𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝 ペイント 𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚘 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

chapter six: my life flashed before my eyes and... it was disappointing.

      The restaurant opened an hour ago, and only a few regulars had arrived to collect their usual meals. Some ate unholy amounts of sushi, some were guzzling down two generous portions of vegetable soup and were moving onto their third, others stuffed their cheeks with dumplings, and a few simply sipped their teas of lemonade and honey. The dining area was hushed, with many of the customers reading through newspapers or flicking along social media on their phone, a few sleeping children drooling against the wooden tables. The rush of taxicabs, trucks, and cars storming along the streets with a ceaseless roar heard whenever the entrance opened and the small bell rang. Throats were cleared, shoes squeaked against the linoleum floors, toddlers sneezed, babies yawned, teenagers rubbed their eyelids and craved death, chairs screeched as they moved forward or backwards, and steam sizzled from boiling leaking pots on burning stoves.

        You took in the sight before you at your place at the noodle shop's computer, flickering sad green buttons on the screen of the cashier machine. You took a long  gaze around the restaurant, especially at the ones sitting at the bar top counter that was connected to the open kitchen. You mustered up the coward, and ducked your head to take a glance at a grieving mutant turtle. Wrapped up like a depressed burrito with your pastel pink sweater (you were never going to get that back, huh) that matched with his skin, a pillow pressed up against his shell and the back wall of the counter. It would've been amusing without context, but regarding the fallen look on his features only made your heart ache even more. The guilt ate away at your soul, leaving only an empty space in your chest. You could feel the confession in your throat, ready to blurt out if you even opened your mouth.

        The twin handles and pieces of his katanas were wrapped up in a grey rag. A coffin for the pieces that made Leo, well, Leo. He didn't notice you as you crouched onto your knees, hands gripping the counter of the cashier; he just stared at the pieces of metal. His gaze was blank and empty.

       You chewed on the inside of your cheek, glancing down at the floor. Should you even be talking to him? It had been a few hours since you had discovered the remnants of the weapons, maybe it was best to just leave him alone. And yet, as you made your decision, about to stand up and help Murakami with making his batches of Pizza Gyoza, you had begun to speak. "Do..." The word became caught in your throat as you took a slight pause. "Do you need a distraction?" You questioned with a whisper, your voice still seeming loud underneath the counter. Never would you be able to understand the pain of losing such an intimate part of life. It wasn't like you owned a locket that a boyfriend had gifted you, or a promise ring from your parents. Nothing in your room was of any intimate or sentimental significance. You had left all those behind in the house of your family that you had abandoned. So no, you couldn't relate, but you were struggling to at least understand. It was the least you could do for him.

       Leonardo's head lolled over as his cheek rested against his shoulder, his free hand snaking to rub along the mask that hung around his neck. He exhaled and nodded slowly, moving his hand to rub the side of his face. "Badly." He closed his eyes and allowed the back of his head to bonk against the wooden wall underneath the counter.

       You nodded in response, eyes trailing to the linoleum floor as you lowered yourself into a seated position, tucking your white sneakered shoes underneath you. You planted your hands onto your thighs as you eyed him for a brief moment. You wanted to ask him how he was doing, but couldn't manage the words out. Pathetic, huh?

       You were snapped out of your thoughts at the rapid pace his breathing became. He was hyperventilating, but his lips were pursed to the point that the skin was pale from the pressure, as if he was trying to hold back a panic attack. As if he was trying to control it. His hands clenching and unclenching as the rag drizzled with broken metal pieces laid in his lap, his knees bent as his feet laid flat against the counter wall.