Disclaimer: I lay absolutely no claim to the characters in this story. Michelangelo, Donatello, and Bishop are most certainly not mine, no matter how cool that would be. I do not get paid for this and I mean no harm. Please don't sue.
Imaginary
He didn't know for sure where he was anymore. It didn't matter. There was no past, no future, there was only now. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.
Something grabbed at his attention. Yanked him away from his former position. It was insistent, dragging at his body and mind in a way that seemed foreign, yet familiar. As through it had happened sometime before, but he didn't remember how, why or where. It didn't matter.
He had two choices, and lingered between them. In front of him lay uncertainty, and that uncertainty terrified him more than he could explain. The unknown could always be scary if you allowed it to be, but he knew that it was more than just that normal fear. Some lost part of him was aware of what lay beyond the door, and that part didn't want to go back there, especially not today. Today, something particularly heinous lay beyond that door. Behind him was a place that was familiar, a place where he was happy.
Turning around and ignoring whatever had grabbed his attention he returned to the familiar world. He looked around the place. A soft, warm breeze caressed his cheek. It wasn't hot or cold, it was comfortable. Quietly, he lay down on the soft, green grass among the flowers and gazed up at the sky. White clouds danced high above him and some part of him insisted that something was wrong with the picture. He ignored the niggling little voice. There was nothing wrong with the sky. It was his favorite color, and he liked it that way.
He didn't know anymore what was the dream and what was reality. The distinction didn't exist now, and for a brief moment he wondered if it ever had. No, if it didn't exist now whether it ever existed was irrelevant. Nothing existed beyond the moment.
Without his consent, he found himself in the doorway again. Something was definitely wrong in front of him. Something was happening that wasn't right, and shouldn't be allowed. It wasn't as physically painful as it had been in the past, but something about it was just more wrong than most of what he saw on the other side of the door. He fled from the doorway back into a world of green grass, brightly colored flowers and purple skies.
He looked around the place. A soft, warm breeze caressed his cheek. It wasn't hot, it was comfortable. Quietly, he lay down on the soft grass among the flowers and gazed up at the sky. White clouds danced high above him and some part of him insisted that something was wrong with the picture. He ignored the niggling little voice. There was nothing wrong with the sky. It was his favorite color and he liked it that way. A vague sense of deja vu tickled the back of his mind, but he easily suppressed it.
"Hello."
He looked around him for the source of the intrusion and found no one. If no one was there then it didn't matter. He looked back up at the purple sky and watched the clouds dance.
"Hello." The voice prompted a second time.
Fine, if it wanted to talk, he'd talk. "Hello." He responded simply.
"What are you doing?"
"Watching the sky. It's a pretty sky. Do you like it?" He asked. Something about the voice was familiar, but he didn't give it too much thought. The past didn't matter. Nothing mattered except right now. The voice surprised him when it spoke again. He'd forgotten that it was there.
"You don't belong here, you know."
"I do belong here. I am happy here. It is out there where I do not belong." He replied. The voice didn't speak for a long moment and he thought it had left him in peace.
He heard something. It felt more detached than the voice he had been speaking to a moment ago was. The sound was familiar and he took shelter in it.
"How can you listen to that screaming?" The voice asked after a moment. It sounded like it was pained by the sound. Like the sound physically hurt the owner of the voice.
"It's worse when it stops. It's a good sound." He concluded. The voice obviously didn't agree, but remained silent.
Some part of him was happy to be talking to someone. He didn't know who the last conversation he had had was with, nor did he know when it had been, but that didn't matter.
"What if Donatello is already lost?"
"He's not. Buried maybe, but he's not lost yet. I can't believe that... I won't."
There were two new voices now. Two different and distinct voices, yet both were somehow familiar.
"Who's Donatello?" He asked, but received no answer. Just a look from the voice he first had spoken to earlier. As quickly as they had appeared they were gone and he was alone again. They no longer mattered, and he turned his attention back to the puffy clouds and purple sky overhead. There was nothing wrong with the sky. In fact, it was even more accurate than a blue sky as the color wasn't biased by the sensitivities of his eyes within the visible light spectrum. He briefly wondered where the thought came from, but dismissed it as unimportant.
He found himself in the doorway again. What lay on the other side was wrong: painful physically, mentally, emotionally. It wasn't something he wanted to happen. It shouldn't be allowed to happen, he should do something to stop it. This was not ok. Part of him knew that if he ever escaped this place, his life would be very different. Some piece of his being, one that remembered things from the past, recognized what was happening on the other side of the door as a trigger that had sent him to the world with the purple sky in the first place. That same piece knew that he had to escape.
"Escape where?" He asked anyone who cared to listen.
"Bishop." The voice he had heard earlier answered.
He recognized the word as a name. A name that had some horrible experiences attached to it. Terrible experiences that were nothing compared to what was now happening. He shuddered and turned around again.
He lay down amongst the flowers and gazed up at the cottony clouds in the purple sky above him.
No longer did he have any concept of time or its passage, but he was left alone. The voice no longer tried for his attention.
"Donnie?" Someone asked. It was a familiar voice, but the word it spoke... "Donnie!"
He stood at the door again. This time what waited on the other side of the door was not as terrifying as what had been there earlier. He felt obligated somehow to respond this time.
"What if Donatello is already lost?" The memory came unbidden, but this time he had an answer for it.
I'm Donatello, I'm here. He realized. And the person talking to me is... He managed to open and shift his eyes so he was looking directly at Michelangelo.
In his mind, Donatello saw Michelangelo. The orange masked turtle threw him a rope. Some long forgotten piece of his being knew he had to catch that rope, and for the first time ever, as far as he was concerned, he listened to that part of himself.
"Oh Donnie, shell! I'm sorry I got you into this, bro. It's all my fault. Can you forgive me?" The words were familiar. Donatello couldn't remember why the words were familiar, and he could no longer remember what the words were exactly. After a moment he decided that it didn't matter.
Donatello. He was getting more used to the name that had to be his own, could feel someone touching him. The touch was different than the ones that some part of him knew had been on the other side of the door earlier. These were gentle, kind. The touch grazed his side, it hurt and Donatello almost dropped the rope and retreated to the other side of the door that he could still see from where he was, but something made him stop. He heard words again.
"Hey Donnie. I think I'm beginning to lose it too. I know you didn't mean to leave me, but I really need you right now. I need something, Donnie. Prove to me that you're still in there."
Some part of him recognized the nickname. Donnie. He recognized it as his own. "...I need something, Donnie." Donatello readjusted his grip on the rope and jumped, secure in the knowledge that Michelangelo wouldn't let him fall.
Even though Donatello wasn't sure if he could give Michelangelo what he sought. A single word found its way to lips that hadn't spoken in more than two weeks.
"Mi... key." Donnie forced out.
Emboldened by the word that seemed strange to his ears, but familiar to his mouth he continued to speak. Donatello knew the word he had already spoken to be another version of Michelangelo's name though he could not remember his relationship to Mikey. All that mattered to him at the moment was that Mikey had been kind. And had been so earlier too. Earlier? He didn't remember what the word meant, but knew that what he was about to say was right.
"Thank you."
"Thank you for what?" Michelangelo sounded confused, but Donatello was not. Now more than ever he knew that what he said was right. He remembered the voice and somehow knew that Michelangelo had said something that struck him.
"Talking." Without another word, Donatello drifted off to sleep.