The Act
Master Splinter lay on a bed that was no more than thirty centimetres from the ground. Around him the large red blanket that covered him lay smooth and undisturbed. The only exception being the lump that the material made around the man himself. Two large yellow pillows lay behind his gaunt skull, though the rat did not know this, nor did he recall the silhouette of the turtle that came to join him. His frail body twitched with involuntary shivers, each jerk racking and disturbing the oppressive, closed atmosphere that hung in the room like a funeral shroud.
By the door dust had gathered over the light switch that had not been used for almost three and a half months now. Tonight the turtle that entered chose to flick the switch, the candles that had been lovingly positioned around Splinter's bed would do no good now, and the hand that had to be played would be played now. In his hand Michelangelo carried a single white candle, the small flame that burnt drowned out by the unnatural light that flooded the room.
Carrying the candle over to the bed he knelt down, his face curious to memorise the expression of his beloved Sensei before things came to there natural end. His fur was thinning around the snout, and sticking down around the ears. Though his eyes were closed there was a great deal of sleep gathered around both the inner and outer corners marring his flesh with a hideous yellow gunk. That would have to be washed off. Around his jaw line strings of silver spit hung, some damp and extended down over his mouth and onto the covers, littered in between these were dried greyish white powdery trails. Don was busy in his lab so caught up in his work that he wouldn't be able to stop him in time, and Leo was sleeping soundly. There would be no distractions now … biting on his lower lip he stood up to place the candle down on the low bedside dresser.
Master Splinter had been a great man, an honourable man. If he still possessed the faculties to understand what was about to occur then he would probably be pleased. Of thatthe boywas sure. This was no way to live out the remaining weeks or months of his life. And he wouldn't want to take his Son down with him. No, the man in the bed was not their Sensei, Leonardo had been correct about that, he was just a shell. A shell feeding needlessly and painfully off the energy of the living. Taking a deep breath he flexed his fingers before leaning over his resting father, one hand wrapping firmly around the tip of his snout, whilst the other pressed the top of the blanket over his mouth. There was no struggle, and there were no complications, it took thirty seconds, thirty seconds, and it was over. Removing his hands he straightened the covers and turned to the burning candle, a simple, coded gesture of goodbye.
Five minutes after Splinter had stopped breathing Michelangelo raised the alarm.
