The Mind that Mourns
"The most painful goodbyes are the ones that are never said and never explained."
It's very early in the morning, the doors to the bedrooms still shut. All are asleep.
All but one.
He huddles in the lab, either unable or unwilling to stop the tears from cascading down his cheeks. The fight he'd had with his brother earlier echoes in his mind.
"You should've been able to do something! You should've saved him!"
"I can't fix everything!"
"Then what good are you? What good are you if you can't even help your own father?!"
It isn't his fault, he knows. There was nothing he – or anyone – could've done. Nothing to stop the Shredder from killing their father. Nothing to make time spin backwards.
But the guilt still weighs heavy on his shoulders. The pain echoes in his heart, growing until he can hold it in no longer.
"Why?!" he screams, the word like a thunderclap in the silence. "Why did you have to leave?! Why couldn't you stay?!"
His voice breaks, his lower lip quivering. "Why couldn't I save you?" The words are whispered. Anything louder is too hard to say, too difficult to get past the lump in his throat.
The empty darkness provides no answer. He lets out a half-sob and pulls his knees to his chest.
Soon he will push the guilt and the anger and the sorrow down, locking them away. He will carry on, doing what needs to be done. All tasks seem meaningless now, but they are necessary to keep the household running.
He will do it, because that is what they expect of him. And even if he wants to break down and weep, he will keep going, keep working and fixing and building. Because that is what needs to happen.
With a shuddering, bone-weary sigh, the turtle pulls himself out of the chair and walks out into the main room, waiting for his brothers to wake up and the new day to begin.
He will make sure that they keep going, keep pushing forward. They may not realize it because it will be done subtly. But he will do it.
I won't let you down, Father. I promise.