******
Scars: Raphael
******
Nothing on the farm had changed, and the bathroom was no exception. It was the exact same room where, over a decade earlier,Leo had worried over Raph and Splinter while Raphael had struggled back to life.
And now here he was. Raph ran his fingers along the chipped edge of the enameled tub, letting his mind wander. He'd wanted a place to be alone, to think about his father and his future; and the bathroom was as good a place as any. He'd come up here almost without thinking -- as if he'd been drawn by memory.
But in reality he barely remembered those days. They were nothing but a blur of pain and water and blood, mixed with the faint ghost of April's voice whispering "He'll be all right." Nothing solid remained of all he'd been through except a thin, rough-edged scar -- more jagged than most of the scars he carried -- where a wicked fragment of April's skylight had slashed his forearm.
Raphael half-laughed. His shell was criss-crossed with grooved scars, his arms marked with many more. Scars were what he used to remember what he'd been through. And scars were what he'd come up here to think about . . .
*** ***
The four of them had settled into their roles early on. Michaelangelo was the youngest, the baby of the family -- even though, really, they were all the same age. Mikey was smaller than the other turtles, and Splinter had set Mike's "birthday" later in the year than anyone else's; so naturally they'd begun thinking of Mike as the youngest brother.
Donatello was the student, the inquisitive one, the "gifted" brother who could fix and invent things. Donnie was the one you went to for advice and help with your studies; the quiet thinker of the family.
Leonardo, of course, was the oldest, the natural leader and the most serious martial artist. He was the one who listened attentively when Splinter was talking, who always finished his chores and worked hardest on his katas. Leo was the favored son.
And, for lack of a better role, Raphael had become the rebel.
He couldn't match Michaelangelo's cheerful good humor or Donatello's brilliance -- and though he was better at sparring than Leo, the long complex sequences of katas grated on Raph's impatient soul. It hadn't taken very long before he discovered that he couldn't outdo any of his brothers on their own terms. Instead he'd begun insisting on living life on *his* terms. His way or the high way. And if Splinter, his brothers and the rest of the world didn't like it, that was their tough luck.
Looking back he supposed he'd done it in a bid for attention -- Donnie'd mentioned something once about middle children rebelling in an effort to get their parents to notice them.
And Splinter had noticed him, all right -- but somehow it never seemed to be a good thing. Every stupid thing he'd done to act out had been met with a reprimand; his small acts of stubborn rebellion were answered with a frustrated shake of the head; and more than once growing up he'd caught Splinter watching him with a sad, puzzled, what-am-I-going-to-do-with-him look. Of course, he'd done some things right -- and they'd been met with praise and pride -- but it had always been the wrong things that Raphael remembered. That puzzled look had stuck in his memory, and so had all the insinuations that went with it. He knew he wasn't much of a son.
And he wasn't really sure that Splinter loved him. He knew *he'd* never be able to love someone as boneheaded, hot-tempered and difficult as himself. Through his childhood, his adolescence and even his adulthood, that ugly, sneaking little thought was always in the back of his mind.
*Your father doesn't love you.*
He'd tried to shake it, but had never quite succeeded. It had always been there, joined from time to time by another:
*Why should he? He's got Leo.*
No wonder he'd never had much luck getting along with Leonardo. In Raph's mind, Leo was everything he wasn't -- disciplined, obedient, calm.
Loved.
Raphael had gone through life with that bladelike thought. Every time Leo did something right, the knife in his heart twisted again;until finally his heart was as scarred as his shell and anger was second nature to him. He'd always believed that things would always be that way.
Until four days ago.
*** ***
Splinter was dying, and all of them knew it. Of course, he'd been dying for years now; his back fused by arthritis, his vision dimmed by cataracts and his breathing made more and more shallow by a long succession of respiratory problems.
But this was different. The last day was coming, and coming soon. Mikey never left Splinter's side, except for when Donatello dragged him to bed and made him lie down, or pulled him into the kitchen and force-fed him. Leonardo spent long hours alone, practicing or staring into space. Donatello went about in his quiet way, seeing to it that his youngest and oldest brothers slept and ate, that their home was clean and that everyone was cared for.
