The Last Stop.

A Short Story by RedHeathen.

The boy was leaving town, but he wanted to have some fun before his bus was caught. 

As he strode into the downtrodden Italian restaurant, the boy savored the smell of tomato sauce and exotic herbs. He would miss this place, it was always kind to him. Even under his too-big boots, he could feel the rough, yet inviting carpet beneath him with every calm and confident step he took. 

The restaurant was empty of customers; it always was. That maybe was why he loved the place so much. Whenever he walked in, he felt solace. Solace from the world that has beat him and burnt him so many times. In here, he could have peaceful isolation and some good pizza, and that was all he needed. But he was leaving town now; the solace was now gone. 

Of course, though the place was empty of customers, it was never empty of staff. There was always the kind crone at the front desk, always ready to take your order, and always happy to see you, no matter how tired she was. 

That being said, the crone seldom looked energetic. Her spidery black hair was often in disarray, and her face always looked like it has gone unwashed for days, unslept for eternity. Always a kind face nonetheless. The boy would not have been surprised if she was the sole owner of the whole business, as the crone was the only one he ever saw in the store. 

"Hello, my friend!" She said joyfully. "How are you today?"

It's always a pleasure to see the boy join me, the crone thought. She saw him so often, she assumed he lived at the diner more than he lived at home. She always assumed the father was behind that. He would never show his pain, despite what (she assumed) he took. He hid it all behind a friendly smile, and a distinctive gleaming in his eyes, all saying he was the kindest boy you would ever meet. You could say he was handsome, but you would notice his elegance before anything else, a rough elegance. He was a paragon of boyishness,

Today is a different day from the rest, the crone thought. Today, the boy did not just walk with elegance, buy with purpose. He was going somewhere today, and had things to do. 

As always, the boy let his air of charisma flow around him. It was his best weapon. With charm that could disarm a terrorist, he said, "I'm very well, thank you! How about yourself?" "Ah, tired my friend. Long day, as always," She said with an equally disarming demeanor. Banter like this was customary at a small restaurant; things like that banter was what kept customers coming back. It was why the boy always came back, at least. 

As per usual, the boy ordered a slice of pepperoni pizza. "Some things never change, eh friend?" She said soothingly. "I'll have it ready before you know it," she continued, writing the order down on a piece of paper. 

It was at this moment that the boy withdrew the pistol from his old, unworn leather jacket, and held it just millimeters away from the crone's temple. He did not say anything, he just waited for her to finish writing his order. He was calm, and for 3 and a half seconds, time stopped. When the crone did look up from her worn parchment, the kind look in her eyes he was so well acquainted with faded. It was replaced with a look of confusion, anger, fear, and sadness, but most of all, her eyes were filled with disappointment in the charming, innocent boy she knew. 

"Why?" She said, and began to sob. The boyish look in his eyes faded, though it was not replaced it was malevolence. It was replaced with eyes of apology, buy with lack of regret. "I don't know," the boy whispered with a hauntingly kind tone. "Don't cry, you'll be okay, there's nothing to fear. You know what this is, and I'm sorry for it." His hand was steady, and the gun was steadier. "Please, quickly." 

With reluctance and barely held back tears, the crone emptied the cash register and handed the money to him slowly. "The jar too, please," He said. Even more sluggish than the register, she obliged, and opened her saving jar, handing him fistfuls of bills, proceeding with him stuffing it in his pockets.

"Anything else?" The crone uttered to the boy in a choked, sarcastic voice. He could tell he was hurting her, maybe even traumatizing her. A part of of him felt bad for her, but an equal part of him enjoyed it all too much. 

"No, I think that's about it. I'm sorry," the boy said in his same, serene voice. He finally let the hand cannon down from the crone's skull, and inserted it into his jacket pocket.

And then the boy left. He never even received his pizza, and exited with the same elegance he had when he entered, but with an unseen swiftness, and unbound loneliness. After all, he just held up the one place he called home. He was alone now; he didn't mind. 

The broken crone laid her head down on the desk, and cried. She cried without end, until the once clean desk she stood at was saturated in tears. For the first time in 26 years, the restaurant closed. It did not open again. 

The man pondered over the crone as he sat on the bus. He did not think he would look back on the robbery, but he then realized it was naive to think otherwise. He was pensive about the crone. He could sense he had shaken her deeply, likely beyond repair. He considered if it would have been better to just end her life on the spot, leaving her touched by bullet instead of trauma. Would it have been better? Would she have been happier?

Yes, she would have.