A\N: so, this is a little something I wrote a LONG time ago. Reviews will be cherished. By the way, I'm looking for a beta reader, but I have no idea how I works, so people who are willing to explain\ do it for me, please let me know.
In another note, I'm soooo glad for the reviews on 'At Least We Stole The Show'. I'm working on that, but this chapter is a real pain in my ass. So thanks for everyone who helped- heck, thanks for everyone who thought about helping me! I hope that chapter will be done with next week, but i mot sure.
One last thing- I'm working on another story, that the first chapter of will be typed soon- it's already written- and then I'll try to spend all my time on the little chapter from my human au.
Hope you enjoy. Reviews are god!
Have a good life!
Something…something is wrong with his head.
He can't stop think about what he sees in his dreams. In his meditations. Every time he closes both of his eyes in the same time.
All he does is just training. All day long.
He… sometimes he gets on Raphe's nerves on purpose, and doesn't stop calling him names until his hot-headed brother knocks him out cold. He… he doesn't under-understand wh-why he see it.
His brothers' death. His father's death. His friends' death.
Everyone who ever talked, or touched, or looked, or listened to him.
It's not… it's not all.
He can see his brothers move before they know they will move. He can see his enemies strike before they know they will. He knows what show will be on the TV before Mikey turn it on. He knows his father's advice before he offers it. He knows what there will be on the table before he knows what's on the fridge.
He can see… everything.
He stopped eat.
He stopped watching his stupid TV show.
He stopped talking to his brothers.
But the last thing wasn't his fault- how could he talk to any of them, when every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is them, screaming in pain, begging for him to save them. How can he talk to Splinter when he knows exactly when, where, and from what the old rat will die from?
He knows he would probably die too, soon. He doesn't find time or will to care about that. Actually, he is looking forwards to that.
It was hard to determined why he didn't just killed himself. But every time he thought about it all of his body shook and everything inside him told him that this is wrong. That he can't kill himself. That it is not honorable, that his is not right. he was raised to cherish and respect all life, including his own.
He couldn't stop draw them too. What he saw. He just couldn't. there must be couple hundreds of the sketches by now, all of them in is drawer. He always had some kind of talent for drawing. He never used colors, and never went out of the real world. He stopped himself in the borders of surreal. There was no point in wandering, or in imagining what ifs.
He knew he need to talk to someone about what he feels. That he needed to stop drawing the deaths, the agony, the pain. That he needed to afford himself imagine another world, where their fate wouldn't be death. Where they were not born to die.
He was sure of that.
Until… until he the day when the death of his father, master, sensei was meant to happened.
He watched with long-dead eyes how the sword that meant to kill his father got near the rat's throat, waited for the beginning of the end to accord. For everything to change.
He watched.
And waited.
And… it didn't happen. The Foot soldier sword was thrown to the floor, drooped from his moving hand. It took him a second to understand what happened. Donatello came behind the Foot and stabbed him, right in the back. His father, full of sweat and wounds and cuts and pain, stood there, exhausted.
But alive.
His blood still flowing in his veins.
His furry, familiar, comforting body still moves.
Still fights.
And suddenly, food had taste again.
The things he does have meaning.
And the drawings in his drawer don't have any.
But it won't last.
He knows it won't. it can't
Between their countless enemies, their arguments, their fights, their lack of worry, between the life they lead, something had to changed so they will survive. Something that will ensure their life's continuity.
So now he is staring at something he buried under junk and trash, never thought a day will come and he will use it.
It was a burner phone, one that was never activated before. But he knew there is only one phone number in the phones- Shredder's phone number. The Foot's phone number. His sworn enemies.
The phone was from that time when Shredder tried to convince him to join the Foot. The phone was a silent promise, a last get-away.
And he was about to take it.
THAT'S what needed to change.
He needed to protect his family from the agony, from the pain, from the bloodshed, from the death, from the tears and hurt and lost and sadness and from everything he saw.
Was he willing to go against everything he knew, to ignore any moral value that was inside of him, and swing his sword alongside the people he hates only so he can protect them? To spear them all of the pain?
Yes.
And that's how he knew that something is wrong with is head.