"Sins of the Father"
By Donny's Boy
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Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.
Warnings: Some emotionally intense stuff. No sex, mature language, or graphic violence.
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Chapter 1: "Regrets"
"I have told you before, my son, that you must be strong when your brothers are weak."
"You've told me that so many times that I've lost count. But what does that even
A sigh. "Donatello."
"It's not my fault that Raph is … well, that he's Raph." A frustrated grunt. "And it's not my fault that he won't listen to anything I say. So I don't understand why I am being punished for not being the great leader Leonardo."
"My son, you are not being punished—"
"Yes, I am!"
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The boy was quite young. Far too young to truly know any better. But that did nothing to stay the tide of anger that rose within Splinter's breast.
"Donatello! What are you doing?"
The little turtle paused, his chubby hands buried amongst the wires of the toaster he'd successfully dismantled, and raised quizzical eyes to his father. "I's takin' it apart," he explained, very matter-of-factly.
The toaster was the small family's only source of heat for food—there was no stove, no microwave, no oven. When Splinter had found the device during one of his regular scavenging expeditions, he'd been delighted to find it still in working condition. The boys had been similarly delighted upon discovering the joys of warm toast and hot waffles.
And now the toaster—the precious toaster Splinter had miraculously managed to find—was sitting on the cold floor in a thousand tiny pieces. He knew there was scant hope of putting it back together again.
Splinter couldn't help it. The toaster … and the boy … looking so calm and completely unconcerned … and the toaster … With a sharp kick, Splinter sent the toaster flying across the room where it slammed to a halt against the hard brick wall. Startled, Donatello jumped up and stared at where the toaster now lay.
Kicking the toaster, far from quenching his anger, merely sent another surge of adrenaline coursing through Splinter's body. Glaring down at his tiny son, the rat grabbed Don by the shoulders and lifted him clean off the floor. He gave the boy a brief but rough shake, shouting, "Over and over I have told you not to take things apart! But still you do not listen to me!"
Eyes wide and confused, Donatello let out a soft whimper.
And, just like that, the tide ebbed. Immediately the remaining anger drained from Splinter, leaving him feeling weak and scared and sick to his stomach. As gently as possible he set the boy back on the floor. Then he reached out with a trembling hand to stroke his son's cheek. Don flinched slightly at his touch.
"S-sorry," the boy whispered.
"No, it is I who should be sorry," Splinter replied, his voice thick. He pulled the young turtle into his arms and hugged him fiercely. "I am so very sorry, Donatello."
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A low growl of warning. "Donatello, you will lower your voice and speak to me in a respectful manner." "As well you should be. For the next few hours, you will retire to your room to meditate on how you may better serve—and, when necessary, lead—this family."
"Y-yes, Sensei." An uncomfortable pause, full of embarrassment. "I didn't mean to, uh … well, of course I wouldn't … I'm sorry, Master Splinter."
The slightest hint of lingering resentment: "Yes … Sensei."
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With a subconscious jerk, Splinter opened his eyes. He glanced over at a nearby clock and saw that he had been meditating for a mere fifteen minutes. Lately, whenever he sat down to meditate, he could never do so for very long. Nor could he do so without remembering.
It was always the same memory: Donatello and the toaster. Splinter rose and stretched his back. If only Splinter could say it was the one time he'd lost his temper … but that would be untrue. There were many such times, with all four of his sons.
And there were so many bad memories. Screaming at an infant Michelangelo, who would not sleep through the night. Slapping the hands of a toddler Leonardo, who insisted on sucking on his dirty, germy thumbs. Glaring a tiny Raphael into tearful submission, all for the heinous crime of having stolen his brother's cookie.
And, of course, scaring a young Donatello so badly that he shied away from Splinter's very touch for an entire day afterwards. Scaring Donatello over a toaster, of all things.
The boys had been so young. They hadn't known better, and Splinter had of course been aware of that. But Splinter had been young then too. Nothing in his previous life had prepared him for fatherhood. Not just fatherhood, either, but playing father to four mutated turtles that had to be constantly kept underground, unseen, and somehow entertained.
That was no excuse, however. Splinter had always known that, too. But it was after the toaster incident that he had told himself, "Never again." It was after the toaster incident that Splinter began exploring meditation in earnest, and slowly but surely it began to help. As the boys grew older and were able to play peacefully amongst themselves for extended periods of time, that helped as well. But his memories helped most of all. Every time he felt frustrated, every time the temptation to yell or strike out began to grow too strong, he would force himself to remember—to remember Donatello's terrified face—and the anger would eventually shrink to something more manageable.
And slowly but surely the boys forgot those bad memories, as they were displaced by memories of laughter and lessons, of games and ninjitsu, and of a father with seemingly endless wells of patience. Only Splinter remembered those long, hard, dark early years. How very well he remembered.
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A knock. A short pause—an eternity.
"My son, I wish to have a few words with you. Please open your door."
Only silence. Drawn-out. Mocking.
"You are no longer a child, Donatello. End this foolishness now. I will not speak with a barrier between us." A flare of irritation. A hand upon the doorknob. "Dona—"
Surprise. Slight hesitation.
"Donatello?"
Alarm. Beyond the doorway, an empty room.
"Donatello!"
Horror. Panic. Fear. Pounding footsteps from behind. Murmurs filled with concern and confusion. Questions, accusations, search grids.
Guilt.
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"Master Splinter?"
The elderly rat glanced towards the doorway, where Raphael stood awkwardly, bathed in shadows. How long had the boy been there? How much had he witnessed of tonight's meditation? It took Splinter a moment to find his voice. "Yes, my son?"
"We still haven't found nothing on where Donny might be hidin' out." Raph folded his arms across his plastron. "But me and Mikey are goin' back out to look again first thing tomorrow night."
"Very well." As Raphael turned to go, Splinter lifted a withered paw. "Wait a moment. Please."
Raphael stepped back into the room, impatient but obedient. The thick corded muscles in his neck flexed, and his eyes glittered like gold in the candlelight.
Raphael. His beautiful son. His angry son. Splinter knew that Raphael saw himself as the black sheep of the family. Knew he saw Leonardo as Splinter's favorite. Knew Raphael often felt terribly misunderstood.
But Splinter understood all too well. That's why he had to keep trying. Why he could never and would never abandon Raphael to his rage. Because although none of the four had ever seemed to realize it, Leonardo was not the son who was most like his father.
Splinter approached Raph and placed his hands on the teen's broad shoulders. It was hard to reach. The boy had grown so tall over the years. Looking deeply into his son's eyes, he said, "I want you to know that I love you. And that I am proud of you."
For a moment Raphael seemed taken aback. Then he cracked a small grin. "Yeah, uh, well … love ya too, Sensei."
Satisfied, Splinter nodded. He released the boy, and Raph quickly disappeared before any more heartfelt sentiments could be uttered. Splinter turned from the doorway to gaze at the sundry meditation candles, still burning brightly, their flickers of flame spread out all over his room. With a small sigh, he addressed a son to whom he longed to tell the same words he had just spoken to his brother, muttering softly, "I am so very sorry, Donatello."
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Author's Notes: I tend to think of Splinter as very wise and incredibly patient, but I was struck at how severe, uncompromising, and dogmatic he could be in the 2007 movie. I thought it'd be interesting to explore those aspects of the character. Also, I'd never really written Splinter before. (Still managed to fit in the Donny angst, of course.)