This story hasn't been dropped, don't worry. I got bogged down with the big scene in Clandestine. I already have the next chapter STARTED, it just needs to undergo some tweaking. Sorry, people, thanks for being patient.
Watching my two younger siblings tease and torment our furry feline friend, I find myself smiling from the confines of one of the recliner chairs.
"So, does Klunk like it here?" Don asks, trying to initiate small talk.
The few conversations we've had have been simply trivial conversation, their sole purpose being to make us feel consoled, allowing us to ease into a state of normality. Or mindless repetition. I haven't decided yet.
Mike nods and smooth's the cat's fur. "Yeah, but I don't let him out at night. I don't want him to get into any trouble, because you like trouble, doncha Klunker-wunkers?"
The tiny cat mews as if to confirm the accusations.
I smirk softly, catching him flashing a cunning glance in my direction (I wonder if cats have the ability to do so).
I've been resting here for quite some time now, just watching my small family try to rekindle the bond once thought to be inseparable. I know it's wrong of me, but I like to leave my eyes cracked open just a bit and let my head lull to the side, just trying to pretend we're back home. Trying to pretend Mikey is laughing and smiling, or even frowning and complaining endlessly about something Raphael has done to irritate him. I try my hardest to see Donatello looking at our Father, smiling, happy. A part of me finds these reoccurring thoughts repulsive, and yet another part of me finds it oddly comforting.
A small fire warms my very bones, casting a friendly glow about the room.
Michelangelo's welcoming was as expected. Forcibly polite, like a neatly tied package, but tied much too quickly, causing… knots.
Despite our somewhat standoffish reunion, the home has quickly become inviting, ushering away the awkwardness I was presented upon my arrival.
The atmosphere is warm and hospitable, though I cannot help but feel strangely chilled.
Detached, if you will.
Donatello smiles sadly at Mike who is now cradling the cat in his arms. Klunk seems less than enthused. Agitated, to be exact. He claws his way up Mike's shoulder and hops off the back of his shell, trotting a few yards away where he then proceeds to plop down and clean himself.
The woods that scatter the little farmhouse outside are dark and deep, and from where I am sitting, the view out the window does nothing to calm my weary nerves.
Throughout my life I've fought to uphold a certain image, one my brothers can look up to and admire in their own individual ways.
Raphael has always sought to challenge me head on, and for that I have always admired his fiery spirit and passion.
Donatello quickly adapted to the more passive role in the family. Even if he didn't exactly agree with what I had to say, he would approach the subject much like he would a complex calculation, offering alternative suggestions and such.
That only leaves Michelangelo. He's always been the most impressionable in the family. Lighthearted, easy going. He used to tell us that he'd never grow up, and for the longest time, I actually believed him.
How wrong we both were.
As wrong as it may seem, I expected our father's passing would only bring us closer as a family. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would literally tear us apart.
At first, Michelangelo did what everyone but Raph couldn't, he cried. Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen Mike cry like that before. He wept unashamedly. It frightens me that I can recall those memories so vividly, that I can relive the torment of watching my younger brothers shoulders shake so violently. If I concentrate hard enough, I can even hear the gasping wheezes.
All things must come to an end, though, and sometime later even Michelangelo had run out of tears.
Donatello and I reacted much the same; we suffered in silence as older brothers often do. I originally expected Raphael to follow suit, so naturally I was a bit surprised at first to find Don shutting himself away.
What I faced while alone in my room shall remain a nameless, faceless foe. I always found it odd that my fears, rational or irrational, would manifest themselves in the form of a faceless being, draining my very life source directly from my frozen veins.
I suppose Don's insight into the medical world aided in him saying goodbye to our beloved Master and closing that chapter of his life like some musty old text, but I know he still carries the pain with him, a would that will not heal, no matter how many nights sleep he loses.
Raphael surprised us all. To be completely honest, I expected him to fall quickly after our father. A horrible thing to even think about, but I had accepted and prepared my brothers, assuming Raphael would die young due to his own recklessness. Directly after our father's passing, he carried on with his usual antics, punching walls, tearing through the streets at suicidal speeds, paying hardly any mind to pedestrians. It troubles me to know that I was well aware he didn't care about his own life then, but I'm so glad he continued to fight.
When he returned, he simply was not the same person. No matter which way you spun it, Raphael had changed.
We'd all changed, but it was painfully obvious especially in Michelangelo and Raphael. To know that I could not assist them in any way with their heartache stung far worse than any injury I'd ever received.
