MR. BORN TO LOSE

8 - Dante

"Hello?" His question echoes through the hallway.

His breath scurries, the soft decaying matter releases more frequently as he begins to get more anxious. Who could be on the other side of the line?

"Donatello?" The woman whispers. She began to talk in Italian, Sam wishes he had actually learned some before coming into this.

"This isn't Donatello." Blunt as the words came out, it was the truth. There was no more he could say.

"...I want to phone Donatello."

"He's asleep. What do you want from him?" He continues this act, as if he's not trying to have a panic attack himself. Donnie was frequently called by this lady, maybe she's harassing him, so he's just phoning to confront her. Yes, that's what this is all about.

"I'm his girlfriend."

Ouch. Something just ached in his chest.

"I-.... Sorry, but he can't be disturbed now. I'll make sure he knows you called when he wakes up." He holds another breath, queueing the many more he forgot to release. He was so sure the woman could hear his voice quivering.

"Ah, thank you. Please tell him to call immediately, it's urgent." She responds.

Beep.

The phone vibrated once in his hands. He walks back into the room before setting it on the table. His work is still displayed, some typos could be seen from far away, crossed with a red underline. What the fuck was that? He asks himself. He sinks back into the chair, before deciding to continue his file. Why did that hurt? Fake was their word, their mantra. It was already established that anything between them was a mere fake. Why did it still hurt?

He sees the walls move closer to him from the very outskirts of his sight. The chair began to sink into the floor, the mirror in front of him began to distort in a series of lines and shapes. Donnie's outline is still prevalent in the background, but it's somewhat blurred. He can't be so sure if it was his eyesight or tears. His nose starts to stuff up again, just like how he used to. He still can hear their words, even after being oh so far from them. They echo through the room, repeating through his head.

Before long, he starts to feel his limbs tingling. He tries to move them to wipe the drops coming down his cheek, but quickly realizes he can't. His reflection on the mirror began to change. Shapes and colors go through the surface as his body transforms. Musky spots grow on his face, quickly covering the whole reflection. His hands shift swiftly from key to key, writing on its own.

Nauseating was an understatement. He snaps out of it and slams down his laptop, before scurrying down the stairs and outside. He'd hope to finally let oxygen in his lungs again, but he only gets the smell of burnt disappointment. One of the only smells he could find creeping in his father's house. Pure burnt disappointment.

Though his mind isn't playing tricks on him. On a quiet corner of the garden, down a hunch of a tree, sits a guy. His fingers are occupied with a small bleached roll. Clearly, he was well aware enough to hear Sam's gasping throughout the grass, as he's now staring right directly to his limp body on the ground.

"God damn, you okay?" He shuffles his feet through the greenish field. It was... Dante? Sam tries to remember. Sam slouches, diving head first into the ground. "Okay, maybe not." He ditches his cigarette to go and help Sam.

< >

Sam sits on a tree root that has crept out of its original habitat, into the fresh Florentine air. Dante finally comes back with a cup of tea in his hand. He sets the tray near him, "Sorry, this is the most practical thing I could find." He lights another stick, puffing in air. Sam watches as smoke pours out of his lips, as if in cold weather.