More Than Just One

Chapter 11

tw: mental breakdown, blood, injury, self-harm (accidental and referenced), discussion of poor coping mechanisms, sad raph

He couldn't see too well out of his right eye. It was blurry and grainy. If he needed to focus, he'd close that eye to have a crisp view. Otherwise, it didn't bother him. Sometimes, he'd see things through a yellowish haze, but it would fade away after a minute or so.

All physical side effects of being taken over by the Krang. Raph could deal with those ones just fine. He'd just shake his head and put on a smile.

No, the physical trauma wasn't the problem. It was the mental trauma the aliens had left him.

The feeling of slimy tentacles oozing under his mask into his eyes and brain, sucking out information. The adrenaline overdose that made his body numb and tingly. The circular hole in his shell that he'd trace mindlessly.

As he did now.

The sharp edges caught on Raph's finger as he ran it over the circumference again. He was staring at the wall across from him. It was late at night—he should be fast asleep.

He let his eyes fall closed, but they immediately snapped open when he felt the appendages worm their way under his mask. He couldn't sleep, not now. He just had to make it two more days before he could return home.

He could return to his basking lamp and personalized bedroom. He didn't have to worry about keeping his breakdowns quiet. He didn't have to worry about four more turtles.

Talking from the living room snapped Raph to reality. He slowly got up. It was probably Mikey or Splints, but he wanted to make sure. He opened the door slowly and stepped out.

He crept to the doorway and peaked in. What he saw made him smile.

Raphael was comforting a shaking Michel. The younger turtle clung to his brother, crying. Raphael gently pet Michel's shell, whispering to him.

Raph smiled softly and backed up. Michel needed his brother. He slipped away silently back to the room. He sat on the floor, his carapace to the wall. His spikes were uncomfortable, but he learned to ignore it.

Now he couldn't. He couldn't get comfortable. Nothing sat right. He was tempted to file down his fucking spikes. The stone hurt. His brain ached. Everything was wrong.

The metallic taste of blood stopped his downward spiral. He opened his eyes and saw his teeth were buried in his skin. He gently pulled his teeth out, wincing at the sight. He pressed on the wound, standing up slowly.

He stumbled his way to the door, blood covering his green skin. It poured out heavily.

"Donnie..." he breathed. "Don..."

His brain was getting more and more fuzzy. What had he done?

"Don—"

"Raph?!"

Michel ran up to him, Raphael hot on his trail. The two helped him stand up, hurrying him to the Medbay.

"Donnie!" Michel called.

Both purple-clad turtles turned around and immediately went to work. Donnie prepared the table as Don got the tools.

"Lay him down there," Don instructed once Donnie was finished.

Raph was laid down on the table. His spikes still annoyed him, but that wasn't the problem now. Now, it was the numb feeling in his hand.

Don worked mechanically, like he usually did when he was stressed. His face held no emotion—if anything, he looked apathetic.

"Don't worry," Raph wheezed. "I'm okay, Don."

The softshell paused before continuing. He pressed the gauze on Raph's arm and wrapped white bandages around it. He tested the blood flow to his hand then nodded.

"You'll be okay."

Raph smiled softly, "Thanks."

"Was it another episode?" Don asked. He never met Raph's eyes.

Raph nodded softly, "It wasn't bad, Don. Just memories."

Don sighed, running his hands down his face, "God, Raph. You know we're here for you. Rely on us." He looked up at the snapping turtle with begging eyes, "We're worried about you."

Raph shook his head, "Don't be. I'm okay."

Don stood up abruptly, "No you're fucking not! You had another breakdown." He sighed, "Yes, you're getting better, but there's still mental trauma."

Raph looked down at his arms. There were many bite marks and long scars, few of them from the Krang. Some were ugly—mangled and bumpy. Those were when Raph decided Don was too busy and let the bite or cut heal itself. Then, it got infected. Others were neat and nearly invisible. Those were when his brothers would find him or he would summon the courage to ask for help.

"I'll get wipes to clean off the blood," Donnie said, ushering his brothers out of the room. Honestly, Raph forgot they were there.

Don was wrong—no matter how rare it was. Raph would be happy when his brothers were happy. His brothers seemed happy, so he was happy. His inner turmoils didn't matter because he had to be the rock everyone relied on. He was the oldest. He had to protect his brothers and he couldn't do that when he was one wrong touch to a breakdown.

Maybe he did need help.