G l o v e s
The curves of his neck were sticky, damp with the sweat of sitting hunched beneath the blankets. There were piles of blankets over him, stifling him. He'd taken all their extra ones, even the unwashed ones from last week, to block out the light of his torch. The warmth of summer seeped through his skin, his fortress feeling more and more like a furnace each passing minute.
He wiped his forehead, his mask long forgotten on the floor, and spat out at curse that his father would have his hide for.
Damn it!
This didn't make any sense.
The thought rammed into his brain again and again. It didn't make any sense.
Raph raked his eyes over the page, drinking in each detail. Still, nothing clicked.
He was eight years old.
What eight year old couldn't read?
Not more that the basics.
Even Mikey was better than him.
Mikey!
Better.
Everyone was.
He traced a finger across the words, renewed determination fading fast. For a moment, he paused. He looked at his hand. His thick, stubby finger moving across the page. It slicked over the ink, blurring it slightly.
Useless.
Monstrous.
He slammed the book shut.
And no one else ever questioned him when he walked around wearing his winter gloves for weeks after.
Because they knew.
They felt it too.
What did you think?