Again, posting an old work. This was part of a longer piece. I never liked the third and fourth sections -- thus, they don't appear. Angsty and Leo-centric. Inspired on a Wikipedia's article, found due to use of the random feature: Syrul is a goddess of Lies, Deceit, Treachery, and False Promises, immune to all illusions and deceptions.
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Wake
My name is Hamato Leonardo, and even if there's no proof of it, I'm regarded as the oldest of four brothers.
Child
That gives shape to what is expected from me, to what I've been asked to do.
Do you feel the pull?
From my father: to be obedient, honorable, and to look after my family.
Do you hear it?
From my brothers: to give a hand when they need one, but let them live their lives otherwise.
I wait for you
From myself …
Come closer
From myself, I've never known. I thought I did, but it was a lie. I thought I knew, but it wasn't true. I've been covering myself in treachery and deceptions. I've been living in illusions and deceit. I believed in everything false, and lovingly embraced it.
I'm alone, on my own. I'm the forgotten.
Wake
My eyes are open now. Is this a dream? Yes, no, it doesn't matter. I'm back, wherever it is, and we are the only beings that exist. She takes my hand and cups my face, but only emptiness can be felt.
This is Syrul.
Old and haggard, she is no-one's dream girl, yet her reality seems to have tightfistedly crossed paths with my sleeping realm.
That's what I tell myself to avoid recognizing lunacy.
"You are doing it again," she rasps out, as sand and wind and empty vast spaces. The foul tang attacks my senses, here where exists no other scents; yet as I know it means nothing but delusion, it weaves and fades just to reappear in occasional strands.
A chaste kiss lands in my temple, dry butterflies turning into dust. Her outline transforms but my brain can't comprehend it, so the lackluster, worn-out form is back.
I've never been as cold and tired.
"Your mind is a fascinating place," she murmurs, as she has done countless times before. "So many contradictions and such a pleasing mesh of falsehoods; but still so weak."
I'm not a liar, I want to reply, but she would only make fun of me again. And even if her opinion meant nothing to me, I can't say the words anymore.
Because I'm not sure of the validity of said statement, and contradicting it would make me a hypocrite.
Her laugh is a desiccated noise, as ancient as death and darkness, but the embrace that prevents me from slipping back to the void is a comforting one, if only on its familiarity.
"Why do you fight against sanity, my child?"
It is not a question but a statement, an avowal on her ability to perceive my thoughts even before they take form. It is also a declaration to her twisted concept of mental health, and to mine as some of my actions can only be absolved when using her dogma as justification.
She says nothing more, which might be unusual but is a welcomed change; I'm not strong enough to battle over words and their infinite interpretations.
Seconds drop and climb in warped succession before she decides its time for me to leave. Still in silence, she uses her thumbs to softly close my eyes, in what I know is a mock salute to my own mortality.
This is Syrul, and she's not real.
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"He's waking up."
Light, noise, everything hurts, yet I say none of this to the relieved faces looking down at me. There's no need, really; it obviously shows when I try to move, a fact that is clearly proved in their rushed attempts to make me comfortable.
"Don't do that again," Raphael delivers once other subjects are settled, and even if he doesn't add the 'or I'll kill you' line in consideration to our father's presence, it still hangs in the air.
"Which part, saving your life or almost freezing to death?" I retort, as expected.
The issue has been a constant joke among us, but it suddenly feels wrong to not take it seriously. What has changed, if anything? I've been the one who has faced his would-be-end most, and never before it felt this way. Or maybe it did, but I wasn't ready to recognize the truth.
I don't want to die.
It is a shock to put so much into words, even if they are never to leave my mouth. It is, also, a relief to discover that this fact does not change my resolution to offer my existence if needed to save those I love.
The third time I wake up, a cup of broth prevents me from actively participating in my brothers' conversation, yet that doesn't stop me from rolling my eyes at certain particularly bad jokes. I wonder why three turtles are needed to feed one, but say nothing. It feels nice to be with them like this.
"What's sighrul?"
The question takes me by surprise, but I stop myself from declaring I've never heard the word before. "Am I supposed to know?" I ask instead.
"You said that in your sleep," Raphael says with a shrug, already taking the issue out of his mind.
"He was delirious," Donatello explains. "Do not expect anything to make sense."
I add nothing. Even if technically this isn't lying, lately I've been taking especial care with what I say. Questioning myself. How much of whom I am is really an act? What is true, what is not?
Looking up, my eyes lock with Michelangelo's. Unlike our other brothers, he's still giving some consideration to the topic. Curious. Worried. I smile, he smiles back, and then conversation reanimates as he delivers a particularly painful punch line to something Raphael said while I wasn't paying attention.
Whatever it is, they laugh, and I laugh with them.
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