Disclaimer:…Rah, ta-ta, TA-TA!!!!!!……………….....(???I don't know…*shakes head*)
Chapter Fifteen
Owen disappeared, only to reappear in his apartment for the third time that night.
'Man, what a night!' He tiredly ran a hand through his white tossed hair, tossing down his sword, of which was still in its sheath. It clanked loudly against the hard wood floor. However, this time he did not take off his coat. Instead he made a beeline for the fridge. Finally able to empty his pockets of those damn packs, he deposited one after the other into the small refrigerator. That was until he opened the inside of his jacket and froze.
The inside of his jacket was stained with blood.
He was bleeding.
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Leo sighed as he closed the door after himself. Donatello left his shoulder, and without a word, went to his room and slammed his door.
Leo winced.
So did Raph.
Their eyes met.
"So what do we do now, fearless leader?" Raph spoke. Leo couldn't help but notice Raph's emphasis on "fearless leader." Sure, it wasn't the first time that he had used the name, he had said it many times before, but this time, it was different. It seemed less sarcastic and more truthful than it once was, although that was still pretty sarcastic.
But not as much so.
Leo sighed; bring a hand to his hairless cranium.
"Well, I guess, the first thing that we should do…is sleep." His direction was kept simple, but meant much more. He was exhausted, and he knew that Raph was too; the bags under Raph's eyes were enough evidence of that.
"Well, then, I guess, I should head to bed then." And with that, Raph retreated to his own room. Leo watched go, waiting until the turtle was completely out of sight before turning away. Was it just him, or did it seem that Raph was showing a little bit more respect that he use to?
Leo sighed once again before following the footsteps of his brother. He did not have the energy to think right now.
All he had the energy to do now was sleep.
'But Mikey isn't home yet!'
Mikey's a big boy, he would subsist.
Leo fell into his bed without another thought, and for the first time in hours, he slept soundly.
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Mikey watched on from the relative safety of the large tree, blending right in. Underneath him, the hospital staff busily attended to Centrice.
He watched as they carried her inside, and to Mike's relief, a stretcher was provided for easier transport.
His job was almost complete, but not quite. He waited, watching the interaction between the hospital staff and the front desk.
'Take her to room 312. It's empty.' There was a nod, and she was whisked away. Mike read their lips with ease as he stored away the important information.
'Room, 312. Got it.'
Behind him, night became dawn as the sun began its roll over the horizon.
'I had better get home.' He leapt from the tree, immediately taking to the retreating shadows. Lifting the nearby manhole cover, he disappeared inside.
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Owen opened his jacket to inspect the wound, but to his surprise, there was none.
'Just all of this blood…' His entire front was stained with the red liquid; his black midriff clung to his chest. He removed his coat entirely only to see the cause of the problem.
One of his pockets at been cut through entirely, splitting the bag of blood that was inside.
~
With a mighty heave, he hurled himself into the air, sailing over Trevor's head. Trevor followed Owen's overhead arc with his gun, shooting round after round, but to no prevail.
~
Well not quite. One of those bullets had hit its target, but only managed to rip through his coat, splitting the blood bag into two.
Owen cursed, ripping off the jacket and the midriff. Although his skin was stained with blood, his well built chest and muscle tone glowed lightly in the poorly lit room.
He sighed.
He would need a shower.
Frowning, he gathered up the stained clothing before heading for the bathroom.
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Mikey entered the empty lair. He didn't need to ask. Everyone was asleep. With a sigh he headed for his own bedroom, but only to be stopped by the sound of muffled sniffling.
It came from Don's room.
With a breath, his heart broke. It had been a while since he had seen Don cry, but tonight, it occurred more than he wanted it to.
He knocked softly.
The sniffling stopped just as suddenly, but there was no answer.
'That's as good an invitation as any.' With that Mike opened the unlocked door, peering inside. Donatello was on his hands and knees, his back to the door. He seemed to be scrubbing vigorously at the floor, cleaning it. Michelangelo stepped inside.
"Do you need some help?" He knew that cleaning the floor had been his job, but now Donatello seemed to be doing it. Actually, there was nothing on the floor anymore. It sparkled under the suds, but Don still proceeded to scrub viciously, the tears running down his cheeks, mingling with the suds on the floor. Mike's heart shattered into even smaller pieces with the sight of his brother in such distress.
Without a second thought, he approached the turtle on the floor, with the intentions to give Don a well needed hug. But on his approach, Donny turned suddenly. Hissing, he pushed Mike away, losing his own balance and falling to the floor.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!!!" He shrieked as Mike backed up, completely thrown. Donatello's quiet sobs echoed in the otherwise silent room. Eyes red, Donatello looked up once again.
"I'm a monster." He stated quietly before getting up and heading towards the bathroom, sobs still racking his body. Mike followed, more out of concern than anything else. Don washed his hands, but to no prevail; the blood would not disappear. He scrubbed harder, more furiously, only stopping when his hands were tinted red, his blood rushing to the surface. But, it seemed like no matter what he did, the blood was still there. Actually, it had grown; his entire body was covered in the blood.
The blood of his girlfriend.
No, he had to scrub himself clean. Otherwise, he did not deserve anything.
He wouldn't deserve his brothers.
He wouldn't deserve Centrice.
He wouldn't deserve any of those things. However, he did deserve one thing….
He deserved to be dead.
He rushed back, brushing past Michelangelo, of who stood at the doorway. Falling to the floor, Donatello continued his scrubbing once again.
Mikey walked back over to him, leaning down. He waited until he met eye contact with the distressed turtle before speaking.
"It's clean, Donny, you're finished." Mike reached for the scrub brush, but Don pulled it back, just as quickly.
