Locked In; A Tmnt Street Punks x Reader FanFic

26

I'm lying in bed trying to stomach the events of yesterday.

My brain keeps flashing with the faces or whatever remained of my dads' victims. When I close my eyes, I see them, without eyes or fingers, my initials carved into their skin.

If any of them ever survived that, they will never forget it and they will never forget me.

And I keep trying to remember if there was any time he came home with blood on his hands and guilt in his eyes. I keep trying to see the face of the father that could do that sort of thing, but I can't comprehend it. It doesn't make sense and I would deny it but the evidence is there.

I want to cry because this is horrible

And laugh because this is just a horrible dream.

And through up because although I've scrubbed and scrubbed I can still feel blood on me like it's caked on my bones.

The blood, so much of it, it itches something at the back of my memory, something I can't fully grab. Something like this has happened before, long ago.

This feeling is too familiar.

M.C pops his head through the crack in my door. "Y/N? You done drowning in depressing realization?"

"not yet."

"Aww, N/N," he comes inside and stretches his arms out for a hug and I know I shouldn't because he's a murderer and they are all murderers, and I'm just a bit terrified of all of them now but I fall into his arms anyways.

Comfort is nice.

Even from monsters.

"how're you feeling?" M.C says into my hair.

"bad and weird. But mostly bad."

"reasonable."

"was he always like that?"

"Hm?"

I pull away from him so I'm facing him properly. "My dad," I clarify, this has to be recent or something, my brain can't comprehend that when we were playing pretend and making pizzas, he was torturing innocent lives.

He raises a brow. "Always like what?"

"You know..."

"A bloodthirsty killer?"

"Dammit, M.C." I pull away from him completely.  I feel a bit defensive for some reason. "you're a bloodthirsty killer too."

"Well, I would say bloodthirsty.  I don't like to do it."

"Then don't do it," I say, a bit desperate, my voice squeaks at the end. "Stop this."

His eyes are sorrow full, but they look like they pity me, like they feel sorry for my mindset and he's sorry I have to think like this. "You know I can't do that..."

His eyes make me angry. "oh, so you'd rather murder innocent people."

"no one is really innocent."

"Is that what you tell yourself when you're drawing the life from their eyes?"

He looks at me and considers it, he clicks his tongue. "Yes, actually."

I look at him, waiting to see his remorse, but his face has hardened and I don't understand this reaction. He presses his lips in a thin line and studies me. "You knew didn't you?"

"What?"

"Who your dad was, what he was doing, a part of you had to know." he looks at me carefully, watching for a slip in my expression. "No one is innocent. Not that innocent."

I suddenly remember gun lessons and knife-throwing classes. I remember learning how to mix poison from household ingredients. I remember throwing knives into the heads of dolls and running laps around the house. I remember learning about where the veins are, we're to strike, and how to do it. What parts of the body could cause the most pain?

I remember doing all of that, I have never truly forgotten.

But when he did it, he always found a way to make it fun, like we were playing a game and it felt okay because that's exactly what it was to me, a game.

He turned poison brewing into competitions, and then he'd pour himself and me tiny doses every day. And it tasted like shit and I hated it but he said it was for my system so that I could become immune. And we played make belief with knives and real guns.

I guess a part of me knew.

I guess I always knew.

I just couldn't accept it. And I knew no one but him, so it felt okay. It seemed normal.

After watching the news and reading books, I am now fully aware that none of that was normal.

I bite my lip and look away. That's all the reaction he needs because his eyes light up. "Ah-HA, you did know!"

"Not really," I say because I feel like a fraud somehow, like a hypocrite. "He didn't flat out say it."

"How was he supposed to say it? " M.C laughs, he makes a gruff voice. "'Hey lovely daughter! Did you know I'm honestly a psycho-murderer mafia boss? No? Well, you learn new things every day! Time for dinner!'"

"I mean, that would have been nice."

"He doesn't have to say it though!" M.C flings his arms in the air and stands up. "He showed you, didn't he?"

"I don't know-"

He takes a sudden large step towards me and leans down so he is looking directly into my eyes and we're sharing the same breath. "look me in my eyes and tell me you had no idea. That you didn't suspect a thing. Say it."

But I can't, I can barely breathe. I look away.

He straightens and shakes his head. "No one is really innocent. Not even you."

"At least I'm not a-"

"At least I'm not a what?"

My words feel like poison. "At least I'm not a monster."

I see it.

I see the hurt flash in his expression, his eyes widen and he stumbles back as if I physically shot him. And I promise I really didn't mean to say it. I didn't plan on saying it. But I was so angry...

"M.C, I'm so-"

"Y'know..." he's looking at my carpet, his fists clenched at his sides. His voice is broken at the edges. "I didn't ask to be here. I didn't want to be this."

I told him, just today, that I didn't think he was a monster, he confided in me as his best friend, because he trusted me.

'...But it meant everything.'

My heart sinks to the bottom of my chest. "M.C..."

He doesn't look at me, he leaves the room.

There goes my best friend.

I bury myself under the covers and cry.

~•~•~

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