As my eyes settle on the back of Don's shell, I feel myself drift out of the confines of my own mind, and smile just for the sake of smiling. I find smiling, no matter what you're feeling, is the most pleasing expression one can encounter.
"Klunk!" Donnie taunts the little devil, waving his mask around Klunk's head like a prize.
Klunk rears back on his hind legs and paws at the dangling edge of my brother's mask playfully.
As I return my gaze to the window, I study the light frost forming there, and force my mind elsewhere.
We buried him here, at the farmhouse. It was the only place we could think of where he would not be disturbed. The mere thought of laying him to rest in the sewers didn't rest well with any of us.
Thankfully Casey had no objections to letting us have his funeral there. I think since Japan was out of the question, this was the next best place. Here he can feel the seasons change from Winter to Spring, feel the ground freeze over and warm itself to life again. As morbid as it may seem I find the thought somewhat comforting, having my father so close to nature again.
I tried my best to guide my brothers through this hardship. I really did. Donatello and April made attempts to round us up for therapy of sorts, but no one really caught on. I think that that point we were all emotionally numb. No one wanted to try. We didn't see a point.
I do admit I probably allowed everyone to grieve much longer than necessary, but it was only because I too, was unable to stop. Such a drastic change terrified me. No longer could I seek out the comfort of my ancient father, sit by him in the low glow of meditation candles. No longer could I probe his mind for all the knowledge he had gathered over the years, inquire about techniques he had yet to teach us, techniques he would never teach us, and why.
It wasn't fair! I remember an uncontrollable anger brewing in my chest, festering, rotting, bubbling- wanting to do nothing but sit and scowl and think. What had we ever done to deserve any wrongdoing? Even now, I sometimes try to tell myself if we had just stayed underground, maybe none of this would have ever happened, maybe he would still be with us. But then I think about Casey and April and my heart goes out to them. Without them, I don't see how my brothers and I would have developed the same. We would be different.
As luck would have it, two years later, tragedy struck our already tiny family yet again.
The details Don and I have gathered are vague, but sometime before The Shredder became just another whispered name on the streets, Stockman somehow managed to escape his grasp.
I don't know what The Shredder used to bind Stockman to him; he was a very intelligent and already powerful man.
Once, during the day, my brothers and I were at April's second new apartment, helping her get things in order since her old apartment had been burnt to the very foundation. There, a lone Stockman found us.
The manner in which he announced his arrival was far from subtle, smashing in through the window, taking out bits of brick with him.
Although his appendages were clearly robotic, underneath all that scrap metal was a human mind, as fragile as any other. And that particular day, he appeared to be more fragile than I'd ever seen him. It was almost pathetic.
He lashed out in anger, as if destroying us would be some sort of compensation for his destroyed body, his tarnished name. He wanted to blame his torturous existence on us. In a way, I suppose I can see his logic. If it were not for my family, April included, The Shredder would have left Stockman to die when he first plummeted into the water from the cable far. His body was rejecting itself, anyway.
The fight only lasted a matter of minutes before Donatello was able to disable Stockman's latest cyborg body suit. Mike and Raph had a field day from then on, kicking him around like some piece of trash.
It was then another oddity manifested itself.
Stockman announced that ever since he had worked with April, he had loved her, been in love with her. He proclaimed that it greatly pained him to have to attempt to kill her after his Mouser plans were foiled, but that The Shredder insisted she be disposed of.
"I had nothing to do with it," he said, "I was under his control."
Raph wanted to finish him off then and there. I guess that's why we are both so different. He wants to kill anyone who harms or threatens our family, get them out of the way quickly so they cannot return. Arguments between he and I often stem from my apparent inability to kill, to put an end to our wrongful torment.
Sometimes, though, I wonder if Raph had been right all along.
April, being the gentle soul we all know she is, took my side. She took pity on Stockman, recalling his fevered cries for his mother. She reasoned that he was a very sad, very lonely man who needed help. I agreed with her.
Unfortunately, during the discussion of what to do to Baxter Stockman (Mikey and Raph both insisted he would devise a plan to escape from local authorities), things went horribly awry.
I blame myself. I should have been faster. I should have been more alert. I should have been watching. Mikey blames me. I can see it in his crystal blue eyes, every time he looks at me. Raph probably does, too, but his hatred for me has slowly begun to fade; now some sense of civility can exist between us.
