My heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer, my face wet with tears. I jolt awake so suddenly I hear the sound of fabric tearing. Breaths come at last, accented by hiccups and sobs I try desperately to shove back down my esophagus. I see nothing, and for an instant I fear that I am dead. Out of the corner of my eye I spy a retreating shadow, catch the pink tip of a tail flick, and I realize -hands white-knuckled, gripping fistfuls of sheet so tightly I hear the fabric struggle to stay one- I'm home. I'm in New York, in my home, in my bed. I'm not a rotting corpse staring unseeingly at mounds of dirt piled over my face. To make sure, though, I grab my shoulder and grip it, hard, digging my thumb into that spot where bullet tore through my flesh. A sharp pain rips through me and I grit my teeth, grunting. I'm alive, definitely, and awake.
My pulse begins to return to normal as I loosen my grip on the bed sheets. Despite the pitch blackness, I close my eyes. Deep shame replaces the fear in my mind as I realize that, my family has shared in my weakness. I don't actually know what I do while asleep, whether I shout or cry out, but I must do something bad enough to warrant them checking up on me.
In the beginning, someone would always come for me. Then one evening I strangled Donatello. I had him in a headlock before I fully came to. Master Splinter actually had to step in and separate us. I just wouldn't let go. Now when the nightmares come, either no one comes, or they observe from afar, like Master Splinter was doing just moments ago. Eventually i come out of it, half of the time with no idea where I am. I'm thankful that I rarely remember the dreams.
Sighing, I reach over and flip on my desk light. I flinch at the explosion of light and frown at the torn sheets huddled around my lap now. "Great," I murmur. "These are ruined."
I check the time: 4:02AM. There's no way I can go back to sleep, I tell myself, and leave the warmth of my bed. I roll my shoulders and stretch out my neck muscles, then reach for my mask.
On my way down, no one is waiting for me. I'm extremely glad for that. I check my satchel, retrieve my phone, and deactivate the system. We were able to talk Donnie into muting the system. I do hear two phones charm in the distance-a bright flash of light comes from Don's room. Feeling my stomach do flip flops, I exit the lair, re-arm, and head into the sewer.
I run for as long as my legs will allow, focusing on the burning in my thighs and calves. I can't remember exactly which way I'm meant to go, but it doesn't matter as much as just getting out does. I find that being cooped up in the lair is like torture now. I crave being outdoors, but this concrete jungle doesn't seemn to quench my thirst. It's better than nothing though.
I round the twists and turns, grab overhead pipes and catapult over heaps of rubble, shopping carts, and other refuse. I run until I can't run any longer, and when I can't run any longer, I walk. Finally when my limbs feels as though they're buzzing, and heat pin-pricks at my face and sweat drips from my brow, I stop. My satchel carries the zippo lighter, along with my stubbed out butts, and I straighten one out with my thick, stubby fingers. It takes two tries to light it and I lean my shell against a concrete wall, sucking in deeply all that delicious nicotine. As I exhale, I push away from the wall and continue walking.
"Guess I didn't need Mikey, after all," I say aloud, approaching Raphael's grave.
You wouldn't know it just by looking. The further you get into these passages, the less developed they are. There's no concrete here, just dirt. Dirt and rock and my brother.
I exhale, staring. The only way I know this is it is the red pebble. Mikey's idea. Smart, honestly.
"What were you doing, Raph?" I ask quietly, my brow knit in frustration. My eyes waver slightly.
Silence.
I expect this huge release of emotion and yet I feel anger, more than anything. Anger at believing this was some magical place where I could feel Raphael, be convinced he was still here in some way shape or form. I desperately want to feel him, but there's nothing. Suddenly I'm hit with an overwhelming urge to know-to dig into the Earth and remove layer after layer and gaze into his empty sockets. I need to know. I need to know this is real. I need to see what everyone else saw. Maybe then it'll be real for me.
I shake my head in disgust, smoke curling around my head.
"What the hell is your problem?" I mutter to myself. "Why are you even here? You know he isn't. Just go home, idiot."
So I do. I go home, and when I walk into the lair I pretend I don't see my father's worried eyes tracking me straight to the dojo. It's almost time for practice, but no one follows me inside. There's a tenseness in the lair and I know I'm causing it, but I can't force myself to stop, don't want to. I stomp into the dojo, straight up to Raph's punching bag, and let loose. My blows are awkward and amatuerish but this isn't about being perfect. Harder and harder, almost, almost... My hands are a bloody mess by the time Mikey and Don pull me away.
"I'm fine," I keep repeating. Why won't they believe I'm fine? "Let's just get on with it. Come on. Come on!"
Splinter eyes me with an expression I can't read. Annoyance? Disappointment? Probably. I meet his gaze and just...stare. What am I doing? I ask myself. This isn't me.
I'm "excused" from practice for the day. Later, Splinter says quietly, he and I should talk.
It's 6:00AM.
I find myself in my room after Don wraps my knuckles. I pace like a caged animal, mind going a thousand miles a minute. I don't intend to, but somehow I end up back in bed.
I manage to sleep for thirteen hours.
No one comes for me.
