Don't really know why I wrote this. It probably won't exceed 2 chapters, 3 at the most. I just felt like writing.
Sighing, I roll onto my shell and stare up at my bare ceiling. Normally, a poster of Paulina Porizkova would greet me every morning. Now all the greeting I get is frigid rain dripping onto my forehead.
"Again?" I groan. "I just fixed you like, last week. You're killin' me, bro."
I glance over to my windows, still covered with blankets to keep the chill out, but judge from the bit of light trickling in that it is either very early, or a very mucky day outside.
With a soft yawn I force myself into a sitting position, lightly pawing at my head, wondering what time it is. I have visitors tomorrow morning, I remember, looking over my shoulder at my flattened pillows and my thin blankets.
My room really doesn't reflect me anymore. It isn't as colorful as my room back home. Everything is kind of drab and boring, but I don't really mind. You kind of just stop caring after a while.
After making my sleeping area "more acceptable", assuming someone will be using it, I begin to tuck away things of mine that might be of question in my new lifestyle. I'm not exactly a genius at keeping myself from freezing to death. Actually, any idiot could figure it out, but I've been too lazy to actually go out to the tarp and grab some wood for a fire, so I grab a shoddy orange vest I started wearing some time ago. It really doesn't keep me that warm, but ever since I stopped wearing my mask I felt the need to wear something.
It's over there on that dresser, but it seems silly of me to put it on. I don't even mind the way I look without it. I never really paid attention to my eyes before.
I debate grabbing it for another few minutes, my mind and body playing tag, an arm jerking out then retracting, unsure of itself, before I decide 'screw it' and wander off to make some breakfast.
Breakfasts here aren't as big as they used to be, since I'm only cooking for one. I don't eat as much as I used to at an entire sitting, but I do snack throughout the day. Mostly at night. If I live to see twenty two it will be a miracle. I can't imagine all the junk I eat being good for my heart, especially since I don't think turtles were designed to eat greasy pizza rolls and TV dinners in the first place.
I somehow doubt turtles were designed to practice the art of Ninjitsu, but I ignore that comment.
I haven't really done any practicing in months.
Stopping in the doorway I study the 'living room' for a minute or two, and then look back into the kitchen. Since moving here, it's gone through some major remodeling. All three of my brothers would be surprised, but I think Don in particular would be proud. April was cool enough to nab me a carpentry book before I left, and I just kind of went at it on my own with the tools available in the barn (rust city), and what I was able to get on my own.
The cabinets have all been refaced and are a creamy white; walls in the kitchen are now this really pale yellow color. I still haven't been able to do much about a new sink or a counter top, but I'm happy. I'm glad Case gave me the go-ahead because it sure looks different.
I figured the original reason I redid the kitchen first was because at home, the kitchen was my domain. I was top turtle there. Now, I try to avoid it, because all it brings are bad memories. Probably shoulda anticipated that one, but you know me. Stupid Michelangelo. Never thinking.
Any available counter space is taken up by thousands and thousands of Post Its, cases of Root Beer. I think my chucks are up there, too, but I really don't want to go look.
In no time I've rustled myself up the breakfast of champions, Irish coffee, black, scrambled eggs, and toast. I smile a little, remembering how I used to badger Leo when he made toast.
'In order for that to be toast, it's gotta be toasted, dude. That's just warm bread.'
As I sip at my mug of coffee, savoring its richness and the way its aroma fills my nose, the way it slowly begins to warm my entire body with just the first sip, I lazily swivel my chair towards the window.
I should be looking forward to tomorrow morning, but for some reason I dread it more than anticipate it.
I glance out the window for a moment or two, just now realizing that I had been right all along, it was raining. It was chilly the entire night, but I hadn't thought to check the weather. I rarely do, anymore.
Sometimes, you lie to each other out in the open, say it will be okay. Say you'll keep in contact, you'll hang out. But you don't.
Leo tried to contact me on a weekly basis, almost, until I finally just stopped answering. It wasn't because I didn't want to talk to him, no, I love my brother, I just... didn't feel bringing up things from the past.
I let myself drift off, watching droplets of rain dribble down the drip edge I had replaced some months earlier. They are thick and constant, sometimes combining together to form a thin line of rain.
Beyond the rain I can make out the trees, army and fern greens blending against the vibrant pear and lime colored yellows, areas of rust and organey mahogany not as dominant, but just as captivating.
Those brilliant colors seem out of place against the ashen sky, peeking through from the occasional bare spot. If I concentrate hard enough I can make out the tree branches themselves, long, dark and skinny, twisted and turned in the most magnificent of ways.
I return my attention to my coffee, wondering how in the world I ever got hooked on this stuff in the first place. Coffee was Don's prison, I frowned. Not mine. I guess I'm different now, though. I'm still Michelangelo, just... updated, I guess you could say.
It scares me to know that tomorrow; I have to face my family. Logically I knew I couldn't hide up here forever, it was Casey's farmhouse, and it was theirs just as much as it was mine.
I have a few hours left to myself, I assume, so I go about tidying up the house, playing out the thousands of different scenarios that could take place tomorrow.
None of them exactly end well.
