A s h e s

Leo didn't get drunk. He didn't drink. Well, not often. On the few occasions that he did, he didn't get drunk. He didn't. Maybe it was a tolerance he'd built up from days with Raphael, but he didn't get drunk. He didn't. He couldn't.

He downed another glass.

Sake. Strong. Potent.

It burnt its way down the back of his throat.

He had to scatter the ashes this year. This year. Last year. Every year before. Every year since. He hadn't gotten round to it. He'd do it this year. Maybe next year. Next year. That sounded good. He could manage it next year. He could do it next year.

Or maybe now.

He looked at the bottle on the table and frowned. It was almost empty. Not enough. No, he couldn't do it this year, there wasn't enough alcohol. Next year, he'd remember to buy more Sake.

More Sake. He made a mental note. Sake, next year. Buy well in advance. They'd run out this year and he'd had to bring out his Fifty year old bottle. Now he drank it like water. Because he didn't get drunk. Never drunk. Not him. Not Leonardo.

The ashes. Damn. The word brought with the remembrance of bitter smoke, of flames and being blinded by tears as the little black flecks stuck in his eyes. The hot, black ashes burning his throat as he blundered through the flames. No longer a ninja, but a normal teenager. A desperate teenager.

Pathetic.

Useless.

His family. Dead. Years ago. On this day. This day. Years. Years. They were dead. Dead.

He downed another glass. It burnt his throat.

He looked at the clock.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

A roar went out, loud, boisterous.

He gave a wry smile, raised his glace, and drank the last.

Happy New Year.

Father. Brothers.

Next year.

I wrote this on new years day. A tribute, so to speak, for someone I know.

Just Leonardo alone, everyone dead. He remembers.

What did you think?