It has been nearly 12 months to the day, according to the new calendar hanging up in the post-office, since I left New York. So much has changed, but it still feels like I have accomplished nothing. Despite my best efforts, a couple raids have slipped through and ravaged the two smallest villages. The militia scum are wary of my presence and the danger I pose, but still see me as little more than a myth. I have killed nine of them. One decapitated. Four throats slit. Two stabbed in the chest. Three fell to well-placed make-shift shuriken. The rest have either gotten away by themselves or by my mercy. I never see the same faces twice, and yet when, rather, if, I make myself known, they know who I am: The Ghost of the Jungle.

I know that I should be preparing to head home, that I should grab my small bag that I brought with me, and head to the airport from whence I came. I admit that it would have slipped my mind had it not been for Donatello. It was only by coincidence that I stopped by the post-office the other day. There, addressed to my faulty address, was a package. Not just a letter, no, a large wrapped thing. I swiped it later that night and took it back to my lair. Once it was unwrapped, I was still unsure of what it was. The note attached did little to help, it read:

Leo,

Hope you're doing well bro, we're all looking forward to you coming home.

I trust this will help you when you get back.

Love,

Don

The thing was obviously supposed to be strapped onto the back of my shell, but it still took me a bit to figure it out. Turns out there was a little hand-held device attached to it with a red button. Once pressed, a sail popped out the back and handle bars appeared at the front. A glider. Immediately I thought of a number of ways that it could help me get back, but it would all depend on the circumstances of course.

I smiled at my little brother's genius. I hadn't thought of them in a while, which, a few months ago, would have never happened. This place is changing me, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I had re-written those letters and sent them away, but it took a couple months for me to stop by the post office again and grab the replies.

Never would I have thought it possible to distance myself from my brothers like this. I love them too much. Thing is though, I'm getting along fine, so I expect they are too. Just last night I had a nightmare about them, well, Raph, but still. We were fighting. In the rain. There was a menacing red glow that highlighted his angry features. He told me he didn't want me around anymore and that things were better off this way. I believed him, mainly because when I think back, all I can remember is the dark times. I know good ones exist, I just can't imagine them right now. Every time I let them or Master Splinter down, every time I wasn't good enough, the images and scenarios haunt me; so I don't think about them.

Besides. I can't go back. I have accomplished nothing here, my training has all been for naught. If I don't die before I do whatever it is that I am supposed to do, then, and only then, will I return to my family.

I wish I knew what my true goal is. I assume it is to become faster, stronger, and smarter, all the while protecting the innocent lives that are scarcely intertwined here with mine. Master Splinter never really specified beyond "you will return much stronger", which, knowing my father means anything but the literal interpretation, though I'm sure that that's important too. He always has to give these teachings that require so much thought to be put into them, and only then (maybe) can the end-result be discovered. Being here though, I've racked my brain to understand the true meaning behind it. Still the best thing I can come up with is to become a better protector. But I'm positive I'm missing something.

I do know one thing, I'm not ready to go back.

It had been another scorching day in the jungle, but as the sun was setting, the heat was tapering down. Leo would normally be homeward bound, but due to a lack of care, he was now making his way to a fresh water source. With a limp.

He cursed himself under his breath for being so careless. His left foot burned with every hobbling step. It was red and swollen and sore.

Couldn't take the time to clean it, could you?

The day before had him scaring off a small convoy from entering one of his villages. There was no trouble or blood-shed then, it was as he retired to his cave and stepped on a particularly sharp rock. It cut the right side on the ball of his foot, which caused him to jump back and let out a startled yelp.

He thought about taking full measures to tend to it, just as he does with every other wound, but decided that it was too small and insignificant to worry about. Big mistake. Sometime during the next day it became infected and only puffed up more and more.

Finally he reached a familiar close-to-home cenote. The sun still offered enough light so that he needn't rely on the moon's shine to tend to the aching foot. The turtle stepped in with both feet and sat on the dry land of the bank. The cool water was like heaven to the swollen appendage. He knew what he would have to do, but for now he just sat.

Boredom took over and while still unwilling to rub at the puss-filled mass, he reached down and grabbed his other foot and started to gently massage it to help wipe away the stress of the moment. He thought it was calloused back home, but a comparison to then and now would be like comparing soft stone to a lava rock. He moved his hands along it, curiously inspecting the large digits, hoping not to find anything that shouldn't be there. To his relief, there wasn't.

He lowered his good foot back down and reluctantly reached for the other and turned it so that he could clearly see the cut. I was dark red- almost purple. And it hurt. Clenching his teeth, he moved his fingers over it to wipe away the dirt and other debris that was stuck to it. A hiss escaped his teeth and he broke into a cold sweat.

When he had finished, and found it to be cleaner, he hoisted himself up and grabbed a stick off the ground. He continued to jump to his cave, careful not to put his foot into contact with anything.

He finally got there and tiredly flopped onto his 'bed'. He took some smashed-up foliage from a little pouch nearby and, using clean grasses, tied it tightly onto the wound. Immediately the sharp pain was slightly dulled and he made himself comfortable. The plant had proven to help fight infection in the past, and he hoped that it would help now, despite the fact that infection had already made its way into his body.

His now tired, bloodshot, brown eyes began to close from exhaustion. His last thought before he drifted to sleep was that he could very well never wake up again because of a small cut in his foot.