KonichiwaKonichiwa. My name is Splinter and I am an old man.I have been gifted with an exceptionally long life for a rat, because of a canister of green ooze that mutated me into what I am now. It hasn’t always been easy. My life not always happy. But I had one thing which made it worth living, which filled me with joy, purpose and pride. I have raised four sons. When I found them, four baby turtles playing in a puddle of some glowing liquid, my rat heart overflowed with compassion. Perhaps it was because of my old age that rather than eating them, I gathered them in a coffee can and took them in as my children. You see, back then I was nearing the end of my rat life. I was a year and eleven months old and I did not expect to live much longer. It might have been the instinct to raise children before my death that made me adopt the unfortunate creatures. It was a good decision, for the mutation I underwent thanks to my sons poured new strength into my body. My life span doubled and doubled again and I was allowed the happy sight of watching my children grow up. However, when my sons reached the age of six, I felt my extended time was coming to an end. It was time for me to go, my animal instinct told me. I lay in bed in those gloomy days, wishing to go quickly and quietly so that my sons wouldn’t have to witness my lost battle against the Grim Reaper. I longed to see my dead master… One night, an army of bugs came to our home. As soon as they smelled my old, helpless flesh, they swarmed into the room like black creeping death. In spite of my resignation to life, I became frightened of being eaten alive. I called for help. Three of my sons were away from home, scavenging for food. The fourth one came almost immediately. The sight of Raphael fighting countless bugs, crying out in vivid hatred and urgent fear, woke up something inside of me, which had fallen into deathly slumber. As I watched him crush their bodies, stomp them to death and sweep them away, my strength came back to me, and I was able to raise my hand and bat away those few that had got to me. Raphael’s burning anger reminded me of the power protecting those dear to me used to give. I remembered how embers of love lit up into roaring fires, fuelled by hatred and fear and radiating passion and courage. I saw his bared teeth, I heard his outrage and suddenly… I did not wish to die. That was how Raphael became a warrior. My life prolonged but by no means saved, I decided I could not die like this. There was so much more to pass onto my sons, so many things I could yet teach them! What a shame to leave without a chance to share my wisdom with them ever again. I must create an avatar, an image of myself that will inherit my will, I thought. I must make a Splinter Junior to take over my role and allow me to always be with them, even after this old body dies and decays. I cannot pass away before I manage this. There was one among my sons who excelled at nothing. He did not possess a genial mind, a boundless sea of energy, nor the strength of an ox, which meant they could not hinder him. He could keep his mind clear because there were not thousands of possibilities flowing inside his head. He could focus his entire being on a single task because there was little restlessness to distract him. He could be delicate in handling situations because he lacked the power that destroys whatever it touches. When I told Leonardo that I wish he took my place and he readily agreed, my soul found peace it had missed dearly. My agitation subsided and I was able to spend my last days with Leonardo, teaching him what he needed to know about taking care of a family. He drank my every word. Soon they saturated him so much that I began seeing myself in him. That was how Leonardo became a leader. The future of my children was being provided for, yet I couldn’t shake off creeping depression. Day by day I grew prouder and prouder of my diligent student, fonder of living – but the inevitability of my own death loomed over me like a spider looms over its caught prey. Death had me in its claws, and no amount of mental strength and peace could save me from it. On a particularly sombre day, I could not bring myself to eat. I was told to gratify the cook, that he would be unhappy to get his food back. I had him sent for so I could explain that I do not dislike the food, I am merely not hungry. A minute later Michelangelo shuffled into my room. Upon hearing my apology, his face lit up, and he asked if the food was good. I confirmed this, heartened by his smile. My son broke into chattering, light words flowing from his mouth like a fresh, pristine spring in the mountains. He talked about everything and nothing, complaining about his brothers one moment and telling a joke the other. Sensing his bright aura, I bathed in it, full of appreciation. The next day, I had him come again. Little by little the darkness in my heart lifted, chased away by our shared laughter. I cannot begin to tell how grateful I was to the little turtle who showed me what joy means once again. That was how Michelangelo became a joker. Every day was more and more precious to me. No longer did I lie in bed, no, I was up playing with my children, teaching them what I could, sharing their joys and woes. My soul lived to its fullest, yet my body continued to deteriorate. I could not run, jump or train with my sons for the fear of my heart giving out. I was with them in spirit, but my body had its limits. And they were shrinking. My sons did not seem to notice this, as they considered my previous indisposition an overcome sickness. Yet one of them was more concerned for me than the others. It was him who took care of me when I first “fell ill”. Gradually, he seemed to lose interest in playing with his brothers, opting instead to spend his time elsewhere and, as I had been told, read. I wasn’t happy to see Donatello retreat into his own world in reaction to my worsening state, and I often told him to come and be around us more. He stayed for awhile, but he quickly became distracted and excused himself as soon as he could. Much sooner than I had hoped came an evening, in which I wasn’t sure if I would wake up in the morning. I told Donatello to stand guard at my bed that night, in case something happened. A look of terror passed through his eyes and at once I knew that he was only too aware of my condition. He bowed his head and said, yes, he would be there. That night a sting of pain woke me. At first I thought that this must have been it, and opened my mouth to call my sons, but then something strange occurred to me. The pain was not in my heart, it was in the crook of my elbow. My eyes flew open, landing on the hunched form of Donatello. His breathing was unsteady and his skin glinted with cold sweat. “My son, what is wrong?” I asked, reaching out for him. I was then I noticed a plastic tube hanging from my elbow. I touched it. “Please don’t remove it father,” Donatello said, his young voice shaking. “It’s the only thing I know of that can save your life…” Following the tube with my gaze, my eyes fell on an obscure device. It was connected to three plastic tubes – one yellowish, mine, and two red. The red tubes disappeared in Donatello’s arm. “What is this?” I whispered. “Plasma transfusion,” Donatello replied, sounding sick, “from me to you. I’m giving you a part of my blood, father. Hopefully it will start up your… immunity system…” He gulped and took a draught from a bottle of water. “It’s going to be a long night… so please relax.” “Isn’t this dangerous?” I inquired, protective instincts forcing me upright. “It’s a chance to save your life and I’ll survive,” Donatello said, leaning forward to push me down and rest his head on my shoulder. I do not know when I fell asleep. In the morning, Michelangelo’s voice woke me. Donatello was found exhausted and pale, but alive and responsive. That was how Donatello became a doctor. His sacrifice poured life into my dying body. I still do not know how, but from that morning on my state kept improving until I felt as vigorous as on the first year of my mutation. Through my sons, I was reborn. I raised them to life with my death, and they raised me from death with their life. I am Splinter my friend. Sayonara. Poněkud se to odchyluje od canonu, ale co. Zpět na fanfikce. |