A/N: Well found inspiration for another fic! This one came to me while listening to the song "Memories" by Within Temptation. Take a moment to listen to the song.

Disclaimer: Just like I don't own TMNT, I do not own the song Memories (well duh I already mentioned it).

Thanks to all of you who have read the first fic: Rachel Erica, Andromakhe, and Andraia. I hope to eventually write a fic from each of the brother's point of view but I'll probably write a chapter for "Paths We Follow" first. Happy readings.

Memories

Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…

Years of practice indeed made for perfection. He had been doing this for so long he didn't even need to think about what he was doing. He just did it! No point in being modest about. After all it was pretty much the only thing he was good.

The nunchaku twirled gracefully. The gentle clinks of the chain bounced off the equally metallic walls. Michelangelo walked down the hallway, spinning the wooden weapon, shifting it from one hand to the other and back. All modesty aside, he had no problem bragging how easily he can shift to autopilot and multi-task in this manner. None of his brothers could say the same. Donnie would totally trip himself if he tried to do this with his bo. Leo was only good at well-rehearsed kata - not at spontaneous bursts of freestyled antics.

But today, Michelangelo was not showing off. He was meditating. Sure it wasn't conventional. Leo would definitely have lectured him on proper meditation. Must sit down! Back straight! Eyes closed! Deep steady breathing! But hell, the Mike-ster was never one for convention. Everyone was quick to remind him that. He can't change who he was. After all he was the only brother who focused better on his "school work" while blaring loud music, which effectively annoyed everyone else - especially Leo. He was certain it bothered Donnie too but he was always cool about it. Then again he actually understood how Mikey's brain worked…well kind of. He did diagnose the whole attention deficit part. The hyperactivity aspect was pretty obvious. Anyway…

As of right now, however, Michelangelo's mind was completely shut down. Had his brain ever done that before? Nope! There was always something going on up in that noggin. On topic, off topic, in lala-land. Didn't matter – there was always something to think about. Although he currently rather not think. For once it was easy to push everything to the side and just stare blankly ahead as he wandered done the metallic halls, swinging his nunchaku. Despite his trance, he easily avoided colliding with April or hitting her skull with dense wood, but beyond that he didn't acknowledge her presence.

"Aaaaaaaahhhh!"

Michelangelo stilled his nunchaku, breaking his kata. Bang, bang! He froze in place as he listened to the ruckus. His blood ran cold knowing his brother was trying to drown his emotional pain with physical pain, and this time there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't just walk into the room and give Raph a hug and tell it was gonna be okay. Not this time. This time there were no words of comfort. It was Michelangelo's only real skill and now he was useless. No matter the situation, he was the one who always found the silver lining, held optimism despite bad situations. The ability usually pissed off or depressed his brothers when they couldn't grasp the hope, but in the end they appreciated Michelangelo for it.

The bangs grew weaker and spaced further apart. Then it was silent. At least for a few seconds before the sobs seeped between the cracks in the doorframe. Raph needed his bro but there was nothing Michelangelo could do for him. Hell, Mikey was at a loss himself. For once he was in despair and saw no light, no silver lining. He needed the comfort as much as Raph did but there was no one who could provide it. No shoulder to cry on. Tears welled up to capacity before trickling down his cheeks. A heavy, shaky sigh escaped his lips. With slumped shoulders, Michelangelo willed his legs to move forward - though they felt as if they were chained to giant metal balls.

He trudged down the halls until he came upon a room with an immense window tracing the circumference the rounded room. Normally the sight would have enchanted him: stars everywhere you turned, plumes of multicolored space gases, distant galaxies. No planets though. Maybe they weren't close enough to one. Wouldn't matter right now anyway. His current state of mind prevented him from appreciating the universe's beauty. It was too soon. Everything he looked at reminded him of Splinter's final moments. In fact this view was the last thing he had remembered. The Triceratons' machine had torn a hole in their world, exposing Earth to the vast expanse of deep space. Black sky littered with sparkling stars. The black hole sucked everyone up into it. Well everyone except for the lucky few. Why? Why should they have been spared? Forced to watch their father leave them? Granted he was already gone. Shredder saw to that. But they didn't even get to say a proper good-bye. Or make a memorial in his honor. They were robbed of everything in just a few short seconds.

