simplicity. kiwi.

At sixteen, he became emotionally adept. There was a click. Almost as though the once dim light behind his sullen eyes was switched on. A quick flash of the finger, and suddenly the world was not just a simple tremor of the hand over a worn down penny, but a neighbourhood full of bustling vendors looking to make ends meat. It was a simple transition, though one not without it’s faults. Of course, the world did not simply switch on and off. There was a slow transgression as though dragged through swamps of mud, heaving over every waking step, bundled up and shaking through the evenings.

It is, of course - much simpler to say it was a switch. No one cares to listen to the struggles of the mind, especially not one from a teenager.

He still counted on his fingertips, there was nothing that could take away the simple pleasures of numbers to soothe his anxious mind. One, one, two, three, five - he counted patterns and matched them with how many times he turned a doorknob on his way into work. He coughed once, but coughed one again - just to ensure that one, one, was repeated as though in sequence.

A long, sleek jacket covered his bodice. Black in make, it hugged his shoulders and billowed out beneath his knees. It kept him warm during the long winter days, but also let off an aloof persona - that of a dark monster that did not care for his fellow strangers. A simple warning, of course, he was not to be messed with. He was no threat, no danger to anyone. Simply put, Layton could not hurt a fly even if he wanted to (he did not.) It was always simpler to avoid interaction with others as his slight stutter had refused to disappear.

“E-Excuse me.” He muttered to a passerby. Once bright in nature, his disheveled sandy hair had fallen into a mix of darker brown and soot. It wasn’t often that he received the luxuries of showers, but even when the opportunity arrived, he hadn’t always been keen on the idea. He shivered at the thought of the constant pounding of droplets against his skin, unable to count. Thousands of bullets tearing across his raw skin, reaching out, blazing across him, thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions!

One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four, fifty-five, eighty-nine, one hundred and forty-four, two hundred and thirty-three, three hundred and seventy-seven. Stopped dead in his tracks, the passersby rushed around him, the world grew grey and he could no longer see in front of him, just the single coin between his fingers. Sweat blotted his beating forehead, there was so much happening. Layton’s body shook with unease and displeasure. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, he could not stop thinkings.

Shutting his now-bright eyes shut, he let the steam fall out his ears. Limp, his legs collapsed beneath him. The District fell around him, cobblestones pressed against his thighs, he heard angry comments as those around him nearly tripped over his pressed body. One, one, two, three, five - he counted with his coins between his fingers, flipped them in between the crevices.

It was not simply a light switch, the world never turned right to normal. He was afraid of the world and where he lived, the colour yellow still sent him to tears. There are a number of things he cannot count, no matter how hard he tried. She was gone now, he knew - and yet he counted onwards.

There were many things he could count, though not many he could count on - so he tried.

One, one, two, three, five, eight.