A/N: Just wanna get this story out of the way. Lately I've started to hate everything I write.
One year and eight months and Leonardo runs out of chalk. The tiny piece crumbles in his hands, kind of like everything else in his life lately.
His fingers are white from the chalk powder, and he draws one more line on his wall already full of white markings. He drew today's line already, so this line is for tomorrow. It's not like there's going to be anyone here tomorrow either.
Leo has always maintained to hold a positive attitude, although sometimes he fears for the worst and expects everything to go wrong – because well, let's be honest; that's usually what happens. Right now that's exactly what's happening. His world became to a halt a long time ago and has been crumbling apart since then. The positive attitude was amongst the first things to break down.
New York City is as beautiful as it can get when it bathes in the light of the moon, accompanied with all kinds of city lights. It's been winter for some time now, Leo realizes, when he almost falls over on the slippery roof he's standing on.
Sometimes, when Leo brushes his teeth, he tastes blood. When he looks there's no red in his sink.
It's funny how Leo's enemy changed. It's no longer the Foot, the Shredder or anyone else. It's just himself, since there's no one else left to try to kill him.
He climbs to the highest roof, shivering when the cold wind tries to push him over the edge he's standing on, encouraging him to take one more step.
He doesn't take that step, just stares at the beautiful city. He could freeze himself and say it was and accident. It's doesn't matter anymore. There are fireworks in the sky, but the colors mean nothing to him. There's one with a mix of red, purple and orange and Leo realizes he's a horrible liar.
Leo thinks about it all the time. Is it because of something he did wrong? Is it something he can't remember? Only one thing is for sure; it's something he doesn't know.
The loud noise the fireworks make stays in his head for days and it takes him a week to realize that he stole a gun and hid it under his pillow.
Is there a point in hiding something when you're the only one alive?
But maybe he isn't the only one alive. Maybe they're still somewhere, trying to find their way back. Maybe they're already on their way home.
The possibility that they're not trying to come back makes Leo do accidents.
Accidents, like taking too many sleeping pills.
He can see darkness swallowing the wall and the white chalk lines are dancing in his eyes. He knows that in the morning he'll think it was an accident – if the morning is to come. He wouldn't need to get more pills if it didn't.
But like always, the morning comes. For a while it's hard to breathe and he's sick for the rest of the day, his body trying to get over the effects the pills caused. He won't make that accident again, he swears, but somehow his hands always slip and the bottle containing the medicine is empty before it should be.
Leo used to make no mistakes, as he was expected to lead his brothers to victory and safety. But even then his hands sometimes slipped, and he would learn from his mistakes by training harder, pushing himself closer to the edge. Now making mistakes is his daily hobby; the edge has been crossed a long time ago.
Every day feels shorter than the previous, while nights grow longer and longer. He spends long nights living in nightmares which his sleeping pills won't let him wake up from. When he's out of pills he uses the long nights for trying to not imagine new nightmares.
Sometimes he picks up his swords. If he grips them hard enough then maybe it feels like he's in control once again.
Their blades cut the air easily, making Leo bitter. Why didn't his swords swing so easily the last time he needed them to? He stares at his hands, wondering when they started living a life on their own, making Leo follow their will and not the other way around. His own hands had betrayed him, stripping him out of everything he had had. He's sure their disappearance is his fault. It must be something he did.
He runs out of chalk again, and the powder doesn't stay on the walls anymore. He's afraid that he'll lose days; he needs something else to keep track of them. He needs to count. There's nothing useful in his room, so he walks out of it – and every time he does he wishes that he doesn't have to come back. He walks to the kitchen. His swords are there.
There's also his phone, and he has one missed message. Leo presses the button and listens to Don telling him about how they were finished with their business with April and that they were just getting ready to come back home–
Leo throws the phone against a wall. It's time to wake up, that message is months old and he has just been listening to it over and over again. Don isn't on his way home. Nobody is and that's why he has to draw lines on his walls.
The first time is the hardest, they say, but it's not hard at all. He's a talented swordsman, after all.
Sometimes his sword still slips and the wound is too deep. There's blood in his sink now, he realizes.
He throws his sword away, stops the bleeding and bandages his hand. He can't do this. He can never face his brothers with bleeding hands and with a mind full of holes the gun shot from under his pillow. There has to be something else.
But he has done everything else. He looked the city up and down, many times, even drove out of the city, spent sleepless nights trying to trace them. He gave up after falling asleep in the Battle Shell and almost getting himself killed. He wishes he didn't.
But after recovering, he continued. Walked and ran until his legs held him up no longer, until he saw the rust on his swords.
He wasn't going to find them, and nobody was going to find him.
As Leo notices that the bandages he tried to cover his wounds with are in the wrong places he realizes that there's no hope for him.
He knows that there never was.
Tonight Leo doesn't draw lines.
It took him almost an hour to make his old shell cell work and another to find some old voice messages from it. It's almost four in the morning and for the first time in a long time Leo feels proud of himself. He listens to the crackling sounds of his brothers as he finishes loading his gun. Bullets clatter on the floor and Leo wishes he didn't know how to use these things.
When Raph told him about guns and actually showed him how to build one, Leo never thought that he would use that knowledge for something. He had always hated guns and what they did in the wrong hands. But it's not like that has changed, he still hates them. He rolls the gun in his hands. He looks at his hands and he knows that hands can't really get more wrong than this.
Pulling the trigger – piece of cake. Making his hands stop shaking – not so easy. It kind of reminds him how Donnie's hands were shaking once, after he had secretly spent several nights working on some project of his. Leo smiles a little as he remembers Don's futile attempts at explaining them why his hands were shaking and why he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Maybe there's still some coffee left somewhere in their kitchen. But even if there is, he doesn't drink it. If Don happens to come back, he could make him some.
For a moment it's hard to see and he blinks his eyes furiously. He's not afraid of the pain, but the noise frightens him. He thinks about the colorful fireworks; what could be worse than the ache they caused?
He knows his brothers would be horrified if they knew what Leo was doing. Leo knows this isn't something he could explain, but then again, it wasn't something his brothers could understand; to suddenly be so alone. Hadn't he said that if one of them goes down, all of them do? But when all of them go down and only one is left, then what is supposed to happen?
Leo knew there was hope. There always was. But he wasn't positive like Mikey, strong like Raph and smart like Don. Hope alone wasn't enough, he wasn't strong enough to withstand the loneliness and not smart enough to figure out what had happened to his brothers.
Even if his brothers came back, all they would get would be a broken shell of what he once was. Their absence had driven him over the edge; Leo didn't know who was, anymore.
The old voice message from his cell comes to an end with a silent crackle. Leo always figured his end would come with a loud bang.
The taste of blood never leaves his mouth.