And Raphael tried not to think of what would happen when Splinter was not there. Even if he wasn't sure that Splinter loved him, Raphael knew that he loved Splinter -- as deeply as a son could. The thought of the rat's death was enough to make him want to scream, to sob, to withdraw into his shell and never, ever come back out. He couldn't think about it head-on -- he'd go mad. So he tried not to think about it at all.
** I never thought I'd lose
** I only thought I'd win
** I never dreamed I'd feel
** This fire beneath my skin
"Raph." Michaelangelo, his usually youthful face made old by sorrow and lack of sleep, appeared in the doorway of Splinter's room. "*He* wants you."
Unprepared, Raph opened his mouth to protest -- then closed it again. Whatever last lecture he was in for, he could take it. He followed Mikey into a dim, warm bedroom that smelled faintly of incense and tea, the walls hung with rice-paper scrolls depicting scenes of Japan. Raphael crossed to stand by Splinter's bed, not meeting the rat's eyes. He was afraid if he did he'd burst into tears.
Splinter stirred himself from the half-sleep that had become his days, gesturing weakly at Mikey. "Michaelangelo . . . please . . . leave us."
"What?" His forehead creased into a frown of protest. "But, Master Splinter . . . "
"Please, my son. I must . . . speak . . . to your brother. Alone."
Michaelangelo glanced uncertainly at Raph, then bowed. "All right, sensai."
Raphael watched his brother's retreating back until the door swung shut. Then he heard Splinter say, "Raphael. Sit here . . . by me."
How many memorable lectures had been prefaced with *those* words? Raph complied, venturing a glance at Splinter's face. The old rat's eyes shone with far more awareness than they'd held lately. He searched Raph's face silently -- whether searching for words or gathering strength, Raphael couldn't be sure. But after a long moment, Splinter began to speak.
"Raphael." The one word seemed to take a lot out of Splinter, and he paused. His breathing was painfully audible in the still room. "Look at me."
Raph lifted his eyes back up from studying the rug, his brown eyes meeting Splinter's jet-black ones. Something shone there -- an emotion so strong and deep it was almost alien. Fear, joy, pride, pain? Raphael wasn't really sure which emotion it was.
Splinter raised a thin, fragile hand to Raph's face. His touch was as light as a wisp of steam, fingertips trembling with exertion from the simple task of lifting his hand. "My son." Splinter's voice was charged with the same undefinable emotion that lit his eyes. There was another long, expectant pause. Then the rat's hand dropped to the bed, and with as deep a breath as he could manage, Splinter began speaking.
"You have always been a . . . puzzle . . . to me, Raphael. Many times I have wondered why you were so unlike your brothers." A pause.
*Here it comes.* Raph braced himself for one last lecture on self-discipline.
"My master Yoshi . . . had a saying . . . that the sight of the dying sees all that the living cannot view. And *I* see now . . ." Splinter drew in a ragged breath, "That you saw my puzzlement, and mistook it . . . for something else. I allowed you . . . to see what only I should have known. And I realize now . . . that in doing this . . . I have wounded you."
Raph met Splinter's eyes in confusion. *What?*
The black eyes closed momentarily, as if gathering strength. Then Splinter continued. "In my eyes you have seen disappointment and confusion . . . and you believed that I was disappointed in *you*. That I was confused by *your* failure. But I tell you now . . ." Another breath, this one considerably more ragged. "That it was my own failure which so confused me . . . with which I was disappointed. I could not understand . . . why my training . . . failed to make you like your brothers." The eyes flicked open. "Like . . . Leonardo."
Raph opened his mouth to form some sort of protest -- but a weak shake of Splinter's head silenced him before he spoke.
"What I say . . . must be said, Raphael. While there is yet time." Splinter's eyes caught Raph's. "Only now . . . in my dying . . . do I see how unfair I was to you, my son. You are not . . . your brother. That I ever tried to make you into him . . . is my shame." The frail hand reached out for his. "Too often in your young life . . . you saw disappointment in my eyes . . . when you should have seen pride. For I should have been proud . . . of you. I should have been proud from the first."
