Disclaimer: TMNT belongs to Mirage Studios. I assure you I make no money from this.

A/N: This is the first one shot I've ever written on the turtles. It's very tragic, but I think the story is beautiful in its entirety. Because we all die, just like we've all been born; it's the natural way of life. As of 211005 this story has been revised. While I thought it was great plot-wise, I felt it lacked a lot quality-wise. So I re-wrote it and made some subtle changes I hope will work for the better. Tell me what you think? Oh, and thanks to everyone who voted for this as Best Death Scene in the TMNT fanfiction competition 2004. You know who you are.

IN A DARKENED ROOM

by

Mickis

Genre: Tragedy/Spiritual

Language: English

Rating: K+

Summary: One of the turtles has fallen fatally ill, and sends his brothers away to confront the person that has come to end his life. But when looking into the face of death, he realize that he's never known the true meaning of the word, until now. (One-shot)

It was a cold November night of 2011. There wasn't much snow on the streets, but the temperature got below freezing point during the nights. The sewers of New York City always took the worst hit; in the summer, it got to the point where the heat got so unbearable that a lot of the rats hiding down there died because of it, and many of them froze to death during the unmerciful winter that swept over the city once a year. However, rats weren't the only creatures that hid from the public, for deeper down those tunnels, inside the walls of an abandoned subway station, an outcast family sheltered. They guarded the city, even if they risked getting killed if the city were to ever find out their true identity. People often had a hard time accepting humanoid turtles, and what man didn't understand - man didn't like.

However, it had been a long time since the four heroes fought for the people of New York, for they had been too deep in their own problems, one that rested in bed in his room, surrounded by a lifeless atmosphere of darkness. The room was quiet; if you were to listen closely, you could hear the sound of the old TV, but it was very vague.

He wanted it this way.

He, the turtle who once was known for his intelligence and caring nature, was now nothing but a shadow of his former self - a dying shadow warmly tucked in his bed, where he had spent his past month. He barely even left for the bathroom, if leaving the room at all. The disease, which had earlier only revealed itself on tests and medical journals, had now drained him of all his power and viciously beaten him to the ground. Then, when every ounce of pride had been snatched away from his desperate grasp, he'd been heartlessly left there, where he was doomed to take his final breath in the ever still growing darkness.

Of course, the turtle in the bed was none other than Donatello, one of the mutant saviors of Manhattan, along with his three brothers. His brothers meant everything to him and he had given every last drop of his strength to serve them up until the very end. He had patrolled the city with them for as long as he could, and he'd kept their equipment and home in shape until the very last ounce of energy departed from his limbs. Now, all he was capable of doing was breathing; throaty, raspy breaths that whispered of time that was quickly running out for him. The end wasn't that far away, and that was a feeling he had to live with every single day, up until his very last would pass.

Next to Don sat his brother, Michelangelo. He was keeping him company and assisted him if he needed help with anything. Of course, to Donnie it felt like he sat there because he couldn't handle himself, because he couldn't take care of himself, and it bothered him. But deep inside, beneath the self-hatred and bitter chants of thoughts, he knew that wasn't true. He knew Michelangelo spent time with him because he was his brother, his friend - because he cared. But when you're gradually fading away, like Donnie, you can't keep yourself from becoming bitter.

It's a part of dying.

Together, the two of them watched television in silence, or at least as much as Don could make out of the TV screen. The brain tumor had robbed him of his vision, just like it had weakened the rest of his body.

He wasn't blind, but not far from it.

He could sort out shapes, detect movement and differentiate light from darkness. And sometimes, if he looked close enough, he could even make out certain colors. But it didn't matter if he was blind or not, for he was still as helpless as a blind man… perhaps even more so. Because he had lived his entire life with his eyes as his prime tool, and once you get used to the power a pair of eyes can offer you, you realize how much you depended on them when they suddenly fail you. When left without them, you realize how helpless you are.

However, with his vision gone, Don had instead learned to use his ears to their ultimate limit, something his sensei had always encouraged him and his brothers during their training. Don understood enough from the movie they were watching to know it was a lousy one, one he'd probably seen a dozen times before, only in the disguise of different actors and another title. A crime had been committed and a detective had been added to the plot to track down the killer. But instead of figuring out the clues that were shamelessly handed to him, he chose to spend his days sleeping with as many of the witnesses as possible. Naturally, the silence in the room wasn't because their focus was devoted to the movie, the real reason for the painful silence was nothing but Donatello's fatal destiny.

