What isn't ours isn't yours . . .
Author's note: I thought up this story more than 6 months a go, wrote it and never looked at it until recently.
Warning: The content of this story is rated M. If you don't like murder fics, I wouldn't read it.
Disclaimer; I don't own any of the TMNT characters.
What You Can't Have
All of our lives we were the only ones, the first and only of our kind. Our father, also the only one of his kind, raised us, all four of us, like we were of his own flesh and blood even though there were notable differences between us and him. He tried to teach us from right and wrong. Why we must learn to fight to survive. Why man kind would never except us because of who and what we were.
He taught us marshal arts to keep us alive from not only the harsh reality that surrounded us but from the very people that killed his master. We became ninjas, people of the shadows and so it was because of our isolation we were unable to interact with the outside world, fearing what may happen to us if we were to be discovered. As time went on and as we grew older, the possibilities didn't frightened us so much and we would wondered further and further still, far away from our den within the sewers, tacking up the responsibilities that still burden us to this day.
We even made a few human friends, mainly April and Casey, and they were family, becoming more than what we could have ever dreamed of.
But still . . .
It was nothing like what others had. It was nice, if one could call it that, to know what it felt like to talk to more than just the same four people that you've grown up to know your whole life and yet . . . There still was something missing, something that we could never have because of who and what we were
It simply could never be . . .
And I still think this rings true, even to this very moment; it could never be, not now and not ever and that is why I am making this journey up this well known path on these old, warn out stairs to the second floor of this old farm house. A soft creaking could be heard but that is all right; they are all down stairs, entertaining the thought that everything was all right. After all, I would be back momentarily.
Our brother, our dear eldest brother, was gone far too long. He was, in fact, the sole reason why I'm standing in this current event after all. I don't blame him, I really don't; he's just one piece of a giant chest game, one that was, and possibly not, the starting stages in the ever rolling snowball that accumulated up to this very point in time, why I stand right out side this bedroom door.
One thing that I do know, and that is for certain, is that it was because of his ever growing absence, another brother was hardly seen, driven out of our home night after night, forcing himself to forget the eerie silence that lingered for nearly two years. It's my sole belief that because of this absence and the loneliness, and I guess the betrayal too, not hearing from our absent brother, that came with it all, the pain that is, is why he drove himself to such extremes; gone all night long, risking his life recklessly for people that were not even worth being saved, and then coming home in the early hours of the morning, thinking that no one would here him slip in to the darkened lair.
The door creeks slightly as I twist the knob and give it a gentle push. I poke my head in and I take note she seems a little startled but soon enough recognizes my face and beckons me to come hither. A smile betrays my actions, and I slowly close the darkened door. She doesn't see the smile and I take a few steps in, finding a seat on the warm bed. She is only half dressed, one huge jersey covering her whole form. It belongs to that of my brother. She turns her back towards me and begins to brush her hair, taking care as to get the extra moisture out from the steaming bath I'm sure she took just moments a go. This woman begins to talk, thinking that I am listening but in stead my mind is here, on this very topic.
I would have to think that was his, my brother's, greatest secret, the Nightwatcher that is. Donning the identity of New York's greatest vigilante, according to the people that, in my opinion, lived a hell of a lot worse life than what we ever lived. It was because of the Nightwatcher that he had found this, the one thing that we were missing all a long; the thing that could never quench the loneliness that griped at our hearts.
And that is why all the events prior lead up to this very moment, our older brother leaving, yet another brother becomes something that he always strived to be, the emotional rollercoaster that our family dealt with for two years, the mystery that shrouded the Nightwatcher, bring her closer to him, and then the return of our brother.
I rise from the comfort of the seat that I took up but a moment a go and she turns, still partially brushing her soft hair, a brow razed in a quizzical manner. That same smile came back to my face but this time it stayed, and I drew nearer.
I have to mention that it's Christmas Eve and our brother has been back from his little excursion for around a year or so now and we've been here, the old farm house that is, for nearly a week, and currently there is someone else that is here; this woman, whom lies before my very eyes. I have to admit, I have grown to like her quit a bit.
I remember oh so vividly from just previous hours a go, a cheerful young woman whom stood tall and bundled in heavy winter garments, so beautiful in the early morning winter's sunlight. I took note of how the golden rays of the sun reflected off of the crisp, newly fallen snow and it caught in her starch raven hair; her dazzling eyes shown with delight with ruby lips curling upward and parting, revealing a row of purl white teeth with an elegant laugh that broke the silence as my brother lied on the ground. He too was bundled, protected from the nip of the air, and stared up at her, he to was smiling, smiling like I have not seen in the near of eight years. But the look in those deep, chocolate eyes, I can honestly say that I've never seen it before but I knew that this look was this something that we were all missing for the last nine-teen years; the one thing that we were never meant to have.
But now those lips, once red, were now pail but ever so near to my face. Almost as close as they were to my brother. But this time, in her eyes, it did not shine of delight or happiness but pure horror, asking me why; the tanto that previously lied in its sheath upon the table top next the bed now clutched at her heart. This was indeed the very same blade that my brother had given her this eve as an early Christmas present.
