Broken Cycle

It was a trick. A sneaky inside-joke. A turning of a screw, driven deeper, splitting the fine hairy pulp that molded together into one mass. Thick and strong, but delicate and weak when severed. Like tendons between the chorded bands of Raphael's throat. Pulsing, galloping, surging; weakening now. The point sliding freely past sinewy muscle, piercing, severing; while his fingers tightened to silence the dragging sounds his brother made within that meaty throat. So strong, yet the weakest point. It was a trick. A test. Tears blinded him but did not set loose. It was not allowed. He had to. He didn't want to. It wasn't what he wanted so much as what he had to need. It wasn't making sense. Not anymore. So he woke up.

Blinking in the dusky morning light, dim and false, illumination was manufactured for them, not the life-bringing rays of a celestial enigma, but a bulb; bare and flickering as he rubbed his eyes, brought legs over the side of one lumpy, stained mattress, rough, toughened feet scraping against rougher concrete. He sighed. He breathed. In and out. He glanced down to his hands, half expecting them to be painted slick with crimson. A fleeting feeling of relief, a more swiftly retreating sense of disappointment.

It was a dream. Nothing more. Fingers that shook balled into fists that feigned strength and resolve. He stood, stretched and automatically, reached for his mask, tied the blue fabric around his eyes. Catching sight within a fractured mirror, resting on a shelf; blue on blue, veined in red, he paused; frowning, scowling with disapproval at the reflection there in the marred glass; spotted and splintered.

"You will not hurt him."

Eyes flat and distrustful gazed back. The image flickered; blurred and reestablished. Leo ran a dried tongue over drier lips; tasting cotton and bitterness. He needed to get to the washroom to brush his teeth. He needed to get his katas in before his brothers woke up and joined him for practice, all timed and measured, as their sensei had ordered, carrying out the routine as their sensei would have commanded, had he not been gone. But first, Leo needed to get his mind clear.

"No matter how he disobeys."

Blue shifts to amber in the hazy light and a startled gasp nearly breaks from between suddenly grinding teeth.

There is no room for disobedience, the familiar voice spoke in the corner of his mind, but he heard it from the corner of his room. He wanted to see that no one was there. Knew it already. So he remained, feet planted, not turning. Didn't need to. It was a trick. One he faced every morning. His heart racing, he steeled himself.

"He is my brother."

It matters not. You are his Master, now.

Pinching his eyes closed, he doesn't want to see anymore. Doesn't want to hear. It's becoming confused. Wrong. It was a trick. The screw being driven between his eyes, through the center of his skull, splitting fibers of reason and reality. Molars creaked as his jaw tightened, hands held limply and numbly at his sides, breath held. When did he stop breathing? A line of sweat worried down the back of his neck, following the balled ridges of his spine. Up and over, gliding and sliding beneath and under his shell where he can't wipe it away. Can't reach to scratch or tear.

He must obey or be disciplined.

He wanted to wake up. He tries hard to make himself awaken, but it's no use.

You are Master, now. Or are you too weak to do what is necessary?

His fist came up, with all intentions to strike the glass, to silence the voice, to silence it once and for all, but instead, as though knowing too well the source, his body attacked; knuckles barreled into his cheek; teeth ripped through tender flesh and copper and raw meat flooded his mouth; a flash of white, and the cement floor rose up in a violent greeting. The door to his room opened just as his shell slammed against the floor. A concerned voice overriding the scream bubbling up and out, two voices, shouting, arguing; now three. Master and son . . . and now brother. Combined and confused. It's all wrong. He wanted to wake up. Why can't he wake up? He is drowning in a sea of blood and foam. Choking. Swearing. He wants to scream but can only gag.

Hands rougher than even his fumbled with him as he writhes. Bodies struggled, hands groped and he groaned and growled until only one voice is heard. The sound of it filled with unnatural tones of concern and even most taboo of all: fear.

"Leo! Leo! What the hell!? Snap outta it! What's the matter with you? Leo? Leo!?"

He fell back, blinking and stunned, trying to focus on the face in front of him, pawing the features as though he were blind. His fingers straying towards his brother's throat and the dream returned, blotting out clarity for a moment. But Leo rolled away, grasping at his face before act followed thought, before the voice of his father commanded yet another obedience from him that he could not follow through on; committing yet another falsehood against his position, thus earning more discipline, greater punishment than before. He strangled back his fear-filled cry and shook his head violently, forcing out a laugh that sounded manic even to his own ears.

"It's nothing," he cried hoarsely, breathlessly from between brittle eruptions of laughter.

Raphael stared down at him, dumbstruck.

"I-I slipped, Ha. Ha-ha! I-I'm so freakin' embarrassed right now, Raph."

Raphael, an uneasiness rolling beneath irritation at his brother for acting like a freak, stared for a moment before settling back onto his heels.

"You were hollering like a nut in here before I came in. I thought, well, I thought you were yelling at Mikey for a minute, but he was in the kitchen."

Leo froze. His head ached, split in two with the point driving still deeper, severing his cerebral lobes, cleaving himself in two. He'd been yelling? No, that wasn't right. He'd been whispering. The voice. The voice was so loud. But then, that meant Raph heard it, too. He rubbed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes and swallowed back the salty blood, meaty and rich, souring his stomach. It was a trick. A joke. Raphael was laughing at him. Just like Mikey. And Don, with his sarcasm and dry wit that he thought went above his ability to grasp. They were always laughing at him. He was no leader. No head of this clan. He was a joke.

Punish them. Make them fear you as you were trained! Only then will you gain obedience!

"NO!"

Raphael jumped back at his brother's strained shout. Leo sat up, bolted stiffly and chuckling, rested one arm on his bent knee.

"Leo," Raph started, frowning with incomprehension, the fear growing in the pit of his stomach. "Are you . . . are you sick?"

"J-Just get in the dojo for practice, okay?" Leo asked, suddenly tired, all mirth gone. Trembling unperceivably.

Raph made a look as if he were about to argue, but Leo cut him off. Their eyes met, sharp and cold against burnished and molten.

His voice was low, steady and firm, "Don't disobey me, Raph. Not today."

If it was the ice in his tone or the frigid flat expanse that overtook Leonardo's eyes that made Raphael scramble to his feet and exit the room without another word, Leo didn't know. He didn't care. On wobbling legs he stood up and as he moved across the room, he glanced from the corner of his eye to the mirror. Amber eyes, ancient and knowing, brimming with derision and judgment glared back. Leonardo continued towards his doorway, paused with his shell to the mirror, one hand on the doorknob. He spoke to the door, not daring to meet the other's gaze, not wanting to acknowledge the existence of it, or the fear it brought; real and terrifying.

"I will not hurt him." He took a breath, "Not any of them. They are my brothers."

His voice was strong, but his heart hammered in his chest and his legs felt weak. And he wondered how much longer he could convince himself. How long he could continue tricking himself into believing he had any choice in this at all.