When a loved one is dying you feel as though you need to make every second count. But when death is written across the very face of this person - staring right back at you - all those things you were going to say tragically fade into oblivion. How are you supposed to act around someone who is dying? How are you supposed to act grateful for the time you have, when every time you see this person, the thought of it being the last lurks in the back of your mind? When death is that close - right in the back of your mind - you can't seem to make each moment count.

All you're left with is awkwardness and depression, two both very dark companions.

Those were the feelings that occupied the air inside the sub car, keeping the two brothers from speaking to each other; and so instead of communicating, they both pretended the movie was so great that neither of them could tear themselves away from it.

Finally, Mikey got fed up with it. It felt stupid sitting there beside the brother he grew up with, treating him like a stranger that wasn't even worth talking to. He decided to face his fears and stare death right in its frightening eye.

"So, who do ya think it is?" he lightly asked, turning his head towards his comrade.

"Hmm?" Don turned to look at his brother, dull surprise dressing his pale, pre-aged features.

"The killer," Mike explained. "Who do ya think it is?" He held eye contact with Donatello, awaiting his answer. The turtle held his gaze for a short, heavy second, but then returned to staring at the TV.

"I dunno."

Mike's sad stare remained on his brother, unwillingly taking in the image of what the disease had done to him. Those eyes that had once shone with thirst for knowledge had been cruelly replaced with a looming pair that looked as though they'd been pushed deep into his skull, drooping bags of tired skin circling the looming gaze that held nothing but endless pain and ocean-deep emptiness. Above his heaving plastron, protruding collarbones rose above the skin as if Death himself had twisted them with his cold, condemning hands; and the once soil green skin had lost all its life and color, the unique shade Mikey'd always associated with his intelligent brother now nothing but a pale reminder of what had once been. It was a heart-wrenching image to look at, still having the vivid memory of what Donatello had been like before the cancer rudely barged in on their lives.

The contrast was agonizing.

Saddened and disappointed, Michelangelo turned back to watching the movie, allowing the weight of the silence press down upon his being like an object designed to steal energy.

"Who do you think?" Don suddenly asked, still looking at the television as he spoke.

Not expecting to hear his brother's voice, Mike turned back to look at him, hope swelling within him. "I dunno," he confessed, and then thought for a moment, realizing he had to say something if he was to keep the dialogue alive. "Could be anyone."

"Hmph…"

Disappointed that Donnie wasn't up for talking, yet refusing to let their conversation drift out in the sand, Mikey tried a different approach. "You hungry?" he asked, borderline on hopefully.

"No," Don answered shortly, quietly.

"You sure?" Michelangelo insisted, bent on keeping the conversation alive even if he had to end up talking to no one but himself. "Cuz I could make ya something, if ya want?"

This time, to his great relief, Donatello turned to look at him, his eyes weakly searching for solid eye contact before he answered with a small, almost apologizing smile, "That's okay, thanks." Holding eye contact, the moment drifted off into silence, until another of Don's screaming cough attacks filled the room.

Mikey moved in closer to support his sick brother, his frantic, protective arms reaching around the small frame that was his brother's body. The threateningly hot skin installed fear in his heart when he tried to support Don's irregularly cramping shoulders.

He had gotten worse.

He had feared this would happen, they all had. With his defenses weakened by the tumor, he was a sitting duck for whatever diseases that prowled the sewers; he was too week to protect himself, and at this time of year, the pneumonia had almost been expected to sweep over him with the cold, especially as Donatello had decided to stop taking his medication.

They had all been forced to deal with their worst fear when Don had revealed he wanted to end his medication, because they knew it was the only thing that was keeping him alive. Surely without it he wouldn't have much time left. But they all had to look beyond their fears and past their selfishness - because it was nothing but selfish to want him to keep taking the medication. Yes, it did keep him alive, at least a little longer than he would maintain without it, but what kind of life was it for him? A blind man constantly tied to his bed, his body overtaken by pain no creature should ever have to endure. And so therefore they respected Donnie's decision, because even while it did break their hearts into millions of irreparable pieces, it truly was for the best – in the end.

Michelangelo felt his brother contract in his arms - his body momentarily turning as stiff as a corpse – and not knowing what else to do, he held him closer. He couldn't take the pain away. God, he wished he could, but he'd learned to live with the thought that just like Donatello, they just had to live through it. Instead, he offered his love and company to help him through the pain, a caring hand to hold just to make his hell a little less dark, a little less lonely.