Raphael felt hot tears spring up in his eyes. He could recognize the look in Splinter's eyes now.
Regret. And pride.
And love.
Splinter nodded weakly at the recognition that was welling up in Raphael's face. "I have little time left in this world, Raphael. But I hope . . . that when I am gone . . . that you will remember what I am about to say. I hope that it will . . . replace . . . all the scars I have caused you." Splinter's free hand again lifted to Raphael's face.
"I love you, my son. I am proud of you. Not for what you have accomplished . . . not because you are like your brothers . . . only because . . ." A pair of tears carved wet paths in Splinter's fur. "You are my son."
Raph raised his hand to cover Splinter's, as if by doing so he could catch and hold the fragile gift he'd just been given.
** I can't believe you love me
** I never thought you'd come
** I guess I misjudged love
** Between a father and his son
The tears won him over; and for the first and only time in his life, Raphael wept in his father's arms.
*** ***
A drop of moisture that hadn't come from the tub faucet hit Raphael's arm -- just left of the scar. Raph brushed it away with his thumb, then traced the ragged path the skylight had carved in his forearm. He bore a lot of scars; some visible, some not-so-visible. Each scar a token of some pain he'd endured.
But it was time his scars stopped ruling his life -- time he stopped keeping score.
In his mind's eye, Raphael called up every hurtful look he could remember in Splinter's eyes, every kata he'd ever failed, every lecture he'd ever received.
His wandering eyes caught a red-brown smudge on the side of the tub. Raph leaned closer, ran his thumb over the smudge. Blood. Maybe even his blood, from over a decade ago.
Raph ran through his memories one more time -- and then, one by one, he replaced them with Splinter's words. *I love you, my son. I am proud of you.*
He rubbed the side of the bathtub vigorously, until the smudge disappeared; then he brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Thanks, Splinter." He mumbled. "Thank you . . . . Now I know."
A lound *creak* from the hallway caught Raphael's attention, and without even looking he knew who was out there.
Leonardo . . .
*****************************************************************************************************************************
*** Continued in Chapter Four ***
Scars: Raphael
******
Nothing on the farm had changed, and the bathroom was no exception. It was the exact same room where, over a decade earlier,Leo had worried over Raph and Splinter while Raphael had struggled back to life.
And now here he was. Raph ran his fingers along the chipped edge of the enameled tub, letting his mind wander. He'd wanted a place to be alone, to think about his father and his future; and the bathroom was as good a place as any. He'd come up here almost without thinking -- as if he'd been drawn by memory.
But in reality he barely remembered those days. They were nothing but a blur of pain and water and blood, mixed with the faint ghost of April's voice whispering "He'll be all right." Nothing solid remained of all he'd been through except a thin, rough-edged scar -- more jagged than most of the scars he carried -- where a wicked fragment of April's skylight had slashed his forearm.
Raphael half-laughed. His shell was criss-crossed with grooved scars, his arms marked with many more. Scars were what he used to remember what he'd been through. And scars were what he'd come up here to think about . . .
*** ***
The four of them had settled into their roles early on. Michaelangelo was the youngest, the baby of the family -- even though, really, they were all the same age. Mikey was smaller than the other turtles, and Splinter had set Mike's "birthday" later in the year than anyone else's; so naturally they'd begun thinking of Mike as the youngest brother.
Donatello was the student, the inquisitive one, the "gifted" brother who could fix and invent things. Donnie was the one you went to for advice and help with your studies; the quiet thinker of the family.
Leonardo, of course, was the oldest, the natural leader and the most serious martial artist. He was the one who listened attentively when Splinter was talking, who always finished his chores and worked hardest on his katas. Leo was the favored son.
And, for lack of a better role, Raphael had become the rebel.
He couldn't match Michaelangelo's cheerful good humor or Donatello's brilliance -- and though he was better at sparring than Leo, the long complex sequences of katas grated on Raph's impatient soul. It hadn't taken very long before he discovered that he couldn't outdo any of his brothers on their own terms. Instead he'd begun insisting on living life on *his* terms. His way or the high way. And if Splinter, his brothers and the rest of the world didn't like it, that was their tough luck.
