Chapter Two: Getting Better, Getting Worse
It's hard to see you again
Now that you're back from the dead
It's horrid to see you again
So bored of being you
It's hard to see you again
Unaware that all may not be lost
It's hard to see you again
So bored of being alive.
-Lazarus, By Placebo
"Jesus Mike, it's a million degrees in here!"
Michelangelo pulled off his coat, nodding at Justin's proclamation as the blast of humid air hit him. He hated to be cold, and with the winter weather still carrying on outside he'd been going a little overboard with the temperature settings in his apartment. He'd pay for it, he knew, when the bill came. As he made his way to the thermostat to turn down the heat, throwing his trench over the brown suede couch Theresa had left for him, he reflected at the oddity of having Justin Hunt in his home.
A few months ago Theresa's colleague at the law firm Shade, Shempski, Colden and Hunt, was a prime suspect as her unknown stalker. However, when the smoke had cleared, Justin Hunt had ended up being a considerable asset in helping to rescue Theresa from Ethan Shempski's deranged clutches, and to cover their tracks in the aftermath as well. Since then, as things often happen in bouts of great trauma, the turtles had formed a tentative friendship with the self-assured attorney. Michelangelo suspected that seeing his college murdered, and knowing it was a shared memory between himself and the rest of the brothers, had helped that awkward friendship along.
Nonetheless, Michelangelo liked the man. He was straight forward, and as honest as any attorney could ever really be. And he smoked. A smoking buddy was hard to come by. Mikey had gone out to get a new pack of Marlboros and had stopped by the Justin's office and invited him back for a drink when he saw the light still going. Justin often put in late hours.
Justin's dog Dandy, who was hardly ever seen without his master, had made his way to the couch, struggling with his stubby legs to pull himself onto it and promptly fall asleep. This action attested to the late hour the night had crept into, seeing that the dog was usually running in circles with enthusiastic vigor. Mikey pat the dog on his way back to the kitchen, mimicking Justin's actions and lighting a cigarette as he went. He retrieved two bottles of the Christmas Ale he'd been able to purchase earlier in the week (on sale since it was February), handing one to Justin and taking a seat across from him at the small kitchen table (also left for him by Theresa). Scattered on the table between them was the most ridiculous thing Michelangelo thought he had ever done in his free time.
"… How did this happen?" Michelangelo asked, for what felt like the hundredth time in the last two weeks.
Justin spared a glance across the table at him and shrugged. "Just go with it man," he responded.
The puzzle, with over a thousand pieces and depicting the rolling green hills of Ireland, had been found tucked away in the closet of the spare room- another of Theresa's left behind treasures. Michelangelo had been drunk when he'd found the box, and drunk when he'd stared trying to put the lookalike pieces together. He hadn't made much progress, but Justin had seen the mammoth puzzle when he'd stopped by one night and had begun to help him put it together. The curly haired attorney had more patience for this sort of thing, it seemed, and the progress made was marked. The border of the puzzle was complete, and the end Justin was at was almost whole. Michelangelo's own side of the puzzle, the blues of the sky, only had a corner portion finished.
It was frustrating, but also a good way to pass the time.
They chatted idly, mostly about nothing (sports, a well-liked sitcom, how Theresa and Raphael were fairing) for the better part of an hour. Michelangelo's iPod had been hooked into the radio on shuffle, music pumping through the apartment on a low volume. Empty beer bottles sat on the kitchen counter, and cigarette smoke loomed above the men. Michelangelo beat a new pack on the table, packing the nicotine before opening the cellophane and lighting up once more.
"Doing this makes me smoke more," he said on an exhale, flicking ash into the tray placed at the corner of the table.
"You wanna quit?" Justin asked, not bothering to look up from the puzzle.
"Nope. I think I'd be a wreck if I did."
At this Justin raised a brow and looked at the turtle across form him. "I meant the puzzle, Mike."
"… Oh. Yeah, okay. Want to call Amy?" He spoke of another friend of the turtles, a nurse who had been in their lives for over two years now.
Justin looked at his watch. "Nah, it's late. I'm going to head out."
