I haven't slept for days. Rubbing my clammy eyes, I sit and stare at nothing in particular, a quiet snort escapes the dry cavern of my mouth, its deep and pitiful moan slipping through the stagnant air as I amuse myself at how deep the irony an innocent conjunctive could play. Four days, its been four days.

"Was that a chuckle I heard?"

"Hm?" I mumble intelligently as my brain struggles to comprehend. As time stretches on, I can feel my face begin to contort into an expression of sheer confusion until the words slowly fade into my thoughts and I decipher each one accordingly. Humor. Ah- its Mikey…Mikey. "Wassa sneeze." I mumble, the syllables slurring together and mixed in with the palpable gravelly drawl my voice croaks, the resulting sound is nearly inaudible and undiscerning as ever.

Only a disarming grin plastered across his face, letting me know there was nothing wrong with laughter. Laughter- HA! It may be here now but I know, I know it won't last.

Suddenly the world is spinning- I grab my head, imploring the queasy feeling to disappear as quickly as it enveloped my senses. Yet on the outside my pain filled expression is merely an irritated twist on my normally contemplative face, the hand far from abnormal, as far as my brothers were concerned. As the nauseousness slowly ebbs away, I take in the sorry sight of my younger brother.

His face is contorted in concern, his hand still firmly latched onto the leather office chair of which I currently reside. He continues to stare, his gaze disconcerted and pained, as my lips fail to create the words, sentences, I desperately wish to convey. This look, so foreign on the effervescent turtle. Then again, my mind cruelly quips, he's usually supposed to have two arms as well.

I watch as his grip slackens and his shoulders, previously raised, began to slump lower and lower as his posture and his optimism- his hope quickly fall. Seeing my brother, my only little brother struggle with the right words, I reprimand myself- fighting to say anything, fighting for resolve- fighting, for the strength, the will power, the care to just say something, anything- everything. Hesitantly and maybe even nervously, his arm retreats from the chair to the back of his neck. With what I assume was meant to be a nonchalant shrug, a look he couldn't quite pull off right now, he opens his mouth, " Look, Donny…I…I really appreciate all the…work… you've been doing for me this past week, but, I'm fine, okay? I know I might look a little…different, but its still me, bro. If…if anything, you're the one that looks like he got his arm chopped off. I mean, you're acting like it."

I must have flinched because I could see the hurt fill his eyes as he took a slow step back, fight or flight kicking in as his newfound insecurities arose to the surface. My mouth opens as I watch him take a second step back, my tongue moves as he takes a third and then I hesitate and its all over by then. I was too late, again. I don't even blink as he walks through the doorway, my tired eyes begin to mimic the Sahara as he stops, mere inches from the threshold.

"Just get some sleep, Donny."

There are pin pricks and an angry warmth spreading throughout as my eyes, opposite of the coldness in my baby brother's voice, beg for moisture to ease their suffering.

So I give in and I blink, just missing what I assume to be an accidental bump with the doorframe as it jars his…nub. He winces so vividly it would almost be comical except for the fact it simply isn't. I can hear his breath hitch as he seethes over the au courant pain . Everything inside me wants to comfort him, hug him- tell him lies and promises and hell I'd buy him a pony if only it would make up for the pain. Not just his injury- at what point does an injury become a disability?-but the emotional rift I am single-handedly causing between us, and in his time of need.

I swallow hard, trying to hold down the bile that suddenly wants to pour from my mouth as the guilt and the wretched realization of what I am doing comes down full force. The utter shame. What would Master Splinter think of me? How can I do this to him, how can I be so weak?

And it feels like days pass as he slowly walks away, his only hand gripping his plastron, a new habit he seems to have after…after it.

Then time sped up, back to its normal rush. I sigh dejectedly and turn back around, preparing myself for the long and lonely night five.


A loud thud sounds- cracking the silence that loomed around the quiet lab- the sound waves themselves rippling through the bleary eyed and rather startled turtle. His disheveled mask hung loosely around his neck, still stained with drops of blood he was always too exhausted to even care, much less clean.