Looking back he supposed he'd done it in a bid for attention -- Donnie'd mentioned something once about middle children rebelling in an effort to get their parents to notice them.
And Splinter had noticed him, all right -- but somehow it never seemed to be a good thing. Every stupid thing he'd done to act out had been met with a reprimand; his small acts of stubborn rebellion were answered with a frustrated shake of the head; and more than once growing up he'd caught Splinter watching him with a sad, puzzled, what-am-I-going-to-do-with-him look. Of course, he'd done some things right -- and they'd been met with praise and pride -- but it had always been the wrong things that Raphael remembered. That puzzled look had stuck in his memory, and so had all the insinuations that went with it. He knew he wasn't much of a son.
And he wasn't really sure that Splinter loved him. He knew *he'd* never be able to love someone as boneheaded, hot-tempered and difficult as himself. Through his childhood, his adolescence and even his adulthood, that ugly, sneaking little thought was always in the back of his mind.
*Your father doesn't love you.*
He'd tried to shake it, but had never quite succeeded. It had always been there, joined from time to time by another:
*Why should he? He's got Leo.*
No wonder he'd never had much luck getting along with Leonardo. In Raph's mind, Leo was everything he wasn't -- disciplined, obedient, calm.
Loved.
Raphael had gone through life with that bladelike thought. Every time Leo did something right, the knife in his heart twisted again;until finally his heart was as scarred as his shell and anger was second nature to him. He'd always believed that things would always be that way.
Until four days ago.
*** ***
Splinter was dying, and all of them knew it. Of course, he'd been dying for years now; his back fused by arthritis, his vision dimmed by cataracts and his breathing made more and more shallow by a long succession of respiratory problems.
But this was different. The last day was coming, and coming soon. Mikey never left Splinter's side, except for when Donatello dragged him to bed and made him lie down, or pulled him into the kitchen and force-fed him. Leonardo spent long hours alone, practicing or staring into space. Donatello went about in his quiet way, seeing to it that his youngest and oldest brothers slept and ate, that their home was clean and that everyone was cared for.
And Raphael tried not to think of what would happen when Splinter was not there. Even if he wasn't sure that Splinter loved him, Raphael knew that he loved Splinter -- as deeply as a son could. The thought of the rat's death was enough to make him want to scream, to sob, to withdraw into his shell and never, ever come back out. He couldn't think about it head-on -- he'd go mad. So he tried not to think about it at all.
** I never thought I'd lose
** I only thought I'd win
** I never dreamed I'd feel
** This fire beneath my skin
"Raph." Michaelangelo, his usually youthful face made old by sorrow and lack of sleep, appeared in the doorway of Splinter's room. "*He* wants you."
Unprepared, Raph opened his mouth to protest -- then closed it again. Whatever last lecture he was in for, he could take it. He followed Mikey into a dim, warm bedroom that smelled faintly of incense and tea, the walls hung with rice-paper scrolls depicting scenes of Japan. Raphael crossed to stand by Splinter's bed, not meeting the rat's eyes. He was afraid if he did he'd burst into tears.
Splinter stirred himself from the half-sleep that had become his days, gesturing weakly at Mikey. "Michaelangelo . . . please . . . leave us."
"What?" His forehead creased into a frown of protest. "But, Master Splinter . . . "
"Please, my son. I must . . . speak . . . to your brother. Alone."
Michaelangelo glanced uncertainly at Raph, then bowed. "All right, sensai."
Raphael watched his brother's retreating back until the door swung shut. Then he heard Splinter say, "Raphael. Sit here . . . by me."
How many memorable lectures had been prefaced with *those* words? Raph complied, venturing a glance at Splinter's face. The old rat's eyes shone with far more awareness than they'd held lately. He searched Raph's face silently -- whether searching for words or gathering strength, Raphael couldn't be sure. But after a long moment, Splinter began to speak.
"Raphael." The one word seemed to take a lot out of Splinter, and he paused. His breathing was painfully audible in the still room. "Look at me."
