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story © Turtlefreak121
The Forgotten
Ice: The Remembered
Lowering into the sewers was like submerging into a cold pool. Had the torch he had been carrying in his heart not already been extinguished it would have died as he entered the tunnels. The frigid air was inescapable.
He longed for the surface and yet he knew he could not remain there much longer.
The Forgotten could not forget his own responsibilities, try as he might.
Moving through the numbing sewer trenches he questioned why the world around him could be so warm, cradled by the mantle of the earth, while he was left eclipsed by all heat. He who had once been ablaze was now utterly chilled, frozen.
He felt as though he was solid all the way through and, because of this, his body was heavier, his muscles harder to move with his brittle bones. It all urged him to return to the surface where at least the illusion of light could amuse him.
Instead he was forced forward, onward into a phase of what he felt could only be described as nothingness.
The Forgotten knew better, though. The more he approached the destination the less and less he could deny the familiar setting and the beckoning doorway which all whisper icily in his ear Welcome Home in its infuriating sarcasm.
He was no fool. He could not be so easily refer to the house as a home when it could not even remember his name.
Regardless of anger, frustration, and pathos, his body was still solid and his path still uncertain. Why had he returned to this cold place? Why had he left the streets? Was it truly because he did not want the Others to worry or was it because he was worried about the Others?
The Others were the Remembered. Immediately upon entering they had their distinctive faces, blooming personalities, and, most importantly, unForgettable names. They were individuals and because of that they were the Remembered.
Entering and watching them move in their own, uniquely characteristic ways simply reminded him why they were so much more deserving of titles and memories rather than he, the Forgotten. They moved about, ignoring his existence.
Or, perhaps, not realizing his existence at all.
Oddly enough, though, he could only count two when there were three of the Remembered. The mystery took his focus for a moment and he gladly removed himself from the pathetic thoughts of how utterly sad he had become.
"Where's Leo?" the Forgotten questioned. His tone was flat, as though the cold had drained him of his emotion. This was a most fearful concept considering how it was his emotion which defined him even as the Forgotten.
Without emotion had he truly become nothing more than a mere shadow?
"Where do you think?" Donatello replied.
The Remembered brother, while kept in memory because of his character, was acting unusual. He was most unlike himself and the only true explanation for this was that he was disgusted with the presence of the Forgotten.
Simple enough. Perhaps the Forgotten even deserved such treatment.
The question could not be kept from being pressed, however. The Forgotten, while disappointed in the unsightly reaction, could not really hold it against his Remembered brother. Instead, he just looked over Michelangelo's couch lounging and toward the doorway to a room where the light still warmly shone from within.
Sure enough he could see his last Remembered brother set before a wrinkled, crooked mass, worn with age and untidy from a bout of disease. The clumps of matted fur shook without sync as his trembling hands fumbled over the priceless antiques set before them.
Like a good Remembered, Leonardo clamored, stealthily, to keep utter disaster from taking place. The old rodent was none the wiser.
The Forgotten scowled and shook his head at what could only truly be considered a pathetic sight. Certainly it was among the most pathetic he had ever seen. It was only made more degrading by the simple fact that hours beforehand, when he first left, the Forgotten had seen that Leonardo was in that very position.
"Doesn't he realize he's kept Leo in there all day?" he questioned lowly.
There was no response and the stale silence caused him to glance in the direction of his two present brothers. The Remembered were not highly amused with this remark and turned from him angrily, fully aware that the comment was deserved to say the least.
Still, they began to ignore him, Forget him, and he could not help but lash out. He slammed his fist into the brick pillar not far from where Donatello sat and watched as the skin over the knuckles shattered on impact. He had not realized that in the coldness of the home his skin had become as brittle as it was and he leaned his head on the pillar for support.
He was too cold and numb to feel the pain or throbbing. Instead he just watched as Donatello got up and glared at the injury.
"Why do you do stupid stuff like that? Jesus!" he growled before whipping around, grabbing the nearby first-aid supplies. He ripped out gauze with expert speed and cut the precise amount. He dabbed alcohol on the cotton balls and the Forgotten could not help but laugh at the care his brother was not taking.
He moved with cold shoulders, stiff as though they were frozen, and worked on the injured limb. Donatello did not say anything, rather, he spoke through his movements and the frozen touch of his skin.
The Remembered, so much like the Forgotten, was as warm as an old corpse fresh from the morgue.
It was the home that was making them so cold, he knew it. The Forgotten studied the movements and how they all secretly fought off the cold which nipped at their skin, aching their joints and ate away at their liveliness.
Even Michelangelo, who had ignored the scene beforehand, came to his Forgotten brother's aid with worry eating away at his once pleasant, round features. He glanced at the wounds for the last few moments before they were tightly wrapped, and then to the Forgotten's face.
"Why are you acting like that?" he asked in hushed whispers. "Can't you wait until later?"
"How much later can I wait?" the Forgotten retorted before taking back his hand by force. "I've been gone for hours, since dinner, and came back when it was so dark topside it was sheer black. And you know what? He's still there bothering Leo."
"Leo doesn't mind," Don spoke up, staring hard at the Forgotten's unforgiving features. "You didn't used to mind either."
"Yeah, but that's before it got old," he responded as his brow furrowed further. He looked to them both. "I don't get you two. It's not getting better. It's getting worse. I wanted to help but now I can't. No one can. It's so stupid to even try to think of ways to help because nothing's going to work."
He paused, feeling a chill yet again. It was like being lost in the midst of a blizzard. It happened so suddenly and yet, looking back, he was surprised he had not seen it coming. The quiet was like being trapped in their icy grips, needing them before he could get out.
"We know," Mike finally stammered.
"Then why aren't you all angry?" he demanded. "Why isn't everyone angry that this shit always happens to us?" To me.
They looked off, still tired. Still quiet. They were so cold, there was no fire to fight with or for. They simply admitted their defeat to it and bowed their heads. The cold was like mourning on a rainy day.
"I'm too tired to be angry," Don responded at last.
"There's no reason to anymore," Mike stated.
In a sense this was true. When the rage burned itself out and seared all those that stood in its path, there was no true relief. Rather, the oxygen was consumed to where they could not breathe and no longer could they question why them. Rather, they would find themselves without heat, strangely burnt out, so that only coldness overtook them.
Ultimately, they would find themselves where they started with no injuries healed by anger.
It did not make the truth any more unsettling, however. It did not make the pain of being Forgotten any less stinging. Rather, it made it all the more obvious and worthless.
Together the Forgotten and the Remembered looked toward the room at unexpected motion. The table was suddenly lacking a host and the lights were dimmed to a single candle's light. In the dark blue tint of paper walls a lone son moved, another Remembered.
He seemed sad and tired but more importantly than that he seemed as though something was taken from him, stripped away from the confidence he once had.
Slowly, Leonardo emerged with a distinct look of disappointment and loss.
He was Forgotten, too.
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