An incredibly short chapter, the shortest one in the whole story…but necessary. Thanks for all of the interest in the story!
Chapter 7
The nightmares never completely went away, though Michaelangelo got better about hiding them. When they were really bad – when he woke up while in the very act of scrambling for his weapons – he crept out of his own room, down the darkened hallway, and into Donatello's room.
Inside, it was almost impossible to believe that his brother wasn't coming back. Unfinished and unnamed projects lay scattered across the desk. An open notebook, pages covered in Don's spiky scrawl, lay on the floor next to the desk. Three separate books were lost in the bed, their pages liberally decorated with bookmarks and more of the untidy handwriting – tracks of Don's thoughts on the subjects inside.
The only concession that anyone had yet made to the idea that Don wouldn't return: the computer was shut down.
Mike sat on the edge of the bed and wrestled with the impulse for a few minutes, before finally giving in to the only thing he could do to stop the nightmares on his own. He slid underneath the heavy pile of quilts and blankets – carefully sliding his legs past the books that were layered in there, too – and pulled the covers up to his ears.
The bed still retained the scent that was purely Don's, after more than two months. Mike tightened the blankets around his shoulders, and tried to pretend that his brother was really there – his usual refuge from nightmares. Though the nightmares before had all been self-created, brought on by too many monster movies or too much late-night reading of Stephen King books…
He stared into the darkness of the room for a long time, pondering the things his brother had left behind. What should they do with it all? The computer was easy: that should go to April. And the weapons were easy enough: they could just absorb those into the stash that belonged to the family. But the rest of it? The things that had really meant something to Don, the books that only he ever enjoyed, the notebooks and the little projects where he tested his various engineering theories – who should take over those things? Who could pick up where he left off? Who could pick up the pieces and do justice to the things and ideas that had once been important to him?
It's still Donnie's room right now, Mike decided again, as he did every time he tried to think about disbursing the assembled "stuff" that had been his brother's. It still matters to him…
Yawning hugely, he fell asleep before he could think too much about the question: why would any possessions matter to someone dead?