Mᴜᴛᴀɴᴛ Aᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ: Dᴏɴᴀᴛᴇʟʟᴏ's 200 Dᴀʏs ❪✘❫ 𝑁𝑂𝑇 𝐶𝑂𝑀𝑃𝐿𝐸𝑇𝐸𝐷

08 || 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝗼𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐎𝐕
𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝟷𝟸

He walked for an endless day, taking in the sun's rays, the gusty winds that tickled his skin and fluttered his mask. Donnie's leather-like textured scaly skin that gained many scrapes and bruises is beginning to grow filthy with a ton of dirt stains, taking away its unique characteristics. Don sluggishly, lazily, and gloomily walked the middle of the road he strolled on, seeing there is another town up ahead.

Don sighed in great annoyance, bothered and frustrated with every town he had seen in the past twelve days. If he is to keep living and prove to the world he can make it, he must keep going through the obstacles and rests stops he is given.

As he kept walking he glanced down at his shoes, seeing they are still in pretty good shape...surprisingly. But his body ached, his shell is straining a ton of weight he didn't usually carry, and he is sleep-deprived. Heavily sleep deprived.

Lately, Donnie hasn't only been feeling lonely, he's been feeling... not himself and wanted a way to self-medicate the things he felt. He wanted to be numb. He feels worthless, disgusting, useless like he is a waste here in the world.

When Don made it to the area of buildings and a few houses, he scanned each building, reading the names of the stores. He saw a small hardware store, a pharmacy that looks very empty, and a pet shop. The others didn't look very promising... except for one.

Don brought his gaze to a store on the right of his path and read, "Green Wellness," He mumbles, stumbling on his feet and opening the door to get a massive whiff of the earthy, herbal, and woody aroma. Donnie's nostrils could smell notes of lemon, apple, plum, or diesel mixed in with this plant packed inside the store. He closed his eyes and breathed in that strong, heavenly smell of freedom, of never having to come back to reality.

When his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he knew that he was going to have a great time. He gazed at the dead plants sitting on the counter, wrapped in plastic, feeling bad that they didn't get to please anyone since they had turned brown. Then, his hazel eyes move to the back, seeing a door that leads to the back room which consists of many different jars filled with herbs and a case of oils.

"Sh*t..." Don mumbled at the sight of the different items in this room. He carefully ran the tips of his fingers across the dusty display case before planting both of his hands on the glass, staring at the blunts and joints on the inside. Then, he takes a step back and brought out his staff, firmly holding it in his hands before smashing the tip of the weapon against the glass, letting it shatter. He let out a deep sigh and holsters his staff so he can pluck one of the thick blunts from the case, holding it between his thumb and index finger.

Next, he takes a look at the room's desk which had some scattered office supplies that include paper clips, pens, sticky notes, and one lonely metal lighter. Before he could think for a second time, Donnie swiped the lighter from the desk's surface, flipping the cap open and watching a bright flame light up his eyes. The flame danced and waved, eager to burn its next victim.

Hesitating for a split second, Donnie brought the joint to his mouth, pressing the end of it firmly between his lips and letting the flame kiss the other end of the 'therapeutic' object. The fire from the lighter burned and consumed a small portion of the joint until a small piece of charcoal lit dimly at the tip of the roll.

Smoothly, he lightly inhaled the herbs, letting the smoke infest his lungs, contaminating his healthy airflow. As soon as the substance hit his throat, Donnie began to cough violently, blowing out the smoke cloud and inhaling many times to catch his breath. His eyes stung, watered, and a few tears fell from his eyes and soaked into his mask, taking in an entirely new feeling.

Now that he got his first hit of weed, he was trying to process the overwhelming yet exciting and delicious feeling of being mellow. His emotions unfold as he takes another hit. Donnie's getting more comfortable with the smoke in his lungs and every time after the first seems to get easier and easier to breathe in. He feels like he will float to the ceiling of the small smoke shop.

He feels weightless. Happy or relaxed for the first time in what seems forever,--he laughs and giggles to himself and he is unaware that he will be more sensitive to the light of day. The colors around him are more vibrant than before, as the sound is louder, the touch is amplified, the taste of his mouth is bland, and his mouth feels like the dryest desert sand. His smell is reduced from exhaling the herbal smoke as well.

Donatello will admit it if someone were to ask him; does he enjoy this feeling? The feeling of floating in the sky, relaxing into pure paradise inside his head, and being happy again? Yes. He would say yes.

Now that the joint is nothing but a small butt that will scorch his fingertips, Donnie drops it to the floor and stomps on it to put out the charcoal. He breathed out heavily, taking in the desirable sensation, and found a place to slump down. In particular; an old bean bag behind the store's counter.

He hadn't realized what he's done. The damage! The real Donatello that is screaming to get out of the hell inside his head is trapped and can't stop his behavior. Whoever is taking over his healthy conscience will be in complete control soon. Don is growing addicted to self-medicating, addicted to being alone, addicted to being a survivor who doesn't consider family a priority anymore.

The anxiety starts to develop, unfolding into these hallucinations and delusions. The countertops seem to be closing in on him, and he's starting to hear the mice or rats in the walls behind him-- their little feet are scampering, trying to find their source of food. He's confused-- like he doesn't know what those noises are.

He moves the bean bag to the other side of the counter, where he is pressed up against the wooden countertop. Now facing the wall, he was once sitting. His blood pressure skyrockets when his mind plays these sly tricks on him. No one knows how to scare him like himself. Within the deep subconscious of his thought, the darkness that lurks there starts to reveal itself, creeping out into his active mind...

The wall where the scraping noises were originating looks like the fingers of a rat but the size of a human trying to claw open the wall's paint. Don's paranoia is starting to make him nauseous. He realizes that it looks like his father, Splinter's hands the more he watched his delusion.