Title: I Only Sink Deeper the Deeper I Think
Day: Whumptober 2023, Day 29
Prompt:
"I only sink deeper the deeper I think" Scented Candle/Troubled Past Resurfacing/ "What happened to me?"
Fandom:
TMNT 2003
Word Count:
896
Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl
Rating: T
Characters: Donatello, Splinter
Warning: NA
Summary: The Triceriton Mind Probe didn't leave Donatello unscarred. While he managed to keep himself together for a few hours, trauma doesn't go away. Now, with his memories shattered and broken, all Don can do is try to understand what's happening to him.
Notes:


I Only Sink Deeper the Deeper I Think

Don shivered. Where was he? What room was he in? It was dark, and the only light came from candles. There was a blanket around him, brown, scratchy, but familiar somehow. He wasn't sure how it was familiar, but it was. The room seemed the same. Familiar, but not. He was on some sort of bedding, and one wall seemed to be some sort of screen. Thin wood ran in rows and columns, making squares, and light filtered through the paper over them. And the candles. They were everywhere. There was a warm yellow light from their glow, and a scent. There was something about that scent…

Something moved, taking his attention and Don slowly looked over towards the movement, drawing the blanket closer around him. Where was he? What was that? His brow furrowed as he tried to think.

The room was familiar and warm. It felt like safety. But he also remembered feeling terrible in here. But when he felt terrible, he could remember someone there. A soft hand, a warm voice. Comfort. Yes, yes there was comfort. He remembered being sick in this room. He remembered his father taking care of him, singing to him.

Except that it wasn't this room, was it? It was a different room. He was thinking of a smaller room, in a different place. Yes, a different place where his brothers and him slept on bunkbeds together. Why wasn't he there? With his toys and his brothers and his father?

Wait—toys? Did he even have toys? No. No, now he had tools. He could make things. Things that brought water and heat and electricity. And that brought them to… to where? Where was he bringing those things? It was like the answer was there, but it was slipping away from him.

Slipping away… like he did. Like they did. Like they did because they were ninja. Only they didn't always slip away. Sometimes they got caught. Sometimes things happened. Like the home that crumbled with his toys in it.

He remembered his toys. He remembered that place. He remembered playing in there. Watching TV, wrestling with his brothers, playing games, hearing stories. These things passed through his brain quickly. He smiled at them, or at least he did at first. But something was wrong. He could see himself doing these things, but he couldn't remember why. He couldn't remember anything but that moment. All other context was gone.

Was there other context? Or was this all there was? His brow furrowed deeper as he tried to think. Those were his brothers in his memories, but why couldn't he remember things about them. He remembered Mikey with a hurt ankle, but he couldn't remember how he hurt his ankle. He remembered Raph with a pipe standing over Mikey, but he didn't understand why that was happening. He remembered looking at Leo, beaten, but he had no idea how he had gotten that way. He didn't know who the red-headed human woman was, or why she felt safe. He didn't understand why he wasn't upset at seeing Raph and a dark-headed man rolling around on the ground. He didn't know why he saw his father floating in an orange pod. Why was the robot man important? What were the little rounded creatures? Why were there dinosaurs?

Why couldn't he remember anything? Why was his memory in pieces? He could feel the panic start to kick in. He tried to think harder, tried to recall what had happened, but it was like the harder he tried to catch the memories, the deeper he went into them, tried to sink into them, the deeper into confusion he went.

He couldn't remember details of his childhood. He couldn't remember things that he knew were important. There were gaps, there were holes, there were pieces. It was like something had come into his mind and taken a hammer to his memories, shattering them and leaving the pieces scattered.

One jumped out, and he tried to grab it, to look at it. It was the dinosaurs. Only they weren't exactly dinosaurs, and they were putting something on his head, and he couldn't get it off and—why, why, why, there was so much pain, it felt like he was breaking into pieces—

"Donatello! I am with you!"

There was a familiar smell. Candles. Candle wax. That particular scent. It was familiar. It was comforting. He looked up. Warm gray hands were on his. A concerned, but loving face stared into his.

"M…Master Splinter?"

His father nodded. "Yes, my son. I am here. I am with you."

Don looked at his father with scared, terrified eyes. "What happened to me?"

Splinter reached up and cupped his son's face. "You have been injured, my son. An injury of the mind. But I am here. Your family is here. And we will help you."

Don stared at his father. His breath hitched. "I don't—I don't—"

Splinter watched as his son's eyes clouded over again, the moment of clarity once again lost to the inner turmoils of his broken mind. Splinter closed his eyes too, the grief for what was happening nearly overwhelming him. And then he opened them, took a breath, and returned his attention to his panicked and shattered son, and to the work of helping him rebuild his mind and traverse this hardship.