Raphael was beyond angry. He was fuming.

"Just what 'da shell do ya think yer doin!"

Bleary eyes gazed into enraged and red-framed ones, each trying to comprehend the other through sheer scrutiny.

Relenting far quicker than he wished, Don couldn't help but look down. Holding Raphael's glare left him feeling rather unveiled, as if the red-banded terrapin could see into his guilty conscience.

With the swift achievement of his trump, Raph continued, "Ya realize the past half hour was spent listenin' to how upset Mikey is, huh? And not even 'bout his arm, nah- ya'd think in a situation like this the kid could worry 'bout the fact that his ARM IS GONE! But no! Don, I dunno what's gotten inta ya- but ya better snap the hell out of it 'cuz we need ya, Donny. Mikey- Mikey needs ya now more than eveh." With a furious rub to the back of his head, Raph spun around, pacing as his anger became too much to handle. During this time, Don merely stared wide-eyed, tears threatening to jump ship.

Time seemed to be ticking at the speed of sound, only beginning to slow as Raph once again locked eyes with Donatello, "Don. You know what Mikey thinks when you don't respond the way ya do... he tol' me ya don't see him as an...as equal anymore, Don. He feels like ya think less of him because there's actually less of him now. Tol' me the reason he thinks yer ignorin' him is 'cuz ya don't think he's yer brother anymore. Are you listenin' to me, Don? He thinks that because he lost his arm in battle, he lost his honor. Are ya listenin', Don? Why ya doin this?! ANSWER ME! Why!"

The flood gates opened.

Sobs of remorse wracked his body, each with the mighty force of a hurricane, and with every deplorable wail a new wave of despicable sorrow rushed over the prone turtle. Suddenly desperate for stability, his hand latched onto the table-top before him, his head declined in a miserable droop, his eyes clenched shut- suddenly too fearful to contain the treachery his actions had conveyed.

A grunt of antipathy was his only adverse comfort.

His gaze fixated on the chaotic wires intricately woven among the various furnishings and hardware that contrived the lab, his one haven. One of immense solitude.

"When ya get back from yer guilt trip, visit Mike. I'm sure he'd at least like to be acknowledged by ya."

And as that lonesome silence engulfed his previous sanctuary, atonement became essential.


It took more strength than he would care to admit, but as the air's silence turned into a static roar, the vision of the bleak and desolate scam of a future shattered what little remained of his morose attitude. A mere sough escaping his slackened mouth, as the purple-clad turtle, his resolve amplifying with step after weighty step towards the newly unfamiliar exit.

Apprehension leaped about, its bellows and jests bubbling forth in a jumble of sneers and obscenities. Damn, I really screwed this up. His body began to fall forward, as if the admittance of omission itself could thrust the weary terrapin to the fiery pits of hell. A steadying hand latches onto the icy walls. Looking forward he sees Leonardo- open book in hand- his eyes inscrutable as he merely points an arm in the necessary direction. His hand retracts- the sounds of Raphael's frustration flowing forth in an array of grunts and thuds.

One step. Then another. Another after that.

And suddenly the door is right there and with it, a new surge of fear. They say the greatest fear of all is a fear of the unknown. A calming breath. The shrill sound of flesh on wood. One beat of silence. Two-

"It's open!" Michelangelo's conciliatory response sounded from within. He's my brother, not a stranger- so why is it so hard to enter? One final breath. His hand grabs hold of the handle. Inhale. A sharp twist of the wrist. Exhale. The quiet creak of the beaten frame stings as though the sound itself aimed arrows towards his chest. The air a gale of its own.

A wistful smile appeared on the older turtle's face at the site of his little brother sitting upside down on his bed, not even bothering to look up from his doodle, "Dude, I think I figured out how to work the controller with one hand, we should-"

Hand behind his head, Don claimed a spot on the mattress adjacent to a rather stunned Michelangelo. "Don." Mike breathed, his voice suddenly hoarse; inciting a sheepish grin.

