Fat drops of rain landed wetly on the girl's blond head, matting her hair in place. The last time she'd been here, the alley hadn't seemed so long. That was probably because last time she'd been excited. Now, she dreaded the meeting that waited at the end of the alley.
She turned her gray eyes upwards and scanned the sky. Ugly black clouds reflected in her empty irises. At least it wasn't sunny. She couldn't bear it when it was sunny.
Her fingers trembled gently and her knees shuddered as she made her way past the piles of garbage bags and around the filthy puddles. She hadn't felt this weak in years. She needed her medicine.
It had become harder and harder to get her meds, though. Up until a few months ago her system had been perfect. Whenever she felt sick, all she needed to do was tell her parents, and they'd make the right phone calls and get her her desperately needed "potion of life".
Her ash blond hair flapped dully around her shoulders, as if it too didn't have the energy to move. A cold wind blew about her face and invaded her body through the thin jacket she'd chosen. Winter. A blessing and a pain. Winter meant the snows and the cold were coming, and she hated having to deal with the cold; it always made her feel like a creaky old woman. But, winter also meant that the sun would finally have the decency to hide itself from the sky.
The girl's pale skin rose in goose bumps beneath the sleeves of her jacket, crying out against the heresy of the wind. She found herself longing for a mug of hot coffee to warm her icy bones. It was a long alley. A very long alley.

The door was wholly unremarkable. It was a simple thing, made from the same crusty red steel as all the other doors on all the other buildings that lined the alleyway. The only difference was, this door has a single drop painted on it. Just an outline of a droplet that could have been rain, blood, or tears. Perhaps it was all of them. She sure didn't know. She reached out with her shaking hand and slowly turned the doorknob and let herself into the room beyond.
The room was also simple, a small, low-ceilinged mud room with a tall straight staircase at the far end. The girl didn't even pause to knock the mud from her dirty sneakers. She shut the door behind her and walked straight to the stairs.
Her sneakers made wet smacks against the worn wooden steps. The damp jacket she wore stuck to the back of her t-shirt and her matted hair began to dry into long, wet strings. As she walked shakily past the faded, discolored wallpaper that lined the stairway, she tried to imagine doing so every day.
She couldn't.
Well, she'd just have to get used to the idea.

Her sneakers, now caked with dried filth, squelched their way down the long hall at the top of the stairs, leaving a trail of dirt in their wake. The building was only five stories high, but five flights of stairs was five too many for the gray-eyed girl. She sighed to herself; she sounded like an old woman.
At the end of the long hallway was a tall door with the same insignia as the door that opened to the alleyway. The girl knocked loudly at the door, her knuckles hitting the center of the droplet each time. After four raps on the door, she called out.
"Cynthia!"
Pause. Bam bam bam. "Cynthia!" Pause pause. "Open the door, Cynthia!" Bam bam bam.
The blond-haired girl rubbed her knuckles. The old woman was always so difficult. "Open the door!" she yelled. She didn't have time for this. She only had an hour to get back before her parents would come home from the grocery store. This had to be quick. She jiggled the doorknob. Locked. Damn. This was ridiculous.
"Cynthia," she yelled, "If you don't open this freaking door right now- "
The door suddenly threw itself inward, revealing a short, graying woman of uncertain age who was wearing too much mascara. She looked unnervingly like a witch, as though she'd jumped out of a Grimm Brother's illustration. She flexed her long, knotted fingers, as though she yearned to put them around the girl's neck and squeeze. "You simply must learn to be more courteous, my dear," the witch said, smiling angrily.
"And you, Cynthia," the blond replied, "Must learn to answer the door when someone knocks."
"I trust you have a reason for dragging an old woman out of her bed."
"My medication."
"Of course." She smiled so wide it looked as though her makeup would crack beneath the strain. "I kept it chilled for you, just as you asked." She disappeared into the gloom of the room beyond the door as though she had never been in the hallway at all. The girl rolled her eyes. Show-off.
Then the witch was back again, this time with a frosted bottle clutched in her aged hand. The joints on her fingers moved stiffly as she passed the bottle to the young girl. "Better drink that fast, love," she said, smiling again, "It gets so sticky when it warms up." The girl accepted the bottle without a word. "Oh," the witch continued, "Your room on the third floor is all set up for you. Marcello will help you move your things in when you move in next week." This time, the girl could really see the witch's foundation crack at the edges of the old woman's face.
"Your makeup's peeling, Cynth."
The hate filled grin only broadened. "See you next week, Theresa."