Wicked Wishes

He'd seen this before.

Though the events of that night had been imperceptible, he'd imagined the outcome a thousand different ways. Every one scorched his heart, remaining forever etched into his memory with acid. A story with a myriad of endings in a tale so twisted even Shakespeare would flinch.

Tonight, her attackers were not Foot soldiers, but that was a minor detail. Those tended to shift in the repetition of his never ending tragedy.

A dream. It's probably just a dream.

The worst ones usually were.

Raphael peered from his vantage point in the shadows, trying to decide. Below him, three muscled thugs cornered a petite young woman on a rooftop, cutting her off from the stairs.

"Hey, pretty thang," the leader drawled, stalking towards her. "You workin'? Cause I got some sugar here for ya." He patted the bulge in the front of his pants as his pals all smirked, chiming in with propositions of their own. They inched closer, attempting to surround her.

Raph tensed, gripping the edge of the water tower he perched upon tight. The twisted metal cut into his palm and blood welled, thick and dark—making him rethink his assumption. The expression of terror on the girl's face made the situation far too real.

"Stay back," she warned in a low tone.

A shiver ran down Raph's spine as the girl retreated with her arms outstretched before her. Some trick of the night, his tired mind, or the nearness of the... anniversary, made her sound so familiar he involuntarily leaned forward.

Damn, I miss her—so much.

The teenager in front of him was dressed for the cooler fall weather in long cargo pants, a pastel cotton tee, and a fuzzy green hoodie. Her short brunette ponytail sported gentle waves from being pressed against the old lawn chair he spotted a few feet away. Seconds ago, she had been firmly planted in it, stargazing.

I can't even look at the stars anymore. Not if I want to stay sane.

Her clothes, her hair—even her fascination with the night sky—were reminders he didn't need. With a grunt of anger, he scrutinized her more closely, searching for differences from the girl in his memory. Something to help him maintain a grip on reality.

Her eyes were the wrong color, he decided, dark instead of light hazel. And she might move smoothly, but she lacked the exquisite physical grace he remembered.

SHE was poetry in motion, but this ain't her. She's gone.

Those two words twisted his gut. The heartache was old and he expected to have buried his grief by now, but every time he repeated them, they brought fresh agony. Like shrapnel left inside his body to fester, they tore his feeble sutures and the infection reared up anew.

For the millionth time, he wished things were different. Wished he hadn't given in to foolish desire and teenage hormones. Wished he'd chosen another rooftop. Wished somehow the universe would fold back on itself so he might undo what had been done.

Wished it happened ta me instead of her. But there is no peace in wishing and no stars left to wish upon.

Still, he couldn't stand by as someone who even slightly resembled her was threatened or demeaned. A primal instinct—the urge to protect a loved one—drove him to intervene. When one of the thugs grabbed the girl's wrist, a threatening growl escaped his throat. Hidden where he was the sound reflected, making it impossible to trace.

Startled expressions of consternation replaced the men's superior sneers. The leader pulled a gun from his waistband and the other two produced knives. They crouched and scoured the blackness around them for any hint of movement.

The girl used his distraction to twist free and run—though the edge of the building left little chance for escape. Time stretched as the crunching sound of gravel reverberated through the still air, triggering Raphael's ever-present nightmare. The past pulled him back once more, distorting his present, destroying his future. It offered no comfort that this time he could watch it all unfolding.

No. Please. No.

He tried so hard to suppress these memories, burying them under the minutia of daily life.

It's not her!

Not permitting himself to think her name though her spirit lurked in everything around him.

It's NOT HER!

The sounds were the same. Echoed mistakes, repeating again. The worst moments of his life dredged from the depths of his mind and thrown in his face.

Rapid, running footsteps across the rooftop. A sharp cry of pain.

Someone caught her! Struck her!

Breath whistling in his lungs as he climbed as fast as he could go.

She's screaming! A strangled word—my name!

Then the worst part of all...

Deadly silence.

For ten years, those sounds haunted him—waking or sleeping. Each repetition driving him closer to the edge of madness. If he lost his focus, they would catch him off guard. Pitch him headlong into that terrible memory. In all likelihood, he would suffer them the rest of his life.

