Disclaimer: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles® were created by Eastman and Laird, and are registered trademarks of Mirage Studios. No profit is being made from this story, and the characters appear without knowledge or consent of the copyright holders. Which is probably a very good thing, all things considered.
Warnings: Language, really weird stuff, almost-death-but-not-really, some graphic imagery.
Note: Contains original female character; however, NOT a romance fic.
Lethe
By: Sinisstar
Reality was always too far away.
o0o0o0o0o
o
1. First Impressions
"There, now," she whispered gently, "That's better, isn't it? Good boy. My good boy."
It had been thus for three nights in a row. Raphael watched, morbidly fascinated, while the woman – no older than twenty-six, judging by the distinct lack of age-lines on her brow – tended to a ragged figure resting quietly amongst a nest of shredded newspapers and ancient, worn blankets.
The cat was dead. Had in fact, been dead for two days; a dish of wet food and water sat untouched by its still head, within – and yet terribly out of – reach, occasionally being rinsed and refilled. From his position on the rooftop, Raphael had a clear view of the creature's form; and for the millionth time, he wondered why the woman hadn't noticed that it hadn't taken or let out a breath in a long time.
It was a clear night, but the peeping terrapin's mind was cloudy. The minivan had been large – as if your average car wasn't big enough, this one must have been the Colossus for New York's tiny felines. Attracted by frantic screams, Raphael had appeared on the scene moments before the bright yellow monster plowed the gray tabby's back legs into the pavement.
He had allowed a spark of pity for the animal to pass through him while looking for the source of the shriek; the turtle found it quickly as the woman leapt into the street, hurling vulgarities as the obnoxious vehicle sped away. Surprised, Raphael spared a moment to watch as she gathered the animal up, muttering things he couldn't hear (assurances, perhaps?) and fled back from whence she had come.
Curious, he followed her. Watched as she hurried up the fire escape to a balcony on the third floor of the building opposite his.
For the life of him, Raphael couldn't understand why he didn't just leave. It wasn't really a crime, there was no real danger, and it was just a cat. There were more important matters to attend to. Like punks to beat the shit out of and robberies to be thwarted, etc.
Unbidden, an image of Michelangelo cuddling with Klunk on their sofa came to the forefront of his mind.
Memory lifted, and the woman had made a warm nest for the cat. Raphael's eyes narrowed, picking up the not-so-subtle motions of trembling hands and quaking shoulders. The cat mewled. The woman stroked its head. Raphael felt his stomach lurch.
The next night, Raphael went back. He didn't expect to see either the cat or the woman, but the strange leaden feeling deep in the bottom of his stomach refused to let up until he returned to the rooftop.
The cat was dead. And the woman was still outside, wrapped in a blanket, stroking the animal's head and urging it to eat. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat beside her. An ashtray was brimming over with cigarette butts. She'd set up a heater near the animal for some reason, and scooped food into its bowls in a precise, clinical fashion. A cloth was used to wipe crusted blood from the cat's muzzle.
She talked to it.
She sang to it.
And she was smiling in a way that would have scared the piss out of Pennywise the Dancing Clown.
2. Collide
Raphael awoke to the sound of someone humming.
He awoke to the smell of death all around him.
"There, now," a quiet voice said. "That's better, isn't it? Good boy."
It took what felt like a century to turn his head, and when he managed to clear the blurriness from his eyes, Raphael could see the woman kneeling beside him. The cat – still dead – lay within its crude nest. There was a window just beyond the woman's head, black curtains drawn tightly closed.
Raphael's stomach lurched darkly.
She said, just as quietly, "They're gone."
Raphael noticed that his wrist was bandaged. Poorly, but bandaged nonetheless. There was a pillow behind his head. It took him a second to quell and defeat the sudden surge of fear that rose in his chest, which made his head spin, spawning a terrible need to vomit all over himself. A low, deep shudder took him; agony followed.
Past experience (in Donatello's voice) nattered to him incessantly about concussions, and Raphael tried not to panic. He also tried not to pass out, which he was far more successful at than not losing control.
"What're—who're—th'hell 'appened," he spat finally while years of training memorized his surroundings and searched for his sais.
"Some guys in black pajamas jumped you," she replied breezily, swaying a little. A full bottle of Jack Daniels sat next to her. Six more, empty, lay scattered around the room. Four empty cases of beer were stacked next to a ratty, worn-out sofa.
Shit, Raphael thought, she's drunk. And I'm in 'er house.