Michelangelo's mind trailed to those events that had taken place no more than 24 hours prior. His mind had barely processed Shredder's blade enter and then exit Splinter's body. It was so unreal like a movie prop. Dying like that wasn't supposed to happen to the good guys. However, the sickening sound of tearing flesh confirmed the reality of it all. Then Splinter's body fell limp. They all had rushed over quick enough for Splinter to die in their arms. Not enough time had elapsed between Splinter's final breath to when his body was stolen by the black hole. And just like that, he was gone forever.

This wasn't how any of this was supposed to work. Splinter deserved a proper funeral. They needed to say their farewells before sending his soul to Heaven. Michelangelo banged his head against the window and allowed it to rest there. Heavy eyelids fell, hiding his teary baby blue irises, and thrusted Michelangelo into a deeper darkness than space itself.

. . .

"Michelangelo? What are you doing?"

Michelangelo gasped and jumped up in alarm, banging his head against the kitchen table.

Itai!

He rubbed his head gingerly. As he tried to scramble out, a jar of dark blue paint knocked over coating the floor in a wet mess.

I should have laid down more paper!

The nervous turtle twirled to face his father while keeping his hands concealed behind his back. Michelangelo plastered the biggest grin possible but ended up looking more suspicious than innocent.

"Why were you under the table?"

Splinter's eyes were gentle yet curious. It was a look Michelangelo was familiar with. Donnie made it a point to mention often that no one will ever understand the puzzle that was Michelangelo's mind.

"Um, no reason," he lied…poorly.

Splinter cocked a quizzical eyebrow and stroked his beard.

"What is behind your back?" he inquired.

"My hands."

That was not a lie! Michelangelo bit his bottom lip as if unable to keep a dire secret but fought hard to contain his urge. Splinter must have sensed his son's predicament and turned to leave him in peace.

"Michelangelo, you have quite the mess under the table. When you have finished, all of it must be cleaned up otherwise I fear we will have blue footprints all over the house after dinner."

"Hai!" Michelangelo chirped with a wide smile and carefully watched as Splinter disappeared behind the cloth partition separating the kitchen from the family room. Once he felt the coast was clear, Michelangelo dove back under the table, grabbed the fine tip paintbrush, and coated the bristle in bright blue paint.

A few hours passed before Michelangelo was seen again. The little turtle raced into the dojo with tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Splinter's eyes snapped open as he was abruptly roused from his deep meditation. He barely recognized the green blur as Michelangelo tackled him. The force knocked Splinter's head into the tree that occupied the center of the room. The child buried his face deep into the fabric of the yukata, soaking it with his tears. His body jerked as he sniffled. Splinter placed a hand on the back of Michelangelo's head and gently stoked it.

"My son, what troubles you?"

"I hate my brothers! They're all jerks!"

Splinter peeled the child from his body and tilted Michelangelo's head up, forcing him to look into the elder's eyes.

"That was not a nice thing to say. What is this about?"

The turtle rubbed his snotty snout and attempted to tell his tale between choked sobs.

"So, I was working on my project today and was super proud when I finished. So I showed everyone and they all made fun of it! Raph said my spelling sucks. Leo said that I screwed up the kanji. And Donnie….Donnie didn't care and told me to get out of his room. But I did distract him and he electrocuted himself while working on his thingamajig. But he did calling me a nuisance. No one ever says anything nice about me."

The last statement initiated another round of wails. Michelangelo furiously rubbed the tears, smearing the wetness all over his face along with globs of slimy snot. Splinter gently captured the small hands in his and held them down so he could see his son's face.

"Bring me this project of yours…."

"No!"

