Sweat and ache. Don disliked both, but he found himself grateful for the tethering hurt that rippled through his arms, as he stooped again. Grunting, he stabbed the earth with the shovel, drove it in until the soil opened like a wound. He drew a shuddering breath as he tossed the dirt into one of the haphazard piles around the mouth of the hole. At his right, Raphael just snarled and slammed his shovel downward, as if attacking an enemy. Leo's sobbing had stopped until he was grim and silent as he flung another shovelful over his shoulder. They were digging Mikey's grave.
There were no sounds except the perversely cheerful bird song, the scrape of wind against leaves, a snorted back sob, and the clang of shovels hitting dirt. Don paused to eye the cloudless abyss above his head, before thrusting the shovel back into the dirt. Beside him, Raphael snarled as he scraped away yet another tear with a knuckle ground into his cheek. Don took great care to ignore his weeping, knowing it would only embarrass Raph. Donny let his exhausted brain dredge up the fragmented memories of the early morning. Raphael had snarled out that he was carrying Mikey into the farm house, and snatched the corpse, sheets and all, up in one shaking armful. Leo met Donny's eyes, and only gave him a curt nod as Don shrugged indifferently. He was too numb to care or fuss over such a minor detail. If carrying Mikey brought Raphael some measure of solace, who the hell was Donny to take that away?
It was forever seared in Don's memory, when he watched Raphael's fingers grace Mikey's cheek, as if seeking certainty. A broken sigh, a sharp exhalation, and Raphael recoiled, before he suddenly scooped up Mike, hefted him high, and shuffled forward. Mikey was the lightest of all of them, and yet..Raphael moved like he was carrying a mountain up a mountain. Or maybe something too heavy and unbearable to lift.
Casey and April had stared, torn and uncertain as Raphael shuffled up the steps, and turned. His eyes were ravaged, as he looked at Casey, and jerked his head forward. Raphael's lips worked against his teeth before he stared down at Mikey, again. He scanned the porch, and scowled. He'd be damned before his baby brother was left to sprawl on the ground.
"Casey?Ya remember that big table ya keep folded up? Get it, will ya?"
From behind, April blanched. "Raph, you mean that you're going to lay Mikey out on-"
Rapahel snarled, pivoted, and roared at her. "Damned right it does, April! My baby brother ain't laying in the dirt, or on the floor! He deserves more than that!"
There was a horrible moment of cowed silence, before April withered and slank back. Casey lay a hand on her shoulder and was already up the steps.
"I'll get it, Raph. Take it easy." Casey tossed over his shoulder.
"I'll help him get it set up."
Leo's voice was barely a whisper as Casey gently brushed himself free of April and scrambled up the steps. Leo paused a moment, before following, without looking back.
Raphael slammed his eyes shut, exhaled. He turned to April. She flinched and inched backwards, clearly trying not to provoke more pain.
" 'm sorry. Ya didn't deserve that, and I'm sorry."
She said nothing, just graced his shoulders with a forgiving side hug. "You're going through hell right now, Raph. Don't be so hard on yourself, okay?"
He nodded, grateful for the kindness. "Thanks." She gave him a sliver of a smile that he didn't return.
Don would never forget the way Raph's voice and hands trembled as he finally turned to Splinter and hard, he fixed his rigid gaze at the treeline at the edge of the vacant field flanking the farm house.
"We need to get this-" He lowered his eyes to Mikey, "taken care of. Now."
Splinter scrubbed tears away from his eyes as he hoarsely shuffled forward. "You are right, my son. But, please, be patient, and allow us the time to prepare and say our goodbyes."
Raphael grit his teeth, and shook his head. "We may not have that much time, Master Splinter."
Don recoiled at the realization that Raphael had just referred to the corpse in his arms as an "it." A thing. Not Mikey any more. That thought shouldn't have felt like his very breath had suddenly grown teeth and was tearing his throat.
"Don?" Raphael was peering at him, uncertainly, eye ridge raised, clearly waiting for an answer. "What do you need, Raph?"
Another heavy sigh, as Raphael carefully shifted Mike's weight to his other shoulder.