Once he felt Don was breathing normally again, and his own heart returned to its regular pace, he carefully leaned him back against the back of the bed, resting his burning head on the pillows that were propped up behind him.

This attack had been much worse than the last one; he could tell by Don's exhaustion. Because even though the seizure was gone, it left behind minutes of painful breaths to catch up, along with bloodshot eyes that screamed for one moment of undisturbed rest, an illusion they both knew would never come true.

Still holding his brother by his slumped shoulders, Mike slowly parted from him and searched for answers he knew he could only find in his eyes. Unfortunately, they were both closed in an attempt to gather lost energy. "You okay?" he gently whispered.

"I will be," Donatello said, still focused on regaining control over his breathing.

"Ya want me to get'cha some water?" he carefully asked, studying his sibling who still hadn't found the strength to open his eyes.

"That's okay," Donnie answered, lifting a fragile hand to lightly massage his damp forehead. "I just need to catch my breath... is all."

They were strong words, but reading the pain on his furrowed face, Mikey knew they were nothing but lies. Sadly, he couldn't force help upon his brother, because in doing so he was only pushed further away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, a hand of concern still left on the sweaty covers of the bed.

Exhausted, Donatello brought his hand back down to his lap and opened his eyes, slowly turning to meet Michelangelo's concerned gaze. "Thank you, though," he added, a weak smile pulling at his dry, colorless lips.

Mikey returned the smile and moved to place his hand on his brother's lower arm, holding it there for a moment, thankful that this time, he wasn't pushed away. "Any time, bro," he said, feeling how his own smile spread warmth across his face.

Having reached a rare, unspoken understanding, they both returned to watch the movie, the air inside the carriage a little less cold then before. Mike knew his brother was still in pain, but it was at moments like these, moments when his presence wasn't shunned like a stray dog, that he found peace in his company.

Unexpectedly, their conversation didn't end there.

"I could use a trip to the bathroom, though."

Surprised, Mike turned to look at his brother. "Sure," he kindly replied, moving to get up from his chair. "Ya want me to help?"

"No," Don quickly answered, the eagerness behind his word freezing Michelangelo in position. "Just... go and get Leo," he later finished.

Mikey kept his stare on his brother, hesitating for a moment before he finally pushed his worry aside and complied with a nod and rose from his chair. "I'll be right back," he said, reluctantly leaving the sub car to look for their big brother.

Little did he know how much truth there was to his worry, for even after he'd left, Donatello wasn't alone in the room.

Once sure Michelangelo had left, Don turned his tired gaze back to the left corner of the sub car, focusing on the figure that stood there in the darkness, looking at him. It felt as though he was dreaming - his fever playing tricks on his mind - but no matter how badly he wanted it to be an illusion, deep inside he knew the mysterious figure was in all ways very real.

"What do you want?" Donnie nonchalantly asked, leaning deeper into his pillows, still breathing heavily from the recent attack.

The figure remained in the corner, studying him with unseen eyes, before finally answering with a foreign, yet familiar voice, "I think you know."

Donnie closed his eyes in defeat, for he'd been given the answer he had feared. His time had finally come, or perhaps 'ended' was a more appropriate word. For this was indeed the end, if nothing else.

He had known for a long time this moment would come, and ever since the pneumonia struck him he had been waiting for this moment to drop by, longing. Still, once finally here, it seemed much too early. He thought he had been prepared; the last month had been about nothing but him lying in bed, preparing himself for this - for his life to reach the end of its road. He thought he'd made that clear when he'd stopped taking his medication, both to those around him and to himself.

He had been so sure he was ready to go.

But now, now that the moment was here, Don realized how far from ready he truly was. How delusional he'd been for thinking dying would be that simple, that easy.

How were you to prepare yourself for something like this? How were you supposed to prepare for your last breath to leave your grasp? Death was a nice concept… in theory. But when staring right back at you, molded in the shape of your own buried fears, it was like nothing one could ever imagine. This was not at all what Donnie had pictured in his mind. This was not the release he had been wishing for.

This was death: cold, powerful and cruel.

"What happens now?" Don fearfully asked, his emotions locked on the inside of his closed eyelids.

The figure took its first steps away from the corner, towards the bed where Donatello rested, his steps so gracious, so quiet, Don wondered if he ever truly touched the ground at all, but he did not dare open his eyes to find out.

"I'm not allowed to talk about the afterlife," the calm voice spoke up from beside him.

Shocked and scared, Donnie's eyes shot open on their own command.

He'd heard right.

