fortyseven

The sound of shattering glass trickled through the alley, like a loud stream in a quiet forest. His eyes twitched in all directions, but found nothing. He was sitting next to a small concrete staircase, the door behind his head used to belong to a restaurant. Can't tell by the smell anymore, though. Everything smells like rotting.

He wrapped his hand with the shreds of a t-shirt. Last time white, this time blue. His face was streaked with tears, and dirt, and blood, and some of it his. Someday this will make sense, he knew. But not today.