How the hell did I get here?
"Benny made them go away," said the woman, apparently noticing his confusion. "Benny lives down the hall. Benny's nice. Benny has guns. Benny has big ones." She smiled. "I like them."
The sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the apartment was louder than Raphael thought it should be. He didn't think they were supposed to sound ominous, either.
She said, "Those guys won't be coming back."
She said, "Benny doesn't miss."
The cat was starting to rot, Raphael decided. The fumes were so foul they were nearly intoxicating. "How'd I get in 'ere?"
Sitting back, scratching at her knees, "I don't know."
A radio was playing somewhere in the apartment, Raphael only recognized it because Donnie had it on his "working soundtrack" play list. What was it—oh, yeah, Grass Roots.
"Sha la la la la la, live for today…"
He'd always thought that song was kind-of gay. But then, he and Donatello had very different tastes in music; where Raphael liked the sort of music associated with long-haired, tattooed bad-asses whipping their heads around, Donnie was a sucker for the classics.
"Y'don't know?" Raphael slurred darkly.
An insouciant shrug. "Nuh." She smiled again. "But you're here. It don't matter, eh?" Pennywise soiled himself again, somewhere, as she patted his arm gently. "That's better, isn't it?"
It felt like he was standing in the centre of train tracks, watching a huge, gleaming locomotive bear down on him with all the speed and ferocity of a nuclear bomb. It had fangs and claws, and it smiled as though it knew something he did not. A Mona Lisa smile.
"We were never meant to worry, the way that people do; and I don't need to hurry, as long as I'm with you; we'll take it nice and easy…"
"Who're you," Raphael grunted after a moment. It wasn't a question.
"Natalie," was her prompt response. Then, uncertainty clouded her voice. "…I think."
"Ya think?"
"Yeah. Benny calls me Nelly." Her hand waved at the dead cat. "That's Spooks."
Raphael drew a tight breath in through his teeth. "Y'know the cat's dead," he said bluntly.
Immediately, he regretted saying that. Natalie – or Nelly, whatever she was called – didn't lose the peculiar, vacant smile she bore, but something in the air shifted. The red-clad terrapin couldn't pinpoint what it was, the only resemblance he could think of was that it felt as though the room's temperature dropped.
"Heheheh," Nelly's chuckle was as vacant as her smile.
Somewhere – surely not in the apartment, Raphael thought, most likely out in the hallway – the sound of a circuit breaker overloading resounded. Both turtle and human looked up, watching as the lights flickered dramatically. Pipes rattled.
"That happens," said Natalie, turning back to Raphael. "Aspirin?"
Raphael grunted.
"'k." Apparently she took that as an assent. Retrieving a bottle hidden somewhere on her, she dropped four tablets into his hand and passed the aching turtle her bottle of J.D.
He stared at it for a long moment, before shifting his gaze to her face.
She smiled. Raphael was growing annoyed with thinking of Pennywise every time she did. "It's not poisoned. I'm drinking it."
"My brother wouldn't approve," the turtle said dryly, thinking of Donatello and how outraged he would be to know Raphael was washing aspirin down with whiskey to battle a concussion. Regardless, he took the proffered bottle. "But what he don't know won't hurt 'im."
He kept his eyes on her even as he swallowed, deciding then that she wasn't a threat. She was creepy, and probably more than a little crazy, but not a threat. He ached, and he hurt, and if not broken then his wrist was at least badly twisted; even so, he was ninja – if necessary, despite all wounds he could easily kick her ass.
A small voice piped up in the back of his head, Not that beating up girls is nice, Raphael-san. Casey would kick your ass if he found out you beat up a girl for no reason. And April would probably help him to boot!
The drink burned his throat. Blinking back tears, Raphael took a few calming breaths and began taking stock of his memories. Natalie seemed disinclined to say anything, which the turtle was grateful for; whether she knew it or not, her silence helped him retrieve his last conscious memory through the fog of concussion that clouded his thoughts.
A whoosh of air.
Grass Roots was still playing.
"We'll take the most from livin', have pleasure while we can; sha la la la la la, live for today…"
Raphael could not recall being attacked. All he remembered was a whoosh of air, followed by impenetrable darkness. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to unearth what memories lay between then and now. Certain that battle had occurred – otherwise, how the hell did he bust up his wrist and get a concussion? And Nelly said 'guys in black pajamas', a common description of Foot ninja – it disturbed him to come up blank.