As April politely denied any affection for him, I swear you could literally hear the wheels in Stockman's brain come to a complete stop. He stammered and in a desperate attempt to have what he could not, he was somehow able to override the locks Don had put on his body and reached out, snatching April up in his robotic grasp. Naturally, we went after her, but we were too late. There was nothing we could do. Cackling like the mad man he was, Stockman jumped backwards; forcing himself out the same hole in the wall he made his first appearance. Mike and Raph risked being seen by diving out after them, but Don and I, as much as it pained us, held them back from the crumbling brick, pulling them back inside the building.
Seeing someone you love being torn from you, and having no way to stop it… I can't even describe the feeling. It left me with a deep, incurable, aching wound in the pit of my stomach.
Don solemnly assured us April had probably died on impact- that she hadn't suffered. I know it was supposed to make us feel better, but it didn't work.
I feel like I should have been able to do more. Like her death is my fault. I should have given the word. No, I should have been paying more attention. I was too caught up in what my emotions were telling me. I should have finished him when I had the chance, like Raph wanted to.
At this point in our lives things went from bad to worse.
Raph was at Casey's practically every other night, fearing that if he weren't there to roll him over and watch him, he might drink himself to death or drown in his own vomit. It was a scary thought, Don and I even considered the possibility of him being suicidal once or twice.
We all knew Casey Jones was not a suicidal person, but losing someone you are in love with can do strange things to a man.
Some nights Casey even stayed down in the lair with us, the crushing weight of the grief canceling out any comical claustrophobia we might have commented on some years earlier.
I clearly recall kneeling by my father's alter, asking for guidance. Losing him was hard enough, but April, too? Not only did I have to deal with the loss of my own father, and attempt to counsel three distraught siblings and a friend, I had lost my only other parental figure.
Now I was the bond that would make or break my family, now it was all on my shoulders.
From then on out, Donatello secluded himself in his lab, hid in chat rooms and forums on the Internet, pretending to be normal. Pretending not to be so broken and afraid.
Raphael did what he always does when confronted with a problem, train until his body literally cannot take anymore. Until muscles ache, scream, tear, train until he can't even make it to his own bedroom on his own. It seemed our father's passing was enough to stunt his anger for only a short while, before the injustice and unfairness of it all hit him head on.
Surprisingly, though, that rage began to fade too, little by little being replaced by an odd sense of clarity, calmness if you will.
Michelangelo…
Showed no definite signs of improving or suffering anymore than he had when our father died. I expected him to cry when we fled from the wreckage of April's apartment and into the sewers before being spotted, but was surprised to find he hadn't made a single noise the entire trip home.
Don assured me he would be fine, that it was a shock to his system. Nearly a week later and not a single tear, not even when I'd stand outside his door at night. He didn't appear to be in any emotional pain whatsoever, and that worried me more so than our constant grief.
How could I be expected to foresee my youngest brothers struggles, how could I have anticipated what would happen next?
'I want to leave, Leo.'
I remember grabbing him and shaking him- shaking him hard, asking him what he was talking about. Ordering him to explain. With all that had happened, the term had become quite literal to me. Leaving could mean many things. It could mean vacationing, getting away for a while, moving out. It could mean giving up. Dying.
As Don dangles his mask out and I watch Klunk jump into the air clawing wildly at the tips, I catch Michelangelo's gaze from afar. I smile faintly, as if offering a truce, but he simply reverts his eyes to the orange feline, and reaches out to stroke its fur.
Doesn't he realize how sickeningly wrong it is for him not to be smiling?
I frown and straighten up in the recliner, turning my attention back to the fire, suddenly realizing it is not as warm as it was only seconds ago. It's as if Mike's lifeless gaze chilled my area, encasing me behind a frosty window where I can only watch, not partake, in the games they play.
Logically, I know if I were to move onto my knees and scoot closer my brothers would include me in teasing and tormenting Klunk, but I don't feel as if I belong there with them. I feel as If I do belong somewhere on the sideline, watching, waiting, wanting to protect but not knowing how.
I try to tell myself it's only the first day, that tomorrow will be better, tomorrow will be another chance to retrieve Michelangelo, my Michelangelo, and drag him to the surface again. Even if he's cold and lifeless, there's still a slim chance I can bring him back to life, that I can save him before its too late.
I hope once Raphael arrives some normality will begin to settle between us, I even find myself hoping we might fall back into our old roles, just for old time's sake, because honestly, I don't think I can handle this much longer.
I once promised my father that we would always be together, no matter what. Back then it seemed like such a simple thing to accomplish, and now, I feel as though I have failed.