Raph lifted his eyes back up from studying the rug, his brown eyes meeting Splinter's jet-black ones. Something shone there -- an emotion so strong and deep it was almost alien. Fear, joy, pride, pain? Raphael wasn't really sure which emotion it was.
Splinter raised a thin, fragile hand to Raph's face. His touch was as light as a wisp of steam, fingertips trembling with exertion from the simple task of lifting his hand. "My son." Splinter's voice was charged with the same undefinable emotion that lit his eyes. There was another long, expectant pause. Then the rat's hand dropped to the bed, and with as deep a breath as he could manage, Splinter began speaking.
"You have always been a . . . puzzle . . . to me, Raphael. Many times I have wondered why you were so unlike your brothers." A pause.
*Here it comes.* Raph braced himself for one last lecture on self-discipline.
"My master Yoshi . . . had a saying . . . that the sight of the dying sees all that the living cannot view. And *I* see now . . ." Splinter drew in a ragged breath, "That you saw my puzzlement, and mistook it . . . for something else. I allowed you . . . to see what only I should have known. And I realize now . . . that in doing this . . . I have wounded you."
Raph met Splinter's eyes in confusion. *What?*
The black eyes closed momentarily, as if gathering strength. Then Splinter continued. "In my eyes you have seen disappointment and confusion . . . and you believed that I was disappointed in *you*. That I was confused by *your* failure. But I tell you now . . ." Another breath, this one considerably more ragged. "That it was my own failure which so confused me . . . with which I was disappointed. I could not understand . . . why my training . . . failed to make you like your brothers." The eyes flicked open. "Like . . . Leonardo."
Raph opened his mouth to form some sort of protest -- but a weak shake of Splinter's head silenced him before he spoke.
"What I say . . . must be said, Raphael. While there is yet time." Splinter's eyes caught Raph's. "Only now . . . in my dying . . . do I see how unfair I was to you, my son. You are not . . . your brother. That I ever tried to make you into him . . . is my shame." The frail hand reached out for his. "Too often in your young life . . . you saw disappointment in my eyes . . . when you should have seen pride. For I should have been proud . . . of you. I should have been proud from the first."
Raphael felt hot tears spring up in his eyes. He could recognize the look in Splinter's eyes now.
Regret. And pride.
And love.
Splinter nodded weakly at the recognition that was welling up in Raphael's face. "I have little time left in this world, Raphael. But I hope . . . that when I am gone . . . that you will remember what I am about to say. I hope that it will . . . replace . . . all the scars I have caused you." Splinter's free hand again lifted to Raphael's face.
"I love you, my son. I am proud of you. Not for what you have accomplished . . . not because you are like your brothers . . . only because . . ." A pair of tears carved wet paths in Splinter's fur. "You are my son."
Raph raised his hand to cover Splinter's, as if by doing so he could catch and hold the fragile gift he'd just been given.
** I can't believe you love me
** I never thought you'd come
** I guess I misjudged love
** Between a father and his son
The tears won him over; and for the first and only time in his life, Raphael wept in his father's arms.
*** ***
A drop of moisture that hadn't come from the tub faucet hit Raphael's arm -- just left of the scar. Raph brushed it away with his thumb, then traced the ragged path the skylight had carved in his forearm. He bore a lot of scars; some visible, some not-so-visible. Each scar a token of some pain he'd endured.
But it was time his scars stopped ruling his life -- time he stopped keeping score.
In his mind's eye, Raphael called up every hurtful look he could remember in Splinter's eyes, every kata he'd ever failed, every lecture he'd ever received.
His wandering eyes caught a red-brown smudge on the side of the tub. Raph leaned closer, ran his thumb over the smudge. Blood. Maybe even his blood, from over a decade ago.
Raph ran through his memories one more time -- and then, one by one, he replaced them with Splinter's words. *I love you, my son. I am proud of you.*
He rubbed the side of the bathtub vigorously, until the smudge disappeared; then he brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Thanks, Splinter." He mumbled. "Thank you . . . . Now I know."
A lound *creak* from the hallway caught Raphael's attention, and without even looking he knew who was out there.
Leonardo . . .
*****************************************************************************************************************************
*** Continued in Chapter Four ***