"Two hours," Natalie broke in.
"Huh—whut?" Raphael jerked out of thought, for a moment under the impression that he'd said something aloud. The woman stared back at him.
"Two hours," she repeated, nodding inelegantly to confirm herself. "You've been out for two hours. I think. I know. As time counts here, two hours." Smoke curled, snake-like, around her face and she sucked back, ignoring the long length of ash threatening to fall.
When did she light the cigarette?
He frowned, considering. The pain in his head increased; wincing, he asked, "What time is it?"
"Six."
"Six when?"
"In the morning."
Shit. He'd never make it home before the sun fully rose, if it hadn't already, not in his condition. "Shit," he said out loud.
She said, "Don't worry."
She said, "It's always six."
3. Don't Cry Out
The lights had gone out.
There were footsteps in the hallway.
Raphael had never heard footsteps that sounded quite like that. Like nails being dragged across wallpaper. Shredding paper, and a weird, rhythmic scrape-thud that made Raphael think of someone with a severe limp.
"It's not the pajama people," Natalie said quietly. "I can tell."
Something was very wrong here, Raphael decided. "Who's it, then?"
"Benny's got it covered. Benny lives down the hall. Benny's nice."
"An he has guns," Raphael growled, staring at her. "Big guns."
She said, "Yes."
She said, "Sit tight."
He couldn't see anything now. Except for two pinpricks of pink light, hovering where Natalie's eyes had been. Raphael's stomach flip-flopped. The lump in his throat bobbed.
"They can't come in." Nelly's voice sounded funny. Like she was on the radio, the station abruptly succumbing to static interference. "They're not allowed. Benny won't let them."
A tiny mewl resounded in the darkness.
But it's dead, Raphael thought.
"Oops," Natalie muttered.
She said, "I forgot to lock the door."
Raphael felt something brush against his arm. His eyes rolled, catching nothing but darkness at first; then a pale blob slipped over him.
"Won't do," said Nelly.
She was above him.
He thought.
Maybe.
"Simply won't do," she said, from somewhere on the other side of the room. Somewhere on the other side from where she'd been sitting before.
His eyes rolled back around.
The pink lights were still there. Hovering. Glittering in the shadows.
There was the sound of a match being struck.
And then there was light.
"Bugger."
Raphael was surrounded.
The whisky was poisoned, he concluded, as gnarled hands reached out for him.
4. A Touch of Blessing
"Where'd they go?!"
"Who?"
Natalie looked at him askance, as Raphael lurched into a sitting position. She was on the other side; sitting much as she had before, only in her lap was the grey tabby. Raphael groaned, grasping his head; his eyes scanned the apartment.
The lights were still out of commission, but the total darkness had lifted. Nelly was looking at him as if he were the most curious thing she'd ever seen in her life. There was little out of the ordinary, nothing to suggest…
The cat was, in fact, rotting.
Raphael stared at it, trying desperately to hold back all the bile rising in his throat. "The…" he began, but stopped. Then, "There were things. In here."
"No."
"Yes," the turtle scowled.
"Nuh," said Natalie.
She said, "There weren't nothing."
She said, "They can't come in."
Chunks of dead flesh stuck to her hand as she stroked the cat. Chunks of dead flesh fell off with each long, loving caress. The stench touched everything. It clung to Raphael.
"M'head hurts," Raphael muttered to himself.
I'm going nuts.
"The pajama people kicked your ass," said Natalie. "Benny got them, though. Benny lives down the hall."
"Yeh, an 'e's nice, an has big guns," Raphael snapped. "I know. Ya said already."
Maybe it's contagious.
"I did? I did. Yes." She smiled. Her eyes were bloodshot.
The bottle of Jack Daniels was empty.
Raphael stared at it, briefly, before lifting his eyes back to hers. "What time is it?" he asked slowly.
"Six."
He swallowed. "Six when?"
"In the evening."
She said, "It's always six."
She said, "As time counts here. Don't worry."
He said, "I see."
5. Tick-Tock
There was a grandfather clock in the room that hadn't been there before. At least, not that Raphael had seen when he first awoke. The big hand pointed to six as the pendulum swung from side to side.
"Nice clock," Raphael murmured.
"It's not mine," said Nelly.
Tires screeched from somewhere outside. Footsteps pounded across the roofs. Muffled voices danced across the night air, through the curtain's black windows and into Raphael's ears.
Then, the sound of steel clashing against steel.