Mikey stood, stretching and rolling his shoulders. He waved Justin goodbye, scratching Dandy behind the ears before they left. With Justin gone Michelangelo flipped on the television, settling on old reruns of the British version of The Office. The television had been Theresa's gift to Michelangelo for the holidays, and it was magnum opus of the apartment. It was a sixty inch flat screen plasma high-definition TV, mounted in all its glory on the wall, Ricky Gervais looking as though he was sitting in Mikey's home rather than appearing on the screen. Raphael had complained about leaving the monstrosity behind until Theresa had assured him they were upgrading. Although, knowing Theresa, an upgrade to her would be something considerably smaller.
Michelangelo had yet to see the farm house, nor had any of the others. Raphael and Theresa were in the city quite often, occasionally bringing Splinter along with them, and Theresa insisted that the renovations and decorating be complete before she went showing it off to them. But when she talked of it, she positively beamed. Even Raphael couldn't suppress a twitch of the lips.
They were happy.
Michelangelo pushed away the thought. It wasn't as though he weren't happy for them. It was just… difficult. Theresa, who might as well be his sister in-law, had uncannily made her way under his skin. Seeing her so full of bliss was a good thing, a wanted and appreciated thing. And while he had never really held any true interest of claiming her as his own, he still couldn't help that he had feelings for her. He didn't want her, didn't need her, but he did- though he hated to admit it- love her.
Perhaps he and Justin had that in common as well.
Most days this creeping feeling did not bother Michelangelo. He was not interested in harboring any unrequited love for a woman who clearly belonged to, and perhaps was meant for, his brother. In fact, knowing that he could love again, after what he'd gone through with Jade, was enough.
Michelangelo visibly cringed. He'd not meant to even think her name. He'd been doing so well at ignoring the whole damn fiasco all together. He had made a conscious effort to break the vices he'd picked up in the aftermath of her death. He had stopped drinking quite so heavily, leaving any substantial consumption for the weekends. He'd practically quit all the nefarious drugs he'd depended on to help him forget past events (though, on occasion, he'd still hit a pipe with Amy and Justin, reasoning that if a nurse and an attorney, two of the most professional people he knew, could get high, it was no big deal if he did as well). And he'd been working out again, delegating his spare bedroom to act as an exercise space as well as a study. He'd been able to bring up spare weights from the lair, and had purchased an old treadmill from Corbin at the low price of an entire paper delivering pay check (which, truth be told, wasn't really all that much). So, he reasoned, he was getting better. All of that proved it…
Though, with the anniversary of her death looming ever closer, the nightmares had escalated.
It was the reason he was up so late every night, avoiding sleep until he could no longer keep his eyes open. The dreams were never the same, sometimes beginning in the most fantastical of ways (as dreams often do). But without fail they would end up as a showcase of Jaden Chambers. Usually she'd be laughing, tossing her brown hair behind her, her eyes sparking with humor. And then… it would change. Everything became dark and horrid, and Michelangelo would watch as her life was snuffed out in the most brutal of ways, never able to prevent the inevitable, only able to watch as the light left her eyes.
He woke most mornings in a cold sweat, winded and practically hyperventilating. It was then that it was hardest to stick to his resolve of not falling back into old habits. Not to sink into the oblivion of nothingness- where the hurt would be eased away. But he had resisted. He kept himself as busy as he could. He delivered papers in the early morning, he stuffed envelopes for an online business twice a week from the convenience of his own home and he was constantly combing through the paper, trying to find odd jobs that he'd be able to accomplish without much face time or inquiries on the employers end. It was hard though, sticking to this new regime. Truth be told- he mostly was able to accomplish this out of his need to contribute to rent. Michelangelo did not want to be indebted to Theresa. He didn't want to depend on family, or have people taking care of him anymore. He was an adult. He wanted to be treated like one.
He needed to be treated like one.
Michelangelo felt his eyes growing heavy, and while sleep was often unwelcomed due to the horror-esque nightmares he'd be having, he embraced it just now. His thoughts on this night, and on so many nights as of late, felt bombarded. They seemed a jumbled mess of unwanted memories, and Michelangelo felt plagued in his waking hours with the recollections of Jade and the thoughts of Theresa and the murder of Ethan Shempski. He was constantly overwhelmed with his own circling anxiety regarding his late addictions and plausible melancholy (though, he quite rarely admitted the later to himself. Depression was not something he was willing to admit he might have to battle,) and the possibility of sinking back into them. Though, he pushed away the thoughts of Donatello whenever they might appear.
