Scraping Heaven: Splinter

Splinter had known physical and mental anguish before this. Before his mutation, before he was a father, he could recall the hot, red terror of Yoshi's blood as the Shredder slew his master and flung the corpse at Splinter's paws. He could remember the blind, panicked instinct to scurry away into the dark, and the gnawing hunger and constant fear that a domesticated rat would feel after being cast out into the alleys of New York City.

He remembered the torpor of sensations, of living by instinct instead of thought, until the bewildering day that he had encountered that can of mutagen. Splinter could recall the moment when he held a piece of newspaper between his shaking paws and the strange markings became words that he could understand. He remembered, too, the searing transition from being an ordinary rat to being a father, how it felt to look at his children and love them so fiercely he'd happily give up everything he had to keep them safe. And, he remembered the brilliant joy when he realized that his sons loved him in return.

It was the same bittersweet solace he now took, as he slumped back against his shackles.

The intense mediation had left him trembling with exhaustion, but for the moment, the beloved faces of his sons seared like a brand in his rapidly failing thoughts. Splinter lingered there, in the twilight between longing and reality for as long as his frail spirit and his faltering mental state would allow. Even as the beloved images of his sons dribbled away like water, he clung to that moment with everything he had.

He mentally cradled the new memory, let it linger behind his slammed shut eyes, and let it transport him far away from being a prisoner. Exhaling a shaking breath, Splinter cobbled together the jumbled images.

Rather than the Lair, his sons seemed to be in a quiet room with white walls, a cheerful gingham curtain and a wooden floor. They were huddled together around the single glow of a candle that wanly flickered between them, and the only sound was the chatter of birds and the scrape of the wind through the enormous trees outside. Splinter could tell from this that his sons had not only left the Lair, but they had left the city together.

Wherever they were now, they were together and they were safe. Splinter did not concern himself with how his sons had fled the city. It mattered little now.

Exhaling again, he lovingly recalled each of his sons. Michelangelo, normally so joyful, and expressive, had sat sagely with his hands folded with a concentration that rivaled Leonardo's. Any trace of his youthful antics had been replaced by a strange maturity that left Splinter proud and troubled at the same time.

Leonardo, his oldest son, had once been resolute and certain. Apparently, the separation and the loss had scarred Leonardo, because he was now slumped over with weariness and a surrender that made Splinter's heart ache. Leonardo seldom shed tears, and now, he had been openly weeping.

Donatello, once so serene and docile, had a troubled scowl and a hardness to his eyes that Splinter had never seen before.

And Raphael….Splinter could not stop the tears from trickling down his cheeks though he did not open his eyes. Raphael looked…broken. The left side of his face was covered with the dark smear of bruises, his left arm and foot were cradled in blankets, and his eyes were huge and shadowed with unspoken agony. He was covered in scars that Splinter had never seen before, a fierce scraping set of lines that seemed to go from his jaw to his hip, and all on the left side of his body. What in the world had happened to Raphael to inflict such wounds?

Splinter knew his sons had not been in the Lair when he had been kidnapped. He knew, from the repeated beatings and tortures of the Foot, that his sons had escaped their reach.

It seemed that when the last of the light finally dimmed, and went out, so did the last of his strength.

Normally after such a draining experience, he would have shuffled off to the comforting familiarity of a warm cup of tea, the soft refuge of his bed, or maybe a distracting chat with one of his sons. But now, he had nothing but the abysmal grey concrete, the shackles on his wrists, and the fence digging into his flesh.

His eyes slid dully to the concrete, to see the slant of evening sunlight sliding through the broken window. How many days had passed? He grimaced, but could not force his muddled thoughts to clear.

Aside from the occasional beating, the jeers, and the uncertainty, he was mostly ignored by the Foot recruits that occasionally walked by. On rare occasion, the Shredder would venture down, place his metal gauntlets to his throat, savor the trickle of blood and threaten Splinter with death. Splinter had not spoken a word since his capture, and he knew as yet another day slid by, his time was growing short.

Splinter did not know how his ending would come about. At first, he thought that they intended to kill him outright, particularly after he refused to answer any of the questions spat at him. He didn't even speak.

Aside from a dribble of water flung over his head to add to his torment, he had nothing to eat, or drink since he had been caught. Dully, Splinter wondered if they were cruel enough to simply leave his chained corpse to rot. He imagined that they would cut him down and dispose of his remains, as an extremely large rat in a tattered robe was likely to attract unwanted attention.

It didn't matter how his life ended now. His sons were safe.