A Memory
By Starlighttwinkle
I remember joy and difficulty. Conflict and resolution. Love and hate. Family bonds. Lasting friendships. I remember laughter and tears, euphoria and pain. Every pivotal moment, every boring afternoon, every typical night.
We had our day, but we grew up.
We fought and defeated our enemies. Well, most of them anyway. The Shredder is gone, but Karai still lingers out of reach- she no longer has any power in this world, the foot is obsolete. Bishop is out there, but he hasn't caused any trouble in a long time. Of course, it wouldn't surprise me if either or both have died of old age. They were always older than us, and if I'm ancient now, they are too, even more so.
April and Casey got married, honeymooned through treks of Scotland, had kids. They're old too, their babies now adults with babies of their own. They're around quite often, so I don't feel so lonely. I've met all my great nieces and nephews, and every time I see them, the greatest flame of love and joy ignites in my heart once again, something I had been afraid of losing, but had never truly lost.
I miss my brothers and father, of course, and my heart aches with longing every time they cross my mind, which is often, and while their absence can never be filled, it's come close to that.
But I remember.
A memory triggered by a scent or sound - The baby's clothes put in the wash with their new soft detergent, Casey would open the lid and take a deep breath through his nose, "Ahh," he would breathe, "smells just like Scotland."
Topside, the familiar buildings, spaces. When I think of death I think of them. I think of things that they did. I find myself in a place that I know.
A memory triggered by a breath or sight - it was there that we stood, hidden by the black shadows of one of downtown New York City's dingy rotten alleyways, nestled between a sandwich cafe and a pawn shop. A strange mix for a strange area. Drop off your stolen goods, and pick up a sandwich if you're hungry - maybe not such a bad combination after all.
It was a sketchy place, littered with thugs and prostitutes, always the scene of the crime. It was the place people always avoided walking through, or even driving, because if you did, there would be no doubt you would run into trouble. Whether it was a mugging or a bullet through your windshield, you wouldn't like it either way. So it was no surprise we were lured here once again that night, not with the suspicious vehicles and bags - the men holding the van's trunk doors open keeping a constant vigil over their shoulders, whispered commands and dodgy attire, we had never seen anyone keep such a loving, gentle but firm hold on a duffel bag, save for Donnie. At that hour, there weren't many people out on the streets, the perfect time for an organized crime. We headed them off here in this alley, and taught them a very important lesson about what happens when you mess with our city. But they were armed, very heavily unfortunately, and we had to make our trek back home - one with a bullet in the arm, and another with said object in the leg. When one of our own is shot down, no doubt the others jump in to give the enemy what's coming to them, but of course there's always a risk that they get one more good strike in before they are cut down, and that's exactly what happened that night.
It felt like hours, the walk through the city. With Raphael's weight on mine and Leo's shoulders, we moved slower. And with that bullet in Raph's leg, we were travelling street level, so we had to be extra cautious, extra stealthy. But even if we had decided to throw our hot-headed brother across each rooftop, which I suggested, it was probably best that we didn't chance Donnie taking any big leaps, not with the blood quickly soaking the hastily tied bandage he had pulled out of his bag of tricks.
Eventually, we made our way home, and eveything after that was a blur. The memory is nothing but flashes of colour and movement- rushing for bandages, rushing for water, rushing of blood. The only one who was able to fix this was half way down for the count himself. But we made do, like always, and the night came to an end like any other, no matter how many hours longer this one turned out to be.
It was bed rest for the hot head and the genius for a little while after that, a nearly impossible feat for the rest of us. No punching bags, computers, bashing heads, inventing, motor cycling, or experimenting. They were both impossible in their own way- Raph, with his not so subtle attitude of 'let me outta this bed or I'll bash your head in' approach, and Don's sneaky head games that left you scratching your head long enough that he'd get up and walk away right in front of you without you noticing.
I remember, always with a smile, that that type of situation was almost typical. We were constantly needing patchjobs, all over our bodies, sometimes minor, sometimes major.
But, occasionally, we were unfixable.
I remember the night we lost Donnie, when we lost Raph. The two always seemed to be getting into trouble one after the other. We were broken after Donatello was killed, but Raph had been sensible and waited until it was appropriate for him to start leaving the lair again every night, when the grief wasn't quite as raw. He was eerily calm at home, but we knew what he did out there, until the night 5 years later that he had hit the panic button on his phone, and we got there too late.
A few years after that, Master Splinter got sick. Leo and I did everything that we could to keep him comfortable, but April said there was nothing we could do. He was old, but it still wasn't alright.
After that, it was just me and my oldest brother. We stayed in the lair, met April and Casey's three kids, watched them grow up. We lived in hard earned peace- the death of our family still there, but not weighing us down so much anymore. We got older, calmer. Leo didn't get to meet the generation after that though, not after he got sick too.
He was at peace with his death, but it was something that I feared more than anything. I would be the last one, the last of an extraordinary breed. I felt unworthy.
"You'll be alright, Mikey, little brother. I know you will."
But he left quietly, and I grieved, not for him as much as myself, because he was finally reunited with our lost family, and I was alone. Maybe not alone, because I loved and was loved by the family that we had joined the day that we met April.
And even if we were still a secret, even if we were not to be known, I was happy.
And I know that with my last breath will come a new joy, resurrected by death.
Because the life that we led was anything but ordinary, and I will always remember.