Because right there - on the left side of his bed – stood his guest, much too close for his liking. Only this time his eyes seemed unbelievably co-operative, almost as if magic had interfered and tapped into his lost sense. He could easily make out the figure standing next to him: a human being, a blonde man who appeared to be in his early twenties. He didn't wear a black robe or a dark hood to hide himself beneath, only a pair of plain, black pants and a light gray turtle neck, the fine fabric hanging casually on his slender frame. Still, it was obvious that this man was Death, for his piercing blue eyes were like nothing Donatello had ever seen before. Behind them hid so much, yet they weren't hiding anything. And even though Donnie feared what this man represented, what promises he came with, he couldn't fear him. His eyes were honest and kind, and their depth was unbelievable… almost bottomless.

Immortality rested in his gaze.

"Does it hurt?" Don wondered, unable to take his eyes off of his guest.

"No," he answered quietly.

"Will I remember anything?" Donnie then asked, suddenly more afraid for the life he was leaving behind than this "afterlife" he had in front of him.

"No," the man calmly answered. "But those you leave behind always will."

Donatello broke away from his hypnotizing gaze, staring ahead at the wall across from him. He couldn't believe it. Everything he had been through, everyone he loved... he wouldn't remember any of it. And that's when it hit him: how amazing his life had truly been.

The things he had done with his brothers; the people they had saved, all the things they had experienced together, gone through. He remembered all the people that had touched his heart, one way or another.

He remembered April, the woman that didn't see them as freaks, but as people. She had opened up her home to them, and loved them like they were her own family. She had sacrificed so much for them, just to keep their secret hidden. She had always been there for them, and he would always love her for that, even if he'd never had the guts to tell her.

He remembered Casey, the only one he'd been able to share his interest for mechanics with. He remembered all the countless of times he and Case had locked themselves up in the garage for days, stubbornly working on whatever vehicle that needed fixing at that point in time. It took days for the others to get them to come out. The two of them may not have been the closest of fiends, but they would always have that.

He remembered Michelangelo, the brother that always managed to put a smile on his face. He remembered all the times they had played together as kids, and he remembered moments of laughter they had shared. Of all the four brothers, they were the two most compatible. Because even while they'd had their moments of pointless bicker, they'd never been angry with each other for more than a few minutes. He was his best friend. He loved his goofy little brother and would do anything for him.

He remembered Leonardo, the brother that always worried about him. He remembered talks they had shared, for Leo's ear was always open to him. There were some things he couldn't talk about with Mikey, things he didn't want his best friend to know; things such as fears and doubts. He loved his big brother. Even though the four of them where all the same age, Don had always considered Leo his older brother. Leonardo had always looked out for him, for all of them, and he would forever be grateful for that.

He remembered Raphael, the brother that secretly looked after him, unconditionally. He was the only brother that dared to defy Leo. He remembered the times Raph had stood up for him, moments when he himself didn't have the courage, and he remembered the simple looks of understanding they had shared. The two of them never needed words to express themselves to one another; their bond had always been special like that. He loved Raph more than he let onto, and he knew his hotheaded brother felt the same way.

And he remembered Splinter, the father that raised them with love and patience. His master had taught him everything he knew, and that didn't just apply to martial arts, but other things such as honor and respect, as well. Splinter had raised four sons all on his own, and he'd always put them before everything else. His death hit them hard, but just like they had promised him, they had leaned upon each other for strength. Splinter taught them that family was everything, and that no matter what they did they should always have their brothers' best interest in mind. He loved and missed his father deeply.

He remembered all of it, and even though it ended sooner than for most people, he still carried experiences to cover for several lifetimes. He had such amazing memories, memories he shared with those he would leave behind, and that's when he understood what Death had meant by his answer.

He would still live on, in the hearts and minds of his loved ones. They would always carry him with them - every moment, every single memory of his would stay embedded in someone's soul, where it would be cherished forever.

A bittersweet smile spread across Donnie's pale features, lighting up his tired face for the first time in weeks. He'd found a sense of peace he'd never thought he'd stumble upon in this lifetime.

"How does it work?" Don asked, returning his gaze to the man that stood next to him, waiting silently, patiently.

Suddenly, confusion washed over the man's smooth features, and Don searched his ice blue eyes for answers.

"I'm not sure how to explain," he finally replied. "No one's ever asked me that before."

"Really?" Donnie questioned, quite surprised at the statement.

"Yes," the man confirmed with a small nod. "Most people just stay quiet," he said as he met Don's curious stare with one of kindness and friendship.

