In reality, Leon could have waited until he got home to do his laundry, but that stench of blood and sweat was really getting to him in that enclosed motel room.

So, he shoved his dirty laundry into a black garbage bag and headed to the nearest laundromat to do his laundry, hoping that since it was later at night, nobody else would be there.

Nope. There is another person in the back of the laundromat, a worker, unloading a slot of coins from a washing machine just as he enters the little door, the jingle catching their attention. You.

You wave, dressed in your work clothes, and Leon only gives a curt nod back.

Leon could’ve chosen any washing machine but he chose one on the same row as them, shaking a bottle of detergent someone left behind to see how much was actually inside. He slips quarters into the slot of the machine with his thumb, the metallic clink filling the air, and he unties the garbage bag. The smell of blood would make anyone gag, but he’s stone-faced as he begins to throw his blood-soaked and gore-ridden clothes into the washing machine.

Meanwhile, you stare in a bit of horror as this twenty-seven year old man is handling bloodied clothes without gloves.

Leon looks up, sees your horrified expression, and he says past the hum of the lights overhead, “It’s not mine.”

It really doesn’t make the situation better.