Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Fan Fiction ❯ 3 Weeks ❯ 17 ( Chapter 17 )

This is now officially- meaning no changing my mind or my plans for the future- the second to last chapter of the story. I decided that I would add this one in before hitting the epilogue of sorts. Just to, you know, throw a little something more in there. This is a Raph-centered chapter; hope you like.

 

Disclaimer: You can't sue me, because I admit that they don't belong to me! *Hugs the story* Don't worry: you won't get deleted!

 

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To assume he was alive, he figured, would probably be jumping the gun a little.

 

It wasn't as though Hamato Raphael had had a lot of experience with dying and the rather ironically named afterlife to judge his current situation by. Searching his memory, he found that he could distinctly remember undertaking the rather arduous task of accepting his fate- never an easy step for the hotheaded ninja to take, having always been of the opinion that one creates their own destiny. The situation, it was true, hadn't been ideal for the sudden swallowing of pride and stubbornness that accompanied such a feat; and he certainly hadn't enjoyed the process leading up to it. Pain was never a desirable factor in the decision to better oneself and on some level, he supposed it looked a lot like giving up. On some level, it had felt like giving up: but there had been other matters at hand more important than whether he should berate himself for quitting.

 

Considering the circumstances he'd been in for so long, he had deliberated and finally come to a pretty logical conclusion. His conclusion being that he was going to die in that room, chained to a wall and face-to-face with a psychotic stranger, aware of having nothing but candlelight and the smell of his own blood by the end of it; and factoring in from there his apparent lack of what seemed to be any kind of good luck, he had prepared himself for the inevitable. That acceptance in itself had been a new venture. He'd never been able to be graceful in the wash of stinging defeat, but defeated he had been, and prepared to accept the consequences as such.

 

There had been regrets, of course, and last wishes; something one often finds in endless supply when it seems they will not live to see another day. Thoughts of his family, apologies he'd never be able to give, holidays he would miss and the like. Left in the dark for so long, he'd found the time to address and process every single thought to float through his head, analyze them to the fullest extent of his abilities, and make peace with all of them. By the time the man returned again, there was nothing left to think about, and he was (as much as could be said in such a situation) ready. He was at peace and for the most part emotionless, and that had been entirely new.

 

Raphael, even as a child, even when he didn't fully understand it, had always been able to feel something in a given situation, no matter where he found himself to be. Primarily, he dealt in anger: it had always been there, for as long as he could remember, bubbling beneath the surface like a dangerous undercurrent, waiting to pull him down and sweep him away at the slightest misstep. Where he was, who he was with, what he was doing, those things were never taken into account and his anger continued to bubble away, picking at things that shouldn't have bothered him to begin with, blowing them out of proportion. Many times, he'd wondered if that was all there was to him at the end of the day: anger and frustration that he couldn't get rid of no matter how hard he tried or how often he meditated (which was certainly more often than Leo gave him credit for, but perhaps not as often as had been suggested by his father). When he couldn't vanquish it, it only opened up new levels of frustration, turned his anger inwards, built up until he could no longer contain it and had to do something, anything, to relieve some of the pressure and snapped.

 

He'd found, upon close reflection, that most of his final regrets rotated directly around the aftermaths of such cases, and regretted that it had to be so. Because, on top of all the other things crossing his mind, he'd also made serious, damaging, overwhelmingly stupid mistakes that hadn't been rectified properly in most cases (for instance, his last argument with his older brother, who would blame himself and never know that Raphael hadn't blamed him, or that the red-banded ninja in question knew he hadn't meant what he implied). There had been other things, also, that he'd never known he was sorry for to begin with.

 

Last regrets, as it turned out, were tricky things to consider. Where some would regret not being able to say goodbye (a regret that had crossed his mind more than a few times, admittedly), and on top of regretting his biggest fumbles, he had found that he also regretted trivial things like not playing video games with Mikey the last time he'd been asked, or not changing one of the light bulbs in the garage while Donnie had been too busy to do so, or even not returning the book of matches he'd borrowed from Leo a few weeks prior. He'd regretted not being able to have had a bowl of cereal before leaving the lair, regretted not having more microwave popcorn in his life, and other such things as food he hadn't eaten (at this point in time, he'd been quite literally starving, so food had been a commonly recurring theme in his mind) and places he hadn't seen (the most piercing place had been one last trip to the old farmhouse: he'd always wanted to see it without dire circumstances driving him there).

 

Once all of his wishes and theories and self-probing questions were addressed and moved on from, Raph had found himself in an emotional limbo of sorts. Cool acceptance of his situation and what was almost certainly going to happen to him there. And if that something were to happen, then it was simply going to happen, and he certainly wouldn't fight against anything that might remove him from the hellish freezing darkness encompassing his being. It was sort of a gamble, really, where death was involved, because even if there were something more after the proverbial end, there were no guarantees for giant mutated turtles in the works; but he had always been particularly attracted to risky endeavors anyway, and one more towards the end had suited him perfectly.

 

All of his greatest fears and remembered triumphs, his petty and most shameful sensations to his single most defining moments had been replayed behind closed lids (or perhaps before open ones: it was always so hard to tell) for him to observe. He'd seen them as though from a distance, not quite there enough to feel it, but close enough to think he might. Every piece of his soul had been dissected and bared, strung out and prodded and considered. Every lie he'd ever convinced himself to be true, every cruel thing that he hadn't not meant, was pulled out of him and examined and, at long last, laid to rest as he accepted what was coming. There had been pain, and everything had faded away like the last scene of a movie fades away before the credits start rolling.

