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The streets are cold at night, especially during this time of year.
Even tonight, as Rody walks away from his former workplace as it crashes and burns behind him, lit aflame by his hand. He can still somewhat hear the cackling of the fire, the soles of his shoes dragging against the sidewalk, too tired to take proper steps.
Its cold, and It hurt to walk. His ear, too. It hurts like hell and he can barely hear out of it. And on top of that, he’s barely coherent, and he’s starving. He doesn’t recall having any leftovers back home, is there anything even open at this time of night? Shit—does he even have the money to pay for a meal? Most of the time he just ate whatever tablescraps that the customers left behind, or eating fresh meals from Vince. Even so, he’d be better off just ordering takeout like he used to.
He’d be better off not even having stepped foot into that damn bistro. Better off having never met Vincent Charbonneau.
But that isn’t important right now, he isn’t what Rody should be worried about. What he should be worried about is getting food, and maybe going to a hospital. And going back to his cheap apartment so that he can try to take a bath, fall asleep on the couch, and wake up god knows when partially rested. Speaking of which, he should really throw out the leftovers Vince gave him as soon as he can. They’ve probably long since spoiled, anyway. And maybe even throw away the fridge as a whole, if he could part with it. Eugh, so much shit to do. He’ll get to that eventually.
And so he walks, trudging himself down the empty street, hair sticking out in all directions, missing an entire ear, blood and sweat sticking to his skin, his and Vince’s blood mixing into his uniform, god, he probably looks like a mess. Probably smells like one, too. Like, blood, and the cheap, lemon-scented colonge that seemed to make the customers more lenient with him.
He turns a corner, and to his suprise, there actually is a restaurant still open. A fast food joint, at that. He feels like he’s hit the jackpot, even after what had happened. He limps all the way to the door, the bell ringing as he steps inside. Its also cold inside, but like, in a refreshing way. And it smells like heaven. It almost made him forget about his injury, about the blood, about Vince.
Then he makes eye contact with the cashier working behind the counter. Wide, horrified eyes meeting his as his heart drops, for the third time within the past hour. The two of them stare at each other in awkward silence, Rody notices the cashiers eyes drift from the blood on his clothes to his clearly-missing ear, and he immediately cringes. Right. He’d be disturbed if he saw himself, too.
Another worker, possibly a cook comes out from the back, only to gasp the moment they see the other, bloodied waiter. “H.. hholy fucking shit.” He mutters, just loud enough for Rody to hear.
Rody chuckles, sheepishly avoiding eye contact with both workers, “are... you guys still open?” He asks, “..We are, but its just...” The cashier starts, voice trailing off before its picked back up again. “Do we.. need to call the police—“
“No—! I mean- please.. don’t?”
The three of them say nothing after Rody’s outburst, the cashier glances to the cook, the cook only shrugs in response. The cashier looks back at Rody. “Look, just.. can I order a burger?” He asks, the cashier only nods, telling Rody to take a seat, which he does. He sits down in a booth, looking down and fiddling his thumbs as the only two employees debate on whether or not they need to call the authorities on the stinky, clearly injured man.
Multiple minutes pass, the sound of a burger being made can be heard from behind the counter. A few minutes after that, Rody is given a fresh burger. He rifles through his pockets for some spare change. “Oh- uh.. I swear I brought my wallet with me..” He mutters apologetically. The cashier stops him. “It’s.. it’s on the house, man.” Rody turns his head up at the employee, tears in his eyes as he looks at the cashier like a starved man receiving his first meal in days. “You mean.. its free..?”
The cashier nods, looking at him with pity in his eyes. “Yeah, its for free.” Rody looks back down at the burger. “Okay, thanks.. man.”
Rody takes a bite out of the burger, and it’s the damn best thing he’s had in a full week. God himself may has well come down from heaven and prepared this burger with the highest quality ingredients because he fully swears that everything hurt less with just one bite. Maybe its the first breath of fresh air from La Gruele de Saturne, from the sad, bitter excuses of Vince’s food, but it feels like he’s eaten actual food for the first time. Man, maybe he should’ve worked here instead of the bistro. Too late for that, he supposed.
And so he sits there, pondering. He thinks of Manon, the love and light of life, how beautiful, kind, and amazing she was, how undeserving of the fate she had. How she was reduced to a meal, tossed out letters, and strands of hair contained in a trashcan.
He wonders what he could’ve done to prevent everything. Maybe if he’d made a little more money in his previous job, maybe he should’ve gotten a new place instead of the rundown apartment he landed, maybe he should’ve cut off a litte more of himself to give to Manon. Maybe he could’ve stayed by her side a little longer, just long enough for Vince to fuck off.
The taste of Vince’s so called ‘meals’ come back to him, overriding what little joy he had just then. It’s all he could taste now. Bitter, cold, loveless. Just like its creator. Just like Vince, that bastard of a man who, for whatever reason, wanted to toy with Rody’s heart, first romancing Manon, only to cast her to the side like a slab of meat. Maybe that’s all she was to him, sick fuck. ‘All for him’, he says? What a joke. ‘Just for him’? What bullshit. He didn’t ask to have his girlfriend served to him on a plate; and he sure as hell never asked to nearly be murdered. And his normal food wasn’t even good! ‘refined taste’ his ass.
But what’s done is done, and now there’s metaphorical blood on his hands and literal blood staining his clothes. He finishes the burger, crumpling the wrapper into a ball. He mutters a thanks and leaves the resturant, he feels two sets of eyes watching him as he walks off into the empty street once more with an extra empty wrapper and a semi-full stomach.
He’ll just eat some cold leftovers when he gets home, and hopefully he’ll wake up with two ears and clean hands.