But this girl still has a chance.

Raphael swallowed the bile clogging his throat and scrubbed a fist angrily across his eyes.

I will not let history repeat itself.

Hours later, he staggered home. Thugs beaten, girl saved, he should have felt better but weariness dragged him down.

I've got to get her outta my head.

He snorted at his own thought.

'Bout as likely as Michelangelo leaving leftovers. And, speak of the devil...

His youngest sibling was seated firmly in front of the television. Raph nodded to him before plodding up the stairs and down the hall to his room. He collapsed on the bed without bothering to disarm and stared blankly at the ceiling while his fingers drew absent-minded patterns on top of the quilt.

I could use a drink.

Irritated at himself for thinking it, Raphael sat up and reached for a book. He was halfway through a 1950's crime novel and rather enjoying a world where everything was laid out in black and white.

In fiction, the mobster always goes down an' the dame is forever grateful. There ain't no muddy middle ground.

He thumbed the well-worn pages until he found his place and dove in, determined to have a few hours respite. He was just getting into it when...

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

He grimaced as a timid, female voice invaded the silence of his room. It was pitched high with feigned fear, guaranteed to grab his attention.

Of course, Mikey has to interrupt. I probably looked too upset when I came in.

Michelangelo had tried to assist in his own way over the years—tried to keep Raph from wallowing in depression—but the novelty of his pranks had worn off a long time ago.

"Please... can you help me?"

Raph's patience was growing thin. He ignored the voice, not so much as glancing up from his book. Unfortunately, Mikey didn't let up. He knew the hot-head was hardwired to respond to females in distress.

"RAPH—"

The thread of goodwill holding his temper in check snapped. Flexing his biceps, Raphael's head jerked up in the direction of the call.

"I swear, Mikey if you don't lay off I'm gonna—"

The rest of his sentence died away. Instead of the laughing baby-blue eyes of Michelangelo peeking around the doorframe, his amber glare locked on a forlorn hazel gaze streaked with pain. He stared, transfixed. There was a woman in his doorway. One conjured out of thin air.

He frowned, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

I may have actually lost it this time.

There was no question who she was, yet she was not the slight girl he normally pictured in his delusions. Tonight, tight dark-washed jeans and a light V-neck, grey t-shirt accented mature feminine curves. Long strands of hair dyed such a dark brown they were almost black, surrounded her shoulders. Not one resembled the original lustrous brunette, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

Eyes that only exist in my mind and memories.

The woman could have been a ghost, except she seemed trapped. Poised behind a sheet of thick, curved glass, she held one fist raised and resting against the barrier. Obviously, she had been trying to gain his attention. She mouthed something at him, expression filled with uncertainty, but this time he could not hear a sound. In fact, the noises that constantly haunted him had ceased.

The silence was deafening.

Raphael sat frozen in place, stunned beyond the point of reaction. He licked his lips to wet a mouth gone instantly dry and tried several times to speak. To get something, anything, past the lump in his throat.

"Jenna?"

Her name started as a whisper, but by the time he reached its end, he found himself shouting. Tossing the book aside, he hurled himself across the room so fast the air of his passing turned the pages of the discarded volume. He slid to a stop before the odd glass wall and lifted a shaking hand. A smooth, solid surface met his palm, despite its illusionary qualities. A cold far more bitter than ice stabbed through his flesh to the bone.

Jenna mirrored the gesture, pressing her hand to the other side. Her eyes glistened and a tear ran down her pale cheek, even as her full lips curved into a smile—until she looked beyond him. Her joyous expression contorted to one of alarm.

Instinctively, Raph whirled—drawing a sai as she shrank back. The room was empty. Confused, he swung around again, watching helplessly as Jenna lost her balance and fell. She dragged herself awkwardly away, using both hands and a single leg to scoot along the floor.

Her retreat left a smear of bright red across the gleaming white bottom of her prison.

