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On the corner of 5th and Spring street, stood a towering 12-floor structure, with what seemed like an apartment complex on top and a bookstore below, each made distinguishable by a stone-flower pattern that bordered the edges of the building.

The grey stone structure had an antique architectural design. Massive windows enclosed by thin black frames lined the building as rusted black iron gates were left ajar to welcome visitors.

It is an independent bookshop, mainly filled with antique and second hand books, but has new books too. The building is old, and overlooks the pond I visit every now and then. The bookshop is over three floors and is full of tiny rooms and crevices stacked with books. Books are everywhere, shelves cover every surface apart from a narrow strip of floor used for a walkway.

Located in the heart of Los Angeles, The Spring Arts Tower houses the renowned shop, The Last Bookstore. As I walked past the bright green sign that indicated the storefront, beyond the iron gates, and through the glass door, I found myself in a brightly lit four-cornered room. Each wall was painted with colorful patterns of geometrical shapes. To my left, the usual cashier sat behind a counter, reading a yellowing book.

I've always been a reader. I read, voraciously, long before I ever entertained ideas about becoming a writer, and I wasn't fussy. Black print on a white page was pretty much the only specification I had—sure, a magic faraway tree or a set of chipper English school children solving mysteries and devouring tins of condensed milk improved matters, but I'd make do without. I needed to read. I didn't know what else to do with myself. I still don't. A book before school, a book afterwards, in the bath, in the car, in front of the television. I'd read the back of the telephone bill if it was all I had in front of me.

I know I'm not alone in the way I feel about bookstores: the sense that just by stepping through the doorway I've gone down the rabbit hole, beyond the back of the cupboard, to the top of the faraway tree.

There are countless others who value the experience of disappearing amongst beautiful books in bricks and mortar shops run by expert booksellers: the sort who read and think, who love and promote books, who know that what they're selling is so much more than a bound set of pages.

These are the people who put books in the hands of children and parents and those for whom the choice of what to read may seem daunting. Frontline soldiers in the battle for literacy.

I didn't have much money and I had to be intentional in my selections. I'd pull a book from the shelf and study its cover, smell its pages, wander into the weather of its first lines and imagine the storms to come—imagine a wiser, wilder me for having been swept away by them.

I threw myself onto the green sofa furthest from the crowds and lazily draped a leg over the arm, uncaring of the moue of displeasure on some old woman's face.

I relaxed slightly, and slid my headphones out of my tote bag and onto my head. I flipped through the pages covered in ink words while "YKWIM - Yot Club" played simultaneously.

This peace continued on for about 15 minutes. Until, everything felt wrong.

Something feels off.

This is strange.

No.

Maybe I'm just imagining things.

It's just a figment of my imagination.

Bullshit.

Unconsciously, my eyes began to swiftly dart around the room — searching for the cause of my uneasiness. As I scanned through the library, everything seemed normal and everyone was just as preoccupied as before.

Well, that was the case in till my eyes landed to the corner furthest from the computers.

There stood a man that looks not much older than me. Maybe in his early twenties as well. He had the kind of face that stopped you in your tracks. I guess he must get used to that, the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile. Of course the blush that accompanied it was a dead give-away.

In that crowded room was he didn't appear to truly belong. It was as though he'd been parachuted in from Milan, Paris, or some other fashionable place none of the rest of us had ever been to. It was as if whatever conversation he was in the other person was enthralled, yet afterward didn't recall anything important in what he said. It was as if he could converse without leaving any verbal "fingerprint."

I watched as the group of girls in the far corner, gushed over the young man. However, he payed them no mind as he conversed with two others that accompanied him.

They were both dressed in similar tuxedos. Both sharp-looking, and well-fitted. The suits were cut to precision, bold across the shoulders, and gentle lines around the waist.

As if he felt my gaze, the rather older man glanced towards my direction while only turning his head to the side. It was only for a brief moment, but the exchange sent shivers down my spine.