"You finally make your own bail, eh, officer?" A joke, to cover his bluff. His hand gives away the nervousness he feels,Don notes as Mike twists his fingers about, like his eyes didn't already give it away.

"Look, Mikey, I want to apologize." Cut to the chase. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush. A sigh, heavy with the weight of the world. Here goes.

"Mike, I- shell, Mikey- I never should have ignored you- not ever and especially not now. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you." Dons voice becoming that of a whisper by the very end. His eyes were downcast- too ashamed to look into his brothers cerulean eyes. A beat of silence, its heavy bars slowly suffocating the guilty turtle. An analogue clock perched above the framework ciphering off the seconds- its sound reminding him of the clanking of chains as another link is formed one after the other. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock.

Tell him. Just, tell him the truth- admit to your fear, you coward!

The sound amplified, murmurs engulfed his senses all around. He simply stared at the clock.

Tick. Talk. Tick. Scared. Tick. Weak. Tick. COWARD!

"-on! Donny!" Confused azure eyes met with frightened amber. Immediately the contact was broken, Donatello regarding the scene that, to him, was so sudden in its appearance. Scanning about, his senses slowly began to restore themselves. The air, stagnant but breathable. Silence, awkward but lift-able. Michelangelo's hand clasped tightly on his left shoulder, Michelangelo! The realization jarred his mind into a function-able state, the action inducing a rather startled response. His body jerked back as a tree to a typhoon, the gesture wrenching himself from the lax grip of his younger brother.

Now fully aware, Don could only watch in horror, his mouth agape, as Michelangelo abruptly stood with eyes wide. His right hand retracted to the back of his head, his step an obvious pace as he released some of his emotional turmoil upon the tails of his mask.

"Jeez, Don, I knew it was bad," he said, his voice a resigned mutter, "Jus' didn't think it was this bad."

He's so lost, Don discovered. He's been strong for too long.

Suddenly, the orange-clad turtle stiffened, his shell facing his brother as he murmured words spoken so innocently. His fear so tangible even through the brave-front, "You hate me, don't you? Because...because I'm...different, now."

Don was surprised the resulting shatter wasn't heard as his heart crumbled at the forlorn words. Eyes impassioned, Don spoke with a new found strength, his first concise words in days, "Michelangelo. Sit." And he did. So abruptly, so obediently; as though expecting some kind of lashing.

A deep breathe and he was ready. "Mikey, I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I-" he wanted to continue. He needed to, but these things aren't scripted. Its in these crucial moments where he realizes the sheer magnitude of responsibility being an elder brother entails. Then its decided. I tell him.

"Mikey, do you remember a couple years ago, when the fiasco between Drako and inter-dimensional travel occurred?" A curious nod of the head, eyes hanging on every word. Such trust.

And so he continued, explaining the experience as vividly as he himself remembered. Michelangelo listening with an intensity usually reserved for the concentration necessary in battle. Through the rehashing of the abhorrent dismay in such a fallen world. The disturbing changes in every aspect of his brothers- their odious deaths. As Donatello's tale drew to a close, he hung his head. Tears clouding his vision.

The tugging of his mask was the only preparation as Don soon found himself engulfed in a tight hug. Granted, it wasn't as strong as usual, the lack of pressure on one side of his body making for a rather delicate tone. Time lost all meaning as the embrace was both long and short. Silence. Strong and comfortable consumed the two, each filing this moment within the vast confines of their memories.

"You know, its funny."

"Nothing about this is funny, Mike."

"Funny meaning ironic, Don." Mike amended, leaning a little more on his brothers adjacent shell, "If losing my arm caused you to withdraw from us, you'd be following the path of dark Donatello."

"Mike, you better have a good point for this." Don threatened, his smirk negating his tone.

"You had the control the entire time. It was a mind thing, y'know?"

Pondering this, the older turtle hummed in agreement, "Touche."

And like the cycles of the seasons or the sequence of the rains, the two were content. Trials are inevitable; we all have our scars as proof. In the end, what matters is how we grow from them.

"Besides, having two arms was getting a bit monotonous, anyways."

"Too soon, Mike. Too soon."


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