"We gonna bury him? Is that that the plan?"
Raphael's question was oddly soft and strange, as he squinted at his brothers.
Vaguely, Don remembered that he had nodded, and pointed and mumbled something he couldn't recall in the direction of the field. Whatever thought he had was gone by the sudden clang of the screen door, and Casey and Leo dragging the massive folding table out to the porch. Leo muttered something to Casey, who nodded with understanding.
"Master Splinter." Leo was remarkably composed, considering the horrible question. "What do you want done about Michaelangelo? How should we honor him?"
"Each of us will honor Michaelangelo's memory in our own way, my son. There is no incorrect way to grieve."
"Master Splinter, I don't mean disrespect, but we need to get Mikey buried." Raphael 's words were brittle, as he grimaced and pulled the sheets over Mikey's face.
"We need to get this taken care of, Master. Now."
"Raphael, I do not understand your need for urgency in this. Your family must have time to grieve."
"Master Splinter,I-" Raphael faltered, and recoiled. "Look."
Raphael sent Splinter a silent plea, as he tugged the sheet away enough to expose Mikey's 's once emerald skin was starting to take on the hue of a bruise.
A night, and almost two days, that his son's precious flesh had been without blood flow. Splinter blanched in horrified understanding. Flesh, even his son's, decayed.
As cruel and sudden as Michaelangelo's death was, Splinter could not allow their last memories of him to be his body succumbing to the ravages of time. Splinter's nose twitched at the growing stench of rot.
Recoiling, he hastily tucked Mikey's wrist back into the sheets. Softly, he whispered to Raphael, "I understand now, my son. And I am grateful that you are trying to spare your brothers of this final horror."
Raphael just nodded.
"Mr. Jones, and Leonardo, please arrange the table."
Splinter's voice was brittle, and hollow as he bowed his head. The old rat was too raw and brutalized to maintain the veneer of polite restraint.
Casey just raised an eyebrow, but wrestled the table open with Leo's help. "Where ya want this?"
Leo blanched at the question. Such a simple, stupid question that should have required a simple, stupid answer. Raphael huffed, either annoyed, or angered again. It just seemed so damn wrong to lay something as sacred as his baby brother's remains out on a plastic table, and covered with a sheet. Mikey deserved so much more than a hole in the ground and their tears. It was so damn sick and wrong that he couldn't even have a casket, unless they could hammer something together. Raphael's scowl deepened. That would take days, unless Casey or April could somehow magically procure a casket. Raphael's gut curled in distaste. A body locked up in a box, or just wrapped in a sheet and shoved in a hole. Mikey would have hated either one. Raphael watched Don and Leo, and shook his head. They were still so lost and wounded looking that they wouldn't be able to make any decisions.
"Master Splinter, where do you want the table?" Raphael did his best to keep the impatience out of his voice, as Splinter only raised those ravaged eyes out to the field.
"If it is permissable, I would like Michaelangelo to be placed in the large room, please."
Raphael said nothing, only stepping aside to allow Leo and Casey to lug the table up the porch stairs. There was the dull thud from within the house as they trudged around and set the table out, according to Splinter's wishes.
Donny, unseen, and silent, only swept past Raphael, and lingered, holding the door open. April flanked Raphael, uncertainly, as he ignored them both, and carried his dead brother into the house.
April stood in the quiet slivers of dying daylight. The door was a cheery shade of dull white, and had been familiar. Now, as she stared into the darkness of the room, she shivered inwardly. It felt like entering a grave. The tears trickled down and she sniffled, embarrassed. She nearly yelped in suprise when Don carefully embraced her.
"We wouldn't make it through this without you." He whispered, as he let her go. He had gone into the house before she could answer.
Splinter watched as the golden light of the bright afternoon spilled through the high window. Streaming down, the light bathed the whole room in a comforting shade of sepia. Splinter sighed, wearily. The room itself was large, airy, with a wonderful view of the tall oaks that surrounded the farmhouse. The wooden floor beneath his paws was worn smooth, the walls a muted ivory, complete with checkered curtains lightly fluttering from the gentle breeze. Splinter was embittered by the sun being so perversely bright, for the birdsong that swelled through the trees. How could there dare be such cheer when he was keeping his useless vigil over his precious, precious deceased son?
