Crimson. The blood on his hands was crimson. It dripped down onto the earth and melted into his skin. It was flowing freely onto him, but he wasn't bleeding. He wasn't bleeding. The soldier was bleeding onto him. He had killed him. He'd had to, but he'd killed him. The moments seemed to slow down, the world was almost at a standstill, because he had killed him. He had put his sai through the ninja's throat and taken his life. God. There was so much blood.
It had been a normal day. No challenges, no fights, no problems. Raph was almost relaxed. Leo had taken them out onto patrol, then allowed them to muck around because of the quiet. Raph should have known it was the quiet before the storm. They had decided to call it a day, to return to the lair and hangout. With each other. They hadn't done that in ages. As they neared the manhole cover Raph had felt it. Felt that something was off. Evil even. He had grabbed Leo and told him something was wrong. He must've sounded urgent because Leo had listened. Everyone had drawn their weapons and were waiting. When the Foot had struck there were so many, too many and Raph had to focus as five ninjas came at him at a time.
They were doing fine though, and the Foot were retreating, leaving. And Leo let his guard down. The ninja had moved so fast, struck to kill, Raph only had time to do the same. Raph's hit landed the ninja's did not. The remainder of the Foot had fled, leaving Raph ad his brothers to deal with the man bleeding from a hole in his neck. And the scars that he would leave behind.
Blood ran down his hands as he desperately and uselessly tried to stop the bleeding. The ninja gurgled blood coming out of his mouth in a fine mist, grasping at his throat helplessly. Raph could barely breathe. He felt like he was the one who had been stabbed, like he was the one dying. God. He wished he was the one dying. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his brothers looking sadly down at him. "You had no choice Raph." Leo's voice was like a faint noise in the distance, filled with meaning but indecipherable.
The smell was distinctive and he knew that he may never be rid of it. He may never be rid of the blood on his hands, the crimson blood. Blood covering his arms, his chest, his face and his mask. His red mask. The tattered piece of cloth that covered his eyes. A mask that now he could now confidently say was as red as blood.