Paper and Chalk
The sky was the colour of dirty chalk. It bled, running in rivulets of slated rain, which blurred his vision and made it difficult to see past the lamppost in the corner. His hands shook, but from cold or from shock, he couldn't tell. The paper in his hand felt brittle, the rain threatening to blur the words into a mess of heartache and fear. Just one more newspaper clipping. Just one more case that would never be solved- one more innocent who would never see justice.
He folded it up, and stashed it in the pocket of his coat. His coat felt heavy, a shroud behind which it became harder and harder to hide. He tightened it around himself, his facade threatening to drown him, as the rain melted what defences he had left.
Beneath his defences, his heart was hard, yet he wondered what it would feel like to lie down on the asphalt beneath him, and wait for the rain to wash him away. It was inevitable. Just as the rain washed away every chalk outline, draining it into the gutters of New York. He would be washed away too. Everyone would. The sewers were overflowing with the final marks of the dead, the murdered and the helpless, the final call for justice that often, was never answered by anyone but God.
And Satan, who lurked in the shadows and laughed. He who scorned those who fought for justice, those who believed in all things good and right and holy, those who believed that goodness would prevail. The evil drove down the highways in Mercedes Benz, while the good huddled beneath scraps of old news paper, praying for warmth, for kindness, for God. But the only good they got was the final peace of their passing, and the knowledge that life wouldn't hurt them anymore- not where they were going.
He sighed and rubbed his face, feeling the collar of his coat scratch against his skin, demanding attention. He ignored it, just like he ignored the rain. What was the point, when the justice that was so hard won, was snatched from his grasp? What was the point of bloodshed, and nights spent trying to wash away the guilt with repentance and regret?
What was the point when the monster of metal and concrete prowled the streets and tore people limb from limb? Why was this monster, which spat and broke bottles in their eyes, allowed to roam free? What was the point when the city's victims were washed away in a flood of chalk and rain water, soiled from the soot and grit of the eternal beast?
His breath was short and, all at once, he found it hard to breathe. The presence of a youth filled with violence and the skills of survival slammed into him, leaving him breathless and gasping. He wrapped his hand around the lamppost in an attempt to stay upright. His head swam and he took deep gulps of air, like they had been taught all of their lives.
He was over-reacting. He had to be. After all, all the complaining in the world would not change things, or make the world a better place. All the raging against the machine, against circumstances, would not change a damn thing. He knew this, they all did, but the urge to scream at the moon and demand that God make everything better was insurmountable. He took another breath, turning his head towards the man-hold cover and feeling the coils in his neck spring taunt. He turned his head away sharply, hearing nothing but the rain.
Just a few more minutes.
They were young. Too young to be faced with this life, these circumstances. The thought stirred his heart, usually peaceful, and threw him into turmoil and despair.
"Out pretty late, bro."
The voice jolted him, sending a shock through his body and into his brain. He spun on the intruder, the one who had dared to invade his private musings, and found the calming eyes of his brother. His brow furrowed, hit with annoyance and surprise. He schooled his expression.
"Donatello...what are you doing out?"
His brother's voice was laced with concern, a coat wrapped around his shoulders, shielding him from the cold and from being seen. Trust his little brother to realize he had slipped out of the lair. "Could ask you the same thing..." Don's voice was calm, saturated with worry, and Leonardo could hear the echoes of his own serene mind-set, unshakable until this moment. It frustrated him further, and he could feel the swirls of anger that grew in his chest and threatened to burst free. He shuddered and swallowed them back. He would not succumb- that would make him as bad as the city, as the monster that stalked and devoured. He would not become its prey. He would never let that happen.
He could not let his brother stay out and risk his safety. He could not let his pain and the lure of the monster put his family in danger for another minute.
Turning, raindrops streaming down his face, he rested a hand on his brother's shoulder, nodding, "It is late." He didn't elaborate although Donatello's curious eyes implored him to speak. He gripped his shoulder tighter and led them home, where he should have been all this time. Guiding his brother back to the manhole, he descended into the sewers after him, swallowing the bitterness as he became another chalk out-line, another shadow of a man washed away by the rain and smog, as he became nothing more than grit, chalk and newspaper clippings.
As he swung his legs into the opening, he turned, looking back one last time on the city. Through the rain and darkness, the monster's eyes shone, red and cold and amused, and as he slipped into the sewers, he heard the monster roar.
But to him, it was the sound of laughter, mocking and cold.
A/N: Born from a writing prompt and a 20 minute time limit. I wanted to challenge myself. Please tell me what you think. :)