beat at your walking pace?
He took a deep breath, breathing in the smoke of cars and the humidity of the drizzle. Shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself. Freedom was icy; he didn't have a guitar on his back. He needed it like water, like air. It was the only thing that kept his heart going now. But he was too far away from where he rested at night to fetch it. He didn't like calling it home.
His eyes darted around at people's faces; he was trying to figure them out. Hopeless. The furthest he got was that a man who waddled past him did cocaine for his nose had an ugly permanent rash around the nostrils. There were two women giving a large public display of affection in the outer corner of the church of the town, which was a heavy case of irony. Neither of them had rings, they were unmarried and definitely going to do something tonight. They were wearing leather jackets and denim, they were drinking and with God's eyes on them, he could only pray to a God he had no faith in that their many sins, from homosexuality to mixed fabrics, alcohol and sex before marriage could be forgiven.
He unstuck his arms from his sides and stretched his whole body upwards, the tips of his fingers brushing against the stars. Heavily, he let out a breath that came out in a little grey wisp of carbon dioxide. His eyes burnt from the wind; tears were threatening to spill from his eyes - not from sadness, just from the gale slicing across them.
Briskly, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked up the street. Buses flew past, not a care in the world, yet they looked like they were about to topple at their height. It was sort of fascinating in a way. Most of them were empty, with the occasional teenager in the back. He wondered if he could've ever been one of them. He sort of was, but wasn't. He was clever, he was sharp, he'd hardly ever do stupid things.
Without thinking, he stepped into the busy road.
The man with the guitar on his back spotted him as he left the alleyway. His hand shot up to throw the earphones out of his ears.
"Hey!" he called out.
But it was too late.