He did not let himself think of his brother.
So the sleep, as it washed over him, was indeed welcomed. He let his eyes close, his head lull, and almost subconsciously he turned off the television and stretched out on the couch.
And he dreamed. He dreamed of wolves and a forest and the terror struck face of Jade.
And death. Michelangelo dreamed of death.
"If you meet a woman of whatever complexion who sails her life with strength and grace and assurance, talk to her! And what you will find is that there has been a suffering, that at some time she has left herself for hanging dead."
-Sena Jeter Naslund
"I think I'm getting sick."
As if to punctuate this, Penny fell into a fit of coughing. She made a face when it was over, grabbing a tissue from her purse and wiping her nose with it. Her son watched her with concerned eyes.
"I think you are sick mama," he said, tugging at the hem of her coat.
Penny smiled down at him, clearing her throat. Behind her, she heard a quite chuckle. With a glance over her shoulder she briefly caught glimpse of a man (it must be), bundled against the cold he'd just escaped from and wearing his wide brimmed fedora low to cover his face. Penny's lips twitched at her son's humor.
"You sure you don't wanna ride in the cart baby?" She asked him, grabbing a bag of golden apples and placing them in the shopping cart. It was late to have him at the grocery store she knew, but this seemed like the only time she could get her shopping done. When he started Kindergarten next year she knew she wasn't going to be able to go evening grocery shopping any more. Perhaps she'd be able to get a weekend day off?
Lost in thought, she'd missed what her son had said to her.
"What Jules?"
The boy sighed. "I said, I don't wanna ride in the cart, and I don't like apples."
Penny tisked. "I like apples," She stressed. "And I'm gonna make a pie, Julius. You like apple pie."
Julius made a face, "I don't like raw apples, then."
Penny hid a smile, but she heard the man from before, who was now setting limes into his hand basket, breath out a small laugh.
"Oh Julius, enough." They continued on down the aisles, Penny stopping twice to sneeze in into her elbow. With each item placed into the cart Penny crossed it off the list lying on top of her purse, figuring up the amount in her head and trying not to scowl. She'd have to take a few extra shifts to cover this particular trip.
All the while, Julius looked concerned up at his mother. She kept sniffling and coughing and clearing her throat, and the boy remembered that this was exactly what he'd been doing last week. They had even made his mama come get him from the daycare because of it.
"… Mommy, did I get you sick?"
His mother cut her eyes to him, as if also remembering her child had been recently ill. "Probably," she replied on a sigh, reaching down a hand and mussing his curls.
Julius frowned. He hadn't meant to do that. But he had felt better curled in her lap, her hands running through his hair and her voice humming out a quiet song. She'd given him homemade soup that was better than the canned kind his friend Derrick got from his mother. And she'd let him sip on sprite and watch Elmo all morning, tucked tightly in warm fleece blankets. And, when she'd thought he was asleep, Julius had heard his mommy get yelled at on the phone by her boss.
Julius hadn't really understood why, but he thought it may have been because he'd been sick. And now mommy was getting sick too. He wondered if she'd get yelled at again, and he held back tears at the thought. He didn't want anyone yelling at his mommy.
Then he remembered something. Mommy had given him medicine. It had even been the good kind that tasted like bubblegum (at least- that's what mommy said. He'd never been allowed to have bubblegum). He thought he could probably find the same kind for her. He and mommy came here a lot, he knew his way around. Then she'd have medicine that would make her feel better, and she wouldn't get yelled at again. And maybe she wouldn't make him eat those icky uncooked apples.
Julius slipped away, his mother looking intently at the packaged cuts of pork as he did so.
Two aisles down, Michelangelo watched the boy run past, and shook his head before following.
Authors Note; BAH! I'm sick! I'm sick; Penny gets to be sick. Take that imaginary lady!
Also, I've picked up that awful habit of smoking. I smoke; Mike smokes… are we seeing a pattern? (When I quit, he'll quit. …Don't worry, that's soon)
I, however, have never lost my child in a store. Not that she's never tried to wander off.
I'll try to catch mistakes. This is a Valentines gift for all you good readers. May your day be filled with…? I have nothing sappy enough I can stomach typing, so just have a good day. :)