Deep brown eyes widened in shock at the abrupt and uncharacteristically rude response. The child was so lost in his thoughts he did not even register his father's expression. As he fell deeper into his despair, Michelangelo's cries grew shriller. In order to snap him back to the world, Splinter grasped Michelangelo by his shoulders and gently shook him back to reality.

"My son, listen to me. Why do you not wish to show me your project?"

"C-cause…it was supposed to be a gift…for you…"

The rat's face softened as the words touched his heart. It was no wonder the child was taking the criticism so hard. The boy who normally took obstacles in stride rarely had his spirits crushed. Now Splinter fully understood.

"Michelangelo, I would like to see your gift."

Blue eyes turned away in shame as Michelangelo shook his head "no."

"Please," Splinter requested firmly but with a hint of a plea that the turtle could not turn down.

With a heavy sigh, Michelangelo retrieved the item from the kitchen and returned to the dojo. In the tiny green hands was a white mug. Blue flowers adorned the once bare ceramic. Thick fingers obscured Splinter's view of the writing the graced the middle of the mug. Once he stood in front of Splinter, Michelangelo handed over the mug for his father's inspection. As the mug enter his long thin hands, Splinter's eyes locked on the clumsily written words of "#1 Ded." Splinter turned the mug around and inspected the corresponding phrase written in kanji. The symbols were correct but were written with a nervous hand resulting in squiggly lines forming the characters. All the while Michelangelo kept his eyes to the ground to hide his embarrassment.

"Michelangelo, this is the most wonderful gift."

An eye ridge rose skeptically. Pleading eyes wanted to find truth in the words but the damage of brotherly taunts burdened the boy's heart. Splinter scooped the youngster into his lap and resumed his inspection of the mug. The handle had broken off at some point – most likely the reason it had been tossed out to begin with. Large globs of dried glued poked out through the cracks. If one looked closely, there was evidence of an old faded design that had once graced the overused mug but most of it was now covered up with the fresh paint.

"This mug will serve well when I make my morning tea. The flowers – they are the blossoms of the Hamato clan's symbol, are they not?"

The little green head bobbed up and down.

"I spelled 'Dad' wrong though. Raph called me stupid 'cause of it. Said I should have asked how to spell so I didn't ruin it."

The sorrow surrounding the insult pained Splinter. The boys could be so caring of each other and yet so cruel in their words. Raphael was the most blunt and uncensored of them.

"But Michelangelo, you have just started to learn how to read English. You cannot expect to be a master without practice. And your kanji was done properly."

"It's ugly. It looks like it's shivering 'cause I can't draw straight lines."

"Again practice will produce steady hands. I am curious though as to what prompted you to make such a thoughtful gift."

"It's Father's Day. I heard the kids on the surface talk about it yesterday. They were asking each other what they're doing for their dads. I wanted to make a gift to show how much I love you. But I ruined it so it's not a perfect gift."

Splinter turned the boy around and pulled him close to his chest. "Of course it's perfect because you poured your love into a single gift. The cup is a physical symbol of your feelings, but I will always hold your love and thoughtfulness in my heart."

. . .

A sorrowful tear rolled Michelangelo's cheek yet his heart fluttered with glee at the memory. Warmth seemed to suddenly envelop his entire being. He lifted his head off the cold window and stared at the reflection of the silhouetted apparition standing behind him. He smiled at the figure as another tear soaked his orange mask. His father's height had always mezmerized him. To a young child, Splinter was like a giant. Always so strong and formidable. Yet he was the first in the family to fall. Forever lost to them…

No! He wasn't gone! Michelangelo slowly closed his eyes as the specter wrapped his arms around the turtle. He imagined the warmth of the fur tickling against his scaly skin, the strength of his powerful arms, the security that nothing can ever hurt him so long his father stood watch over him. While his father's physical body may be gone, his spirit will always live inside of him. Michelangelo placed his hands over his heart as if all that he held dear would suddenly fly away.

He opened his eyes, locking sights on his phantom father, and whispered, "Because of all the memories I keep lock in here, you'll forever live in my heart, Otousan."