"No! It's dirty!!!" He pushed Mike's invading hands away before turning back. His fist came up, his intended target, Mike's face. But he could not carry through. Mike watched just continued to watch Donny, his face etched with worry and concern for his brother.
Donatello dropped his hand, finally falling into the turtle's embrace. It was the most he could do to keep himself from crying all over again. However, that did not seem to be enough, for the tears ran down his cheek once again despite his tries.
Prying the wet scrub brush from Donatello's loose grasp, Mike comforted the turtle, tossing the scrub brush half way across the room.
"No, it's clean Donny. You're clean." Donatello's tears ran down his cheeks once again, but this time, they landed on Mike's shoulder. Mike clutched onto his brother has he cried, feeling his own eyes weld up.
"You're clean, Donny. Clean."
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Owen ran his hand though his wet hair. He was exhausted, but he knew that he could not sleep now.
He still had unfinished business. He had made a promise that he was determined to keep. Putting on clean clothes, he neglected his jacket. It was still dirty. He would have to wash it by hand. However, his hand fished through jacket's pocket.
Soon, the IP twirled between his fingers once again.
He would need this.
Frowning, he looked out of his window. The sun shined brightly through the open curtains. It hurt his eyes, his skin protested, but he would live.
Most vampires could not even last that long in the sunlight.
However, he was not like most vampires.
Retrieving an old baseball cap, a hat, and a sports jacket, he threw them on. Looking in the full length mirror near the door he examined himself.
'Not my style, but it will do.' He placed his hands on the doorknob, turning it accordingly. It felt so weird, but he knew that he would have to blend in, just this once.
For the first time in years, he used the front door.
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Allison Gordon fumbled with her keys, finally opening the door.
She was beyond tired.
Closing the door, she moaned. Her uniform was dirty; Iodine stained her clothing.
Sighing, she moved to her room, only to come back out minutes later. Her hair in a ponytail, her clothes just sweats; she sat at the kitchen table.
Offhandedly, she realized how quiet it was; usually Tracy would have been up making breakfast. However, this morning, there was nothing. It was just…quiet.
'Well maybe she slept in today; she has been awfully tired lately.' Without giving it another thought, she poured herself a glass of orange juice. Sitting down at the table, she picked up her mail.
'Bills, bills, bills.' Dejected, she dropped them all onto the table. It seemed the more she worked, the less money they had. Ever since the divorced, it seemed she as though she had to work twice as hard just to stay at the same income. That meant that there was enough food on the table, but that also meant that she had to spend more and more time away from her daughter. Tracy was going more and more every day, and she was missing it. Soon Tracy would be all grown up, and Allison wouldn't even know her anymore. She dreaded that day.
However, she would make up for it. Well, at least try to.
'We'll go out and do something today, anything that she wants.' Anything for her little girl. However, something else caught her attention. She turned her head just as an envelope slid under the door.
'Hello?' She walked over to the plain envelope, picking it up and flipping it between her hands. There was nothing written on it, no address, no return address. Just a white, plain, envelope.
'That's weird.' However, her curiosity got the best of her. Shaking it, she realized how thick and heavy it was between her fingers.
'Just open it!' Her curiosity screamed at her. Her fingers began to rip away at top of the envelope. Just then, the phone rang.
"Hello?" She struggled with the envelope while holding the phone between her ear and shoulder. The person on the other end cleared his throat.
"Are you Allison Gordon?" She furrowed her brow. She did not recognize the man's voice, but she answered back anyways, still working the envelope in the meantime.
"Yes, this is she. May I ask who's speaking please?" She kept her voice polite and proper, a great contrast to the slight aggravation she was actually feeling.
'Why won't this thing open?' There was a tear and a rip, but the envelope still stuck. Just barely, she was able to pull out the letter itself. She noticed that even with the letter out, the envelope was still thick. However, she did not get time to think about it. The man on the phone was silent, turning away to talk so someone in the background. Meanwhile, she eyed the letter; it was sealed (much to her annoyance). She marveled at the quality of the paper. The outside of the paper said nothing. Well, she thought that it said nothing until she turned it over. A clear, neat script decorated the front.
'Allison Gordon' it read.
Now excited, she opened the letter, reading silently as the man on the phone talked on. It was not until the name of her daughter did she actually begin to pay attention, finally understanding the meaning of the anonymous letter.
"Well I am sorry to inform you Mrs. Gordon, but your daughter," he paused, sighing. "She has passed away, a bullet through her chest."
The envelope fell from her grasp, hitting the floor a thud, its contents spilling.
Seventy one-hundred dollar bills spilled from the envelope, enveloping the floor with green. Shaking, she read the letter, the first of many tears spilling down her cheek.
The neat script on the inside mimicked the scripted on the outside, but this time it's beauty did not affect her.
This time, its words did.
She dropped the letter along with the phone.
Sobbing she fell into the empty chair, her own heart feeling the same emptiness. Forgotten, the man on the phone talked on. However, the letter drifted down, landing on the green backs, also forgotten. There were few words written on the page. How ever they meant the world.
'I am sorry for your loss; and so was she.'
***
Whoa! Really intense, even for me. Poor Donny, poor Owen, Poor Mikey….POOR EVERYBODY *sobs*……
AUTHOR'S NOTES TIME :D
Author's notes: Ok. I felt that I had to explain Donny's situation a little bit better. I didn't want anything to be misinterpreted. There is a part in here when Donny is scrubbing the "blood" off of himself. This, of course, is only his imagination. It connects to the whole "dirty" thing also. He felt dirty because his hands were "covered" in Centrice's blood. The whole "scrubbing the floor" thing was also connected. He was trying to wash away his own sins away, cleaning his slate anyway possible….I don't know how to explain it exactly.
It was like the floor represented his soul, and that if he scrubbed hard enough, everything would be wiped clean. Get it. Good.
On to the next chapter!!! R and R