And something shuffled in the hallway.
Raphael rolled onto his side, grunting through the swirling colors that danced in his eyes and the soreness in his body. He knew those voices. One of them, anyway.
"Don't worry," Natalie said. "They can't come in."
"Benny won't let them," Raphael whispered. The cat was looking at him. "Benny lives down the hall. Benny's nice. Benny has big guns."
The shuffling stopped just outside the door.
Nelly frowned. "Did I lock the door?"
She said, "I can't remember."
She said, "Did I lock the door?"
Raphael's eyes bored into her. "No," he said.
He said, "No. You forgot."
Spooks mewled.
6. Whisky in the Jar
She had a full bottle of Jack Daniels resting next to the ashtray beside her.
"What time is it?" Raphael asked.
"Six."
"Six when?"
"In the morning."
One of the cat's eyes had fallen out. The other was liquefied from rot. Dead fur was all over Nelly's ragged pants, along with some blobs of jelly-like red stuff. Raphael leaned over, hand stretching slowly out.
The tip of his sai scraped ominously against the floor.
"Six," said Raphael.
Natalie blinked, smiling at him vacantly. "As time counts here. Don't worry."
"It's always six," Raphael said.
There was a scrabbling from somewhere beyond the door. Raphael turned. Nelly looked up.
"They can't come in?" she said.
Raphael's eyes snapped back to her. "Yer askin' me?"
"Oops," Natalie muttered.
There was a knock. It was deep, like thunder.
"I should get that, I think," Nelly said.
The lights flickered, died, and the darkness consumed Raphael as he watched the woman deposit the cat on the floor. It fell apart, limbs askew. Its head rolled towards Raphael.
He looked at it. Or where it would have been.
She said, "But I'm not expecting anybody."
She said, "Nobody visits me."
The cat's whole, yet missing eye, turned round to fix Raphael with an accusatory glare. It glittered pink in the dark. Raphael suddenly felt a wave of guilt wash over him, one that nearly crushed him.
Nelly said, "I bet it's for Benny."
She was above him.
He heard a scream from outside, piercing and full of fury. One of defeat. Raphael rolled over.
He said, "Wait."
"Won't do," Natalie muttered. She was across the room.
He thought.
He reached out, hand brushing against the matchbook.
She said, "Simply won't do."
There was the sound of a match being struck.
And then there was light.
The doorknob turned as gnarled hands reached for him from the darkness.
Spooks mewled.
7. Cease Fire
"What time is it?" Raphael demanded.
"Six."
"Six when?"
"I don't know."
The whisky bottle was empty. The cat was looking at him. The clock had stopped ticking. The only sound was Raphael's erratic breathing and a tiny, rumbling purr emanating from deep within Spooks' chest.
Nelly looked ill. "I can't remember. I think." She smiled, pale face and prominent bones. "Benny would know."
"Fuck Benny," Raphael snarled. "And fuck his guns."
He asked, "Who was at the door?"
She said, "There weren't nobody."
She said, "Nobody visits me."
He said, "'Cept fer me."
Knowledge hung heavy, impregnating his words and forcing meaning into them Raphael wasn't entirely certain he understood.
Natalie smiled. "There, now," she said. "That's better, isn't it?"
Raphael's eyes narrowed. Slit, like the cat's were.
Slit, and full of fury.
She said, "Good boy."
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The air stank of ozone, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere, a circuit breaker crackled; the lights flickered dangerously and Raphael's hand lashed out.
Familiar handles. Familiar weight. Familiar steel, tainted with blood.
Nelly's eyes were on them.
"Did you know," she began, "they can't come in?"
"I think ya mentioned it," Raphael muttered. He swung himself over, staggered to his knees. Dizziness caught him for a moment, and he swayed dangerously.
"That's right," said Natalie. "They can't come in."
He said, "Lady, ain't nothin' comes in if ya lock yer door."
She nodded inelegantly, "Of course. That's right. See?" And she smiled terribly.
He said, softly, "But ya didn't."
"I didn't?"
Raphael smiled, just a little. A tiny tug at the corners of his wide lips. It hurt. "No."
"Oops." Natalie tilted her head, just a bit, to the left. She looked puzzled, if a little loopy and somewhat nervously embarrassed. "That won't do at all."
He said, "Simply won't do."
It took him a few moments full of swaying and staggering, but Raphael made it to the door. He twisted the lock. The bolt slammed into place with an air of finality.