Horrified, his eyes darted over her, noting signs of trouble he missed in the first shock of recognition. He re-scanned her face and swallowed hard. One cheek was swollen, a large, angry bruise blossoming across it. Her right foot turned out at an awkward angle and blood stained the hem of her jeans. All his instincts cried out at the sight. His heart screamed, insisting he shouldn't just stand there... but his mind was conflicted.

This is impossible, madness.

Oh, he dreamed about Jenna often, endured nightmare after nightmare where she was the star. According to Donatello, it was a natural part of the grieving process but this was different. Never did he imagine her as she would be now, an adult.

Raphael dragged his eyes away from her to examine everything else in his field of view, searching for an explanation. The portal-like window was small but he could tell she was confined in a huge glass dome, surrounded by some sort of lab equipment. He couldn't immediately identify the location, but there was something freakishly familiar about it.

Jenna shot him a panicked glance and curled into herself. Pulling up one knee to hide her face, she shivered in pure terror. Whatever she feared must be getting closer.

Raph's muscles tensed and adrenaline flooded his veins.

Hallucination or ghost, I ain't lettin' her face this alone.

He raised his fist with a fierce bellow and charged toward the barrier, leading with the heavy handle of his sai. Without slowing, he smashed the pommel against the frozen glass with all his might.

The image wavered and he staggered right through. Flat on his shell in the hall from the momentum, he let out an oath strong enough to blister paint but a lightning fast handspring had him up and back in the room in seconds. The odd window remained, though it had faded somewhat. It wouldn't last much longer.

Now what?

Brute force failed so it was time for plan 'B'. Brains. Not really his strong suit but, luckily, he knew a genius.

"DONNIE!" The urgent roar shook the lair. He wasn't about to leave and go searching for his brother but unless Donatello had suddenly gone deaf he'd be here fast. Raphael stared longingly at the injured woman and shouted again. "Donnie, HURRY!"

After all this time, he couldn't stand not to see her face—those eyes. He made a fist and pounded furiously on the glass. Jenna jumped at the sound. Panic contorted her expression as her gaze moved from him to the unknown enemy. She shook her head infinitesimally, warning him away, before hiding her face again in her arms.

Raphael scowled.

She don't want me making noise?

A distorted reflection of someone moving caught his eye and he leaned closer for a better view. The unmistakable silhouette of a samurai helmet caused his breath to hitch. He backed away, hands falling limply to his sides.

"No," he whispered. "It's not possible."

We defeated the Shredder long ago.

Raphael had banished the man himself, throwing the villain into a vortex of darkness between dimensions in vengeance for the loss of... the girl in front of him.

"No!" he shouted. This denial included her.

Both of them are gone forever. Aren't they?

Jenna jolted up again at his shout. Her eyes were huge and she raised an arm, hand outstretched and pleading towards him as her image paled.

'Raph!' she mouthed desperately as he shook his head.

What if they aren't? Is one worth the price of the other? Can I accept the return of our family's worst enemy if it means Jenna is alive?

The answer was a decisive and unadulterated yes, but he came to the decision too late. The vision faded before his eyes. With a flash of light, Jenna, the room, all of it—disappeared.

The sound of pounding feet announced the arrival of his brothers. Donatello rushed in. Leonardo, his katana drawn, stopped in the entrance, while Michelangelo bounced on his toes in the hall, trying to see over his brother's shell.

Raphael ignored them. He collapsed slowly to his knees and rocked back and forth, hands pressed over his face.

Be careful what you wish for...

The phrase whispered insidiously inside Raphael's mind, repeating in a mocking, constant litany. For years he had wished to see her again. Every night when his head hit the pillow he imagined what she might be doing. What they might do, if only—

Be careful what you wish for...

Countless meditation sessions had been spent trying to recall the scent of her, the silky feel of her hair, the softness of her skin. He had known it all once. How many times had he conjured the sound of her voice in the silence of the night to keep him company on patrol? Or run towards a scream he was sure was her only to find a total stranger?

Be careful what you wish for... you just might get it.

Raphael had finally seen her, but what he witnessed tore his heart and soul. Jenna was grown and gorgeous, injured and in danger—then gone again before anyone else could see. Leaving him a tale to tell no one would believe.