 

So one could understand his skepticism when he found his consciousness sluggishly churning upwards and out of the darkness for the first time in what seemed like forever. It had always been more natural to his disposition to stubbornly hold onto whatever he had originally deemed to be true. His first immediate conclusion was that he was, indeed, dead as a doorknob. Which was fine by him: he'd prepared himself for that very outcome, had in fact embraced the likelihood of it with an open mind and an apathetic heart.

 

The first thing to knock him away from the idea was how distinctly alive he appeared to be. Above all else, there was the presence of pain; and while it was certainly nowhere near what it had been, and on the other hand certainly not alleviated, it was there. He could feel the air burning his throat as he took a breath (the second factor he considered in argument to his being dead), the stinging sensation of something pulling in his chest as it expanded, a fine stiffness in all of his limbs (which he was having some trouble finding, swimming in disorientation as he was), and a heaviness, as though someone had chosen to set a load of bricks on top of him, keeping him pinned where he was.

 

Opening his eyes became much harder than it had been once, a trying chore that was hard to get a grip on. Upon convincing his eyelids to submit to his demands, he found himself in the presence of a large orange and green blob of sorts, and it was definitely moving too fast for its own good. There were words that didn't quite cut through the ringing in his ears, and he turned his head to face the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust at their own pace, blinking to help them along. Things still weren't quite crystal clear by the time he recognized the ceiling of Donatello's laboratory, but then again, he'd woken up in there often enough to be sure of it once the thought crossed his mind. So he appeared to be back in the lair. That was surprising.

 

By the time the large green blob returned with company, his eyes had cleared up enough to make out the blurred figures of his family. Well, if he weren't alive, this simply wouldn't do: it had always rested somewhere within his plans to be the first to go down, and it just wouldn't be fair if they'd somehow managed to beat him to it. The likeliness of that, he considered, wasn't high at all. Everybody crowded around him at once and he was certain they were talking, but his head was killing him at this point, so he utilized the life-saving properties of selective hearing and let them drone on as much as they wanted in the meantime, gaze wandering over the familiar settings impartially. The olive-green hand of Donatello stretched over him, grasping his shoulder warmly as the genius turtle attempted to get his attention on the stream of words directed his way.

 

Alertness slammed into Raphael with all the subtle force he was accustomed to. For a moment, everything was clear: for a moment, he was chained to a wall and watching candlelight cast shadows on empty concrete and the presence of anyone wasn't a good thing, and being touched definitely gave off a foreboding air. The darker turtle urged himself to somehow find and control his limbs, with the full intent of pulling away and preparing to fight it out if need be, as he no longer appeared to be reduced to motionlessness. His arm stirred in a decidedly weak manner in response, but the hand on his shoulder seemed to get the picture, carefully drawing back. Amber eyes darted back and forth, taking in his surroundings and actually registering them for what they were. He felt his pulse slow down in the presence of more words, volume lowered but with voices he knew and recognized, which was more than he could have said for the voices he'd heard whispering in the dark.

 

So his family had found him after all. What was more, they'd found him and somehow, or so it seemed, managed to get him back alive. He observed the situation as though through some kind of barrier, gaze flickering from face to face as he waited for whatever they planned on doing now. Leonardo pulled Donnie to the side, eyes burning with concern and unhidden anger, though it didn't appear to be directed at anybody present, and conversed with the genius in low tones. Mikey and Master Splinter stayed by the bed, the latter cautiously placing a warm hand on his forehead while the former seemed to be fighting the urge to tackle him and sob uncontrollably, and realization came swiftly after the fact.

 

He was alive. There were no leftover doubts, no reasons to second-guess, and no more skepticism about the idea of it. Raph was alive and at home with his brothers and his father. Maybe it would have been wise to observe more of the situation before reacting as he had: he'd caused his family no small amount of concern in the process. He would have said something, perhaps tried to explain, but his throat burned too much to do anything of the sort just yet, and he suspected they would have stopped him anyway.

 

Raphael supposed he ought to have felt relieved, overjoyed, maybe even upset about the fact that he had lived or come so close to not living, but in their places he found only hollowness and confusion. Sure, he hadn't exactly wanted to die, but he'd been prepared, had had no choice but to prepare for it, had expected it to happen. After spending his time alone in the dark, trapped with his own thoughts, there had really been no other course of action to take. And yet, despite all odds and against his first perceptions, he was home again; he was alive. Eyes roving about the room again, the turtle couldn't help but wonder:

 

What was he supposed to do now?

 

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Okay, there's the end of Chapter 17. The last one will (hopefully, but no guarantees) be up in the next 1-3 days. So, what did you think? Any errors? OOC? Something that didn't quite mesh? I'd really like to know, because the end of a fic is quite possibly the worst time to start descending in quality, and this felt a little off somehow. Can't quite put my finger on it. So review, if you will.

 

Oh, and if the writing style seemed a little weird, I'd blame Charles Dickens. Anyway, thank you for reading the chapter! *sparkles*