My intuition has always been strong, and I'd listen to it over logic any day. It told me to get the fuck up out of there, and make my way home quickly.

So with that, I gathered my things and headed straight for the door. I kept my gaze forward, and swiftly passed by the group of men .. feeling each of their gazes on my back.

I adjusted my trimmed lace mini dress, a mentally groaned and the scene displayed in front of me. Traffic was absolutely horrendous and to top it all off, it had begun to rain rather heavily.

Taking a deep breath, I kicked off into a light jog while holding my leather jacket over my head.

The summer sky is neon-blue and vibrant. The sun-crisped flowers of the meadow are wilting. They gape at the tufty clouds and beg for their parched petals to be given one more shot of insulin. The clouds oblige and rain descends in little gleam-drops of silver.

If you were to stand in a meadow, the drops would feel as sparkly and effervescent as champagne bubbles hitting your skin.

The sound of the rain is a harmonic thrumming, nature's white noise. Silver trickles of water seep into the soil, renewing the life-roots of the plants beneath.

A homely, baked-earth smell rises from the land as it is washed and cleansed by the dewy tears of summer rain. Petrichor, the smell of the first rains after a dry spell, rises like a miasma. It is a jasmine-and-gingerbread fragrance, warm and fresh, and it lathers the land with sweetness.

It was a way's journey to my small apartment on the other side of town. Times like this are when I wish I could afford a car of some sort.

As I continue to jog, I abruptly stop due to the filled streets and sidewalks. Civilians of all sorts crowded the pavements, and walkways.

With a deep sigh, I changed my course and decided to take the alleyways home. Quick? Yes? Safe? Not so much..

The incessant noise continued as rain assaulted the roofs and guttering of towering buildings, before tumbling to the ground forming tiny oceans of murky liquid.

As the puddles overflowed causing rivulets of water to run into each other a great bolt of lightening illuminated the sky and the very earth seemed to tremble with its thunderous voice.

A dark alley, wedged discreetly between dilapidated buildings, their walls chipped and eaten by weather and time.

I began to walk swiftly into the small alleyways, passing by dumpster overflowing with trash. A discarded newspaper lay drowned in a puddle, its wealth of carefully written words smudged and unreadable, work lost to Mother Nature.

The alley lies just beyond the end of the main alley, with a narrow passage connecting the two. This passage is actually a drainage ditch, running between the shoulders of two apartment buildings. At some point during the city's renovation of its sewer infrastructure, it ceased to be used as a drainage ditch, and only a dry channel remained. The apartment buildings crowding it on either side keeping sunlight out year-round. Shadowy and oppressive.

The alley elongates in my swirling head, while the time passes with imaginary tick-tock's. Silence except the buzzing phone in my pocket and cartons and cans peacefully rattling along the dirty, dry ground. Although the noise was peaceful, it was constant, not good for thinking. Dark, alone and petrified, even the sound of my own footsteps makes my skin crawl and my body shakes.

Sirens from the city fill the alley drilling the terrible sound into my head giving me a unimaginable headache. Twenty-three missed calls, unknown caller, but I know who it is.

A strange sound startles me. I scan the alley for any sign of movement. I found nothing and continued to walk. Eventually, fear escapes me and I focus more on the rubbing of broken concrete against my feet.

I couldn't see but I heard shuffles like a person was coming my way. Coming from behind me were creaking sounds and foul smells. They assaulted my senses as I cautiously walked down the desolate alleyway.

Hide.

Hide.

Hide.

Hide.

Each threatening shadow caused me to stop breathing until they passed by. Leaning up against this breaking wall, the dark images tread returned within seconds. My mind raced faster than before and a terrible pressure entered my chest.

Before I had time to register the attack, a thick black rag was forced over my mouth and my vision began to blur. I thrusted, twisted and turned in attempts to force my attacker off of me.

Unfortunately for me there was a big difference in strength between me and my attacker. I wanted to scream, and bolt away. But my body betrayed me. As my arms and legs went limp, my vision slowly began to fog, and I was left in a quiet darkness.