"An ya oughta get rid of that clock," he said, roughly.
"What clock?"
He pointed at the grandfather clock. "That one."
Nelly smiled vaguely. "Oh, that's not mine."
She said, "It's yours."
She said, "I think."
8. No More Words
"Do me a favor," Raphael said.
His head had stopped spinning, and he stood by the window. Natalie sat on the floor, with the cat curled in her lap. Raphael could tell that it was alive. It seemed happy.
He thought of Michelangelo and Klunk.
He said, "Don't answer the door."
He said, "An' lock yer window, too."
"You're going, then?" Nelly asked. She didn't look very upset.
Raphael nodded. He could sense a tension in the air. And it was strange, but Natalie didn't look quite as sick as she did before. "Got business to take care of," he said. "Unfinished business."
"I know," Natalie said. "The pajama people will be here soon."
She said, "It's almost six."
"I know," said Raphael quietly. He thought. It didn't feel like six. "Ya remember what I said?"
Nelly smiled. "Don't answer the door."
"I'll visit," said Raphael.
He said, "One more round to go. I think."
She said, "Yeah."
She said, "Don't forget your clock."
9. Time Warp
"Hi," Nelly said.
"Feel better?" Natalie asked.
"The aspirin helped," Raphael admitted, as he sat up. Looking around, he noticed the apartment was a little cleaner. It also didn't smell like death. And the clock was gone.
"I'm glad you came back," she said. Her voice was almost wistful. "Nobody visits me."
"Yeh, well…" He reclaimed his sais, and got to his feet. "I got one more thing to take care of."
She said, "Yes."
He said, "Which place's Benny's?"
"Ain't nothin' matter," Nelly said. "He's outside."
She said, "I remembered, you know."
A feral grin spread across Raphael's face. His eyes glittered pink in the dim apartment. "Good," he said, as his eyes slid towards the door.
Something was shuffling out there.
"Good," he said, again. "That'll do."
He said, "Nothin' comes in if ya lock yer door."
She said, "What time is it?"
"I think," Raphael muttered, smiling, "I think it's quarter past. As time counts here."
"Ah," Nelly said. "I see."
He said, "Don't worry."
He said, "Sit tight."
Darkness fell again. Raphael watched as it enveloped everything, and Natalie vanished inside it. He watched as a pair of tiny pink lights hovered where her eyes had been.
Then he turned to the door.
His hand drifted out, fingers settling gently on the knob.
On the other side, there was a thump.
"You," he hissed, "can't come in."
10. Last Impressions
Natalie was, without a doubt, one hundred percent bat-shit crazy. Raphael was quite aware of this; had been, in fact, aware of it from almost the very beginning. But he'd also concluded the whisky hadn't been poisoned. And, crazy as she was, Nelly was alive.
So was the cat, which now sported a thick coat of sleek fur and golden eyes.
He'd taken care of Benny.
And he'd taken care of himself.
Raphael wasn't certain that he'd left her with his own mind fully intact, however. Never one to easily accept the sort of things Leonardo and Master Splinter often spoke of – such as the spiritual plains upon which they traveled during meditation, spirits in general, and other such nonsense – he nevertheless realized that the madness was more than mere madness. And his supposed infection wasn't merely a case of shared psychosis.
He still didn't remember everything. He assumed he never would. There would always be the question of how, exactly, he got into that woman's apartment in the first place.
Raphael wasn't sure he wanted to know.
All things considered, not knowing was probably better.
He did not often venture here anymore. Even from afar, he could sense an ominous shroud hovering around Natalie's building, a strange pinprick in the deepest, yet most vulnerable part of his soul. Raphael knew, somehow, that a connection had been made. They had bonded, on a spiritual level, and he could feel her pulse from three miles away.
Raphael kept away, for the most part.
It really was safer that way.
He only came round when she forgot to lock her door.
END
Author's Notes:
1. "Lethe" (literally meaning "forgetfulness" or "concealment") is one of the rivers of Hades in Greek mythology, which souls were made to drink from before being reincarnated so as not to remember their past lives.
The author is, under no circumstances, an expert in mythology. She got it from Wikipedia. To see the full article, Google "Lethe."
2. The author also does not feel inclined at this juncture to provide any would-be-confused readers a commentary explaining just what the heck is really going on, because the author is a lazy ass and would rather let people come to their own conclusions.
3. The author is certain this was written while under the influence of the space people's mind probes. Damn them.