It was useless and futile, but Splinter threaded his paw under the still throat and forced his palm to lay across the icy flesh. There was still no breath or pulse. There hadn't been for almost two days, now. Splinter had retained the mercifully naive hope, however childish, that his youngest would somehow bounce awake with his huge grin and say it was all a joke. At one time, Michaelangelo's giggling was an irritant, but now, Splinter would have given his soul to hear it one more time. Shuffling forward, the old rat arranged the bedding yet again. He caressed Michaelangelo's forehead, yet again, starting from the cold arch of his cheek and trailing upward over his bandana. Splinter's gut clenched, fingers halting at the discoloration that had already started. Michaelangelo's once green skin was now ashen. Splinter numbly remembered that even his beloved son was beginning to decompose. Splinter grimaced as he gently tugged away at the knot that kept the mask tethered to his son's face. The cloth slithered away, and fluttered through his fingers like a dying butterfly. Splinter stared at his dead son's face and clapped a paw over his mouth to spare his living sons from the rising shriek that falted to a sob. His beloved son's face was still intact, but...Splinter shuddered, as he shook his head and retied the mask with as much haste and care his shaking fingers would allow. Bruises. Withered, molted purple from the pooling around Michaelangelo's slammed shut eyes, the edges of his mouth.
And when he exhaled to keep from sliding to the floor in grief, the sickly sweet scent of decay hit him like an unexpect fist.
"Decay." He thought, numbly. "My son's flesh is decaying."
Splinter made no attempt to stop the trickle of the tears, or the trembling. He couldn't. His soul fractured, as he put his paws to his eyes and scrubbed away the blur, trying and failing to regain his crumbling self-control. His living three sons needed him. His dead son would hate these tears.
It did nothing to stop the old rat's silent weeping. Lurching forward, he clutched at Mikey's cold, slack hand, wrapped between his paws.
April couldn't stop the sense of guilt as she put away the last frozen pizza into the ancient freezer, and stared at the empty kitchen. She had spent most of the afternoon in town, buying enough groceries and supplies to feed them all. After putting the milk in the fridge, she sighed, shut the fridge and turned to face the silence. It was so eerie and so wrong. Normally, the turtles would be merrily lounging in the make shift living room, warring over the remote and playfully griping over the limited, static-ladden channels of the televison. Splinter would sojourn out to the wilderness and return after his long walks, serene and unhindered as usual. And Casey would be either out tinkering with one of the rusted wrecks housed in the machine shed, or on a beer run.
Now, one turtle lay dead in the sun room, Casey had gone to God only knew, and the rest of the fractured family was out planning Michelangelo's funeral.
Mikey's funeral.
April bit her lip. She had no idea what they had planned for a funeral, so she was extremely uncertain now as to what would help and what would wound. God help her, she didn't want to make this worse for them.
She wasn't sure how they felt about flowers, but all funerals she had been to had some sort of floral arrangement. She set the two vases out, filled them with water. Maybe it was a stupid idea, but she hoped that they got some comfort from it. Carefully, she slid the bright sunflower into the largest vase first. It was the closest shade she could find to match Mikey's mask. A few hydrangeas in the muted blue of Leo's mask. Dark purple irises for Don. Blood red carnations for Raphael, since roses were probably too girly for his tastes. For Splinter, she chose white, and bought enough of the white lillies to enclose the rest of the flowers in a serene, protective circle.
She set aside the white scented candles, intending to give them to Splinter to burn as he wanted or not. And then, she carefully slid the silver frames from their plastic and placed them on the counter with reverence. She understood, and respected their aversion to being seen, let alone photographed. She had never shown the pictures to a living soul and kept them locked up, intending, and forgetting to hand them over from the years gone by.
It was a scant collection, true. No more than five. Were they an ordinary family, they would have walls filled with frames of their existance. Happy photos, taken from birthdays, holidays, or just documenting the transition from cherished infant to adult. April shook her head at the sense of loss. They weren't even allowed that.
Raphael