They stood, my brother and her, laughing, this morning, in the snow as the rest of us watched up on the front porch, huddled together, intertwined with in the thick blankets and hot chocolate. Those two were happy, then, standing in that moment but it was all a lie, an illusion. This couldn't be, a woman that could have any thing that she wanted, she could have been so many things, be with anyone she wanted but instead, in the end, she gave it all up, and for the last three years, was with him . . .
Her hands, cold and almost stiff, still clutched at the one hand that griped that dagger which was warm from the blood that still oozed from the wound. The energy that once radiated off her body now dwindled as the fire in her eyes extinguished.
She could have had some one that was calm, tactful and caring, willing to give his all in everything that he does or some one with intellect and had a wide range of experience in many and most fields who can do almost anything, and still yet she could have some one who was just as every bit of an artist as she was, knows his way around the kitchen better than any chef that I have seen and could make her smile no matter how she felt but in the end, in the end, she chose him, the weakest link in the group, the one that could never entertain a thought of a grand future; she just simply chose him.
At this last notion, the final string of life was cut and her body drew limp. The last of the air that had accumulated in her lungs left her breast just like a silent flap of wind in the a cold, winter's night. With all light extinguished, her limp form slid from the grasp of her own tanto, meeting the cold and unforgiving wooden floor with a light thump and a smear of crimson blood. The sound was so soft, one would have missed it if one was not listening.
Turning, I took up a towel, her towel, that was draped over the chair all the while moving towards the opened curtained window. I stood there, by that icy window, gazing out in to the darkness all the while absentmindedly caressing the dagger that lied snuggled in a cloth, painting it with its elegant ruby liquid.
How could someone like her possibly love something as unnatural, a freak accident that we were and still be happy? As much as I would love to entertain that thought, my mind just can not fathom this possibility, it is beyond all logic and yet her they were, just this morning, rolling about, snuggling in the snow like there was nothing unnatural about it.
A soft creaking interrupts my physiological rampage and I look up to see the door open ajar, hanging open ever so slightly as if to give the previous occupant warning before the one behind the door enters this now seemingly vacant domain.
It was a shame, really, to see his face, peeking around the slightly opened door then, so cheerful and bright, so care free and innocent like when he was but a small child, looking forward to see that woman all ready to greet him with a matching smile but then drop to sure terror, facial expression changing faster than the laws of physics could ever have predicted. It was quit comical really, but in the end I kept a still form, being the ever observant being that I am.
He, my brother, took two steps and was fully in the room with the door was shut behind his large body. He knelt down, reaching to the lying form that now cluttered the floor. Blood still pored out of the gaping whole that clutched at her breast, dripping down his arms, down his clothing, and still yet down to the floor, annexing to the puddle that had all ready accumulated but a moment before.
Never, in my nine-teen years of life have I seen him so distraught, weeping so openly and so caringly. His face nestled in her untainted hair as tears of not joy, but that of sorrow, rolled down the woman's ghastly pail face with her eyes just staring in to oblivion.
I took all this from where I stood, this whole time I might add, by that very same window sill. I was happy non the less to see this event to play out before my very eyes but what maid my blood run cold was the lifeless, baffled expression that my brother wore upon his face when the sudden realization that some one was there, and it wasn't the lifeless figure he nestled in his soaking arms.
"D-Donnie?" It was a choked question more than a statement that indeed his brother stood in this very room. His mind was racing, I could tell by the darkening furrow that gathered upon his brow, trying to pull together everything that his eye has taken in that brief moment but refusing to believe, believe even after seeing me, still wiping away crimson blood away from the very piece of metal that took her away from him.
"W-What . . . y-you killed 'em right? The person that did this?" He was in denial, refusing to entertain the possibility that one of his brothers could ever kill some one like this, murder someone like I have, especially some one that was so precious to him.
"The window is closed, we are the only ones here, what do you think?" The words were icy and cryptic closely followed by a ghost of a smile. Leaving the cloth behind, I sheathed the small weapon all the while never taking my eyes away from his. Within three or four soft steps, I was there, beside my brother with a hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it as hard as my trembling hand would allow.
"Why . . . ?" He just knelt there, that single word barely able to leave his lips as eyes drew wide, ashened over, burrowing in to a place on the wall in front of him, a spot only known to him. I would have never known that he had spoke if I wasn't listening so intently. My lips parted, curling upward it to a sickening sneer, parting to reveal a row of white teeth bathed in a thick coat of saliva. My lips were close, just barley hovering in front of his left ear, careful so that he, and only he, would be able to here.
"What isn't ours, isn't yours . . ." And with that I stood, placing the tanto once more where it previously lied on the table top and walked out of the room, silent as a true ninja should. I closed the door, but before I did, I stole one last glance in to the room.
Through all this, he was silent No gasp of suppressed anguish or shriek of denial or vengeance. Instead he just sat there staring out in to oblivion, cradling the bleeding woman in his arms. He was indeed a broken, bleeding turtle . . .