"Why?" Donatello blatantly wondered. Why anyone would stay silent as Death came to claim their life, he couldn't understand. Didn't they have questions? Didn't they wonder who this man was, where he was taking them? Didn't they wonder at all?

"I think that..." the man began thoughtfully, barely above a whisper, "maybe if they don't talk to me, I'm not really there, you know?" He paused and took a slow step closer to Donnie. "That if we don't interact, it's not really happening."

Don broke their contact and returned to face the wall again, nodding in understanding. "But it is," he whispered, facing the clarity of the moment - his final moment.

"Yes," the man said, just as quietly, his wakeful eyes studying the turtle with an almost childlike interest.

The two of them remained silent for a while, both not wanting the moment to end, both for different reasons. Finally, the visitor had to break the silence, "Are you ready?" he whispered, carefully.

Donatello rested his gaze at the wall for a few more seconds, thinking of what answer to give him. He knew now that he would never be ready. But he also knew that if he were to go at any point in time of his life, this would be the moment he would choose. So he turned to face the eyes of the young man, whom now had a very sympathetic look in them.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The man gave a weak smile in response to his answer, as if there was a secret joke hidden behind the words that even Don himself didn't know of.

"Then I need you to take my hand," he spoke quietly, holding out his hand and opening it for the mortal to take.

Don looked at the man's slender hand and then returned to his eyes, checking to see if he could trust him. Even though he wanted to doubt his visitor's words - doubt his honesty and his existence - he couldn't. Because in his heart, Donnie knew he was destined to take his hand. It was like he had read it in a script somewhere and was about to perform his next scene. Deep inside, it was like a mute part of him had always known, unable to share the truth until this very moment arrived.

So he slowly raised his right hand from where it rested on the bed and hesitantly placed it in the pink palm of the man's hand. His green hand was so much bigger, and the smaller one disappeared underneath his looming grasp.

As their skin touched, he suddenly panicked, for his entire life flashed before his eyes. He had always believed that part of dying was fiction. But now, now that his twenty-two year-old life replayed itself in front of him, he was faced with the seriousness it carried. It suddenly occurred to him that all of his memories were played out in front of him only to be erased, one by one, cleansing his soul to make room for new memories.

This was the last time he would see them.

All the places he had been to throughout his life, all the people he had come across and all the moments he had shared with his brothers - his family, it was the last time he would see the faces of the people he cared for, the faces he loved.

All of them were played out before him, only to be erased forever.

But as strange as it was, the panic that had so suddenly washed over him began to diminish. He felt calmer and calmer by every memory that flashed by, and he couldn't fight it, he didn't want to anymore. He didn't feel the need to fight it, whatever it was.

Whatever the truth behind the power that entered his body was when they'd grabbed hands, it wasn't hurting him. It was soothing him, calming him, and maybe even healing him… because he didn't feel sick anymore. His lungs didn't burn, his head didn't pound, and his body didn't ache, all because of the strange force that entered him; its power so undeniable and so strong, he couldn't do anything but relax and sit back for the ride.

He didn't even realize he wasn't breathing anymore.

The man held the creature's hand in his own as he studied his relaxed face throughout the moment. It wasn't even a second, yet at the same time it was this man's lifetime. The young man smiled as he thought of what it would be like to have a sneak peak at one of his memories - a moment of his life.

But then, as soon as the thought had left him, the mortal's heartbeats suddenly stopped entirely, and his own body was filled with unbelievable amounts of energy - his energy. And that's when he knew his job here was done.

He had achieved what he came for: he had gained the mortal's soul, and was now destined to carry him into his afterlife.

He studied the pale man lying on the bed, how weak and fragile he looked. It was strange, the very second his heart had stopped his form suddenly lost all its life and energy. There was only the shell left of him. Everything that had amazed him about this mortal had vanished with his last heartbeat and passed right into him, albeit only temporarily.

The man carefully released the three-fingered, lifeless hand, allowing it to land upon the soft, pale-blue sheets of the covers. He then sent the body one last glance, to make sure he would remember what the magnificent mortal had looked like, before he turned away from the bed. Just as he closed his eyes to leave, he heard footsteps approaching the room, worried voices calling out the fallen man's name.

"Donnie?"

That moment was the first time he'd ever felt sorry for the people the dead left behind them. It never seemed to matter before, because it never really affected him. But this time, this time he knew what an incredible person they had just lost - a unique person - and as he disappeared, he couldn't help but feel guilty for being the one to rob them of this person, this miracle.

The End