TMNT 2012 - Boyfriend Scenarios

How You Meet: Leonardo

  Without thinking, you slam the thin wooden door behind you, rattling the frame. Your brain feels cloudy and your vision is starting to blur - the only thing that you know in this moment is pure, unbridled rage.

  This is the third time in the past week. The third time your sociopathic superior blamed you for something he did!! And Caroline believed him! That idea alone makes you absolutely livid; it's just so fucking unfair!! You're a good, honest worker; you give a hundred and ten percent to that stupid job, and this is how you're repaid!?

  Your breathing feels heavy and ragged, and a shooting pain jolts through your right arm. Blinking several times, you clear your vision and look up.

  Your arm is buried wrist-deep into the drywall.

  Panting, you rip yourself free, taking chalky pieces of wall with you. Knuckles throbbing, you observe the damage, the gaping evidence of your outburst staring back in your face.

  Did I do that?

  For a moment you can just stare, blank-faced as your brain attempts to process what just happened. Slowly, a cold fear sets in, settling at the pit of your stomach. Your eyes widen.

  Holy shit, I did that.

  Has your anger gotten that out of hand? Is this what being an adult in 2019 does to you? Or have you always been this bad?

  Looking down, you inspect your trembling hand. The skin at your knuckles is torn, and your whole hand seems to be swollen, painted pasty white with sawdust. Did you just break your hand??

  Flexing your fingers, you determine that the worst you have is split skin and maybe a sprained wrist. But what about the wall?

  I have to hide that. I have to hide this, and then I have to leave.

  You need air. You need space! Whatever you need, it's away from this place. The air in here is suffocating.

  It only takes you a few minutes to adjust your décor - this picture there, that chair here, this painting perfectly positioned on top of your.. mistake. With one last once-over, you decide that no one would even question it, and swipe your phone from a nearby nightstand.

  Your chest feels tight, and the sensation only worsens as you step into the chilly October air, music pulsing in your AirPods. In front of your apartment building, people bustle back and forth, as New York City's population tends to do. You glance at your phone screen, wincing when you see three missed calls and five text messages from Caroline herself. Granted, your phone was on silent and you were off-duty, so what did she really expect?

  Without reading the messages, you glance at the time at the top of the screen; 3:30AM. Blinking, you look up, shifting your gaze around the street that's expected to be packed at this hour of the night. However, you find that the city feels.. oddly empty.

  Officially uneasy, you slide your phone into your back pocket, attempting to look tough and confident; you remember reading somewhere that thugs tend to target the meek looking ones over the self-assured ones. A part of you entertains the idea of appearing meek and paranoid in order to get into a fight, but you immediately shut out the thought. Feeding your aggression will get you nowhere.

  You take a right on Rivington Street with half a mind to head into the cocktail bar on Clinton. You're not old enough to drink legally, but it's not as if a city like this really monitors that kind of crap. Not in East Village, anyway.

  That's the problem.

  You push that idea aside and keep walking along Rivington, trying your best not to seem shifty-eyed. People have to be aware and alert, especially around here. You remember reading the crime statistics for your area - something along the lines of two-thousand three hundred and something rapes - and almost immediately regret your decision to leave the confines of your apartment. At least you have a means of defense there.