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A New Lease on Life	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 3157 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own TMNT, any of its characters or devices, or any songs/books/movies referenced. No money is made from this story. I DO own any & all OCs included in the story...and a Woozle.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
A little bit of creative license in this one regarding Amber's meltdown. Real flashbacks aren't quite as...dream-like...but the aftereffects here tend to be pretty accurate. That said, I must warn y'all: if you're having problems with a traumatic experience or PTSD, please, for the sake of all that's good, don't pull an Amber. Don't try to 'fix it' yourself by intentionally triggering yourself until you've got someone to guide you through it. It CAN and WILL set you back in the long run. As always, if you want to talk, I'll gladly listen - hit me up here or on Tumblr - you can find me at Ghost-Chance.
Special disclaimer for this chapter: A few book titles and a poetry excerpt from "I wandered lonely as a cloud" by William Wordsworth. I have no claim to the ownership of the mentioned books or this poem - the books are for reference and the poem just fit the scene well. (and I love Wordsworth's poetry to an almost fannish-extent.) Seriously, I'm not getting paid for any of the references in this story, they're just there to enrich your reading experience.
Suggested listening: Linkin Park, "Castle of Glass," Set It Off "Nightmare," Seether, "Rise Above This"

9: Worse
February 16th, 2016, 10:45 am
From the name, Amber would have assumed Budget Store-It-All would be in a dark, grungy part of town—off the beaten road, prone to repeated break-ins, and chronically surrounded by the stench of stale liquor and unmentionable bodily fluids. Surprisingly, she was entirely wrong. The maze of metal framework and roll-up doors was clean, well-kept, and Pine-Sol and bleach were the only noticeable smells. Even now, several aisles away from the recently cleaned office the strong odors burned her nose as the small ring of keys burned a hole in her hand. Her mind drifted back to the kitchen table in the lair when she and Leo shared some stout black tea.
"I don't like it, Leo," Amber muttered, a concerned glare focused on the packet of paperwork on the table between them. "It's not mine…to take advantage of this, it's stealin'! Even if she's bloody dead, I'd still be stealin' her identity!"
"Technically, you're stealing your identity," he pointed out calmly and tapped the name on the driver's license. "She already unknowingly stole your identity, otherwise, you wouldn't be stuck in her body…and frankly, you seriously need some clothes, at the very least." She self-consciously crossed her arms over her front. April had offered a bra, but Kimber's overly-generous bust had spilled over the modest cups obscenely and painfully. Amber finally decided it was safer to just go without and pray she stayed warm enough; unfortunately, it being late winter, she was rarely warm enough to keep off the high-beams. Not to mention she was currently restricted to two sets of clothes—clothes that were well on their way to self-destruction at the rate she wore them.
"Okay, okay," she mumbled, glaring at the table, "Amber needs clothes—point to Leo. I'm still not comf'terble with the rest, though…clothes, to'letries, that wouldn' bother me, but jus' takin' over her bank account an' such?" She shuddered, her moral compass so far in the opposite direction she felt ready to be ripped apart by it. "I…I just couldn't!" Leo sighed, frustration leeching through in his tone.
"Amber…she's dead." Ice blue eyes met hers sternly; she flinched at the reminder of Kimber's fate. "You do realize that, right? Kimber Bryant's not going to just suddenly reappear and demand answers—she was dead before you arrived, and she's staying that way. Where she's gone?" He indicated the pile of papers and cards with a tense, sweeping gesture. "She can't use any of this…the afterlife doesn't charge, you know."
She smiled weakly at the phrase. "The Egyptians sure thought otherwise," she quipped lightly. "Ya'd think their afterlife was full'a strip malls an' casinos from ever'thin' they buried 'emselves with."
"Focus, Amber; she's not going to spontaneously rise from her non-existent grave and say 'give it back,' ya know. Not to mention, if her friend was being honest with us, we might be able to make the situation right. Perhaps she can rest in peace once Hun's been taken down, hm?" Amber remained silent, staring through her tea to the minute dregs at the bottom. Silence reigned until she finished her cup in fast but reverent sips and made to put it in the sink. "Well?"
Amber dug through the mess for what she'd need for the storage yard. "Can I borrow the car, Dad?" she teased.
An hour ago, Amber had been dead-set against even coming to the storage yard; now, here she was, in the storage yard, about to raid the belongings of her body's previous occupant. She glanced down incredulously, scrutinizing the shed key's generic shape and the still-crisp paper tag that adorned it. Of course Kimber's shed was number 69, she thought bitterly; the woman hadn't had an ounce of tact and paraded her admittedly generous 'assets' for all the world to see. It seemed everything she learned about Kimber only made her dislike her more.
"Are you about done staring down that key, O'Brien?" April asked incredulously, propped against the party wagon with one hip. "From your attitude, one could assume it insulted your mother."
"Nope," Amber quipped, shooting the other woman a smirk. It didn't escape her that April used only her last name; if only for the moment, Amber missed her friends Mercy and Aaron just that little bit less. "I think it kicked my puppy, though." The brunette gave her a playful shove as she sauntered over to the door, swiping the key on the way.
"The way you keep angsting over this, we'll be here all week," April teased, fitting the key into its lock. Pins tripped, clicked, and pinged, and the bolt gave way; the women heaved the deceptively heavy door upward with a mutual grunt of effort, only to gape in disbelief at the shed's contents. "Dang," April mumbled as she scanned the piles upon piles upon piles. "This must be her whole apartment!" Amber wandered over to a dark corner staring thoughtfully at a teetering rack of appliances.
"Yup," she deadpanned, "I think I found the sink." The old bar lights in the ceiling buzzed to life, nearly blinding her.
"Yeah, well I found the lights." Amber stared vindictively at the 'sink'; why the heck did Kimber have a chamber pot in her storage shed?
"That's jus' cheatin'," she grumbled at April. "Don't s'pose ya found a map, too?" Silence fell as the pair searched through the piled bins, boxes, and containers. As they went, they collected what would be leaving into the only empty corner, marveling at what they were finding. Amber was stunned; she'd formed such certain opinions of Kimber, but she had yet to find anything in her belongings to cement those opinions as facts. Of all the things she was expecting—an arsenal to rival Fort Knox, a poisoner's toolkit, a lifetime supply of bizarre sex toys and heroin—what she found was rather surprising.
Most of the toiletries were unscented or in discreet fragrances like vanilla, aloe, or coconut. She owned about the same amount of makeup as Amber thought most women would own. Much of the clothing packed into the shed was flattering—short and low cut but not especially obscene. Case upon case of DVDs and CDs were stacked against the far wall, while three shelves worth of books lay waiting in plastic totes nearby. Amber scanned titles through plastic lids, surprised at what she was finding; some classics, some poetry, lots of nonfiction...and far more dirty paperbacks than could be healthy. Cringing, she toed a bin of stained, faded bodice-rippers far away from the 'take home' pile. No. Just no.
"Hey!" April called out from the other side of the room. "I think I found something!" After wading her way through bags and boxes, Amber stared in disbelief at the small locked pistol case April was nervously eyeing; sure enough, the key was on the ring she'd been given. "What I'd give for Donnie's goggles right now," April mumbled uneasily. "What if it's rigged? We should have him look at it before we open it."
"Sound advice, O'Neil," Amber agreed, gently relocating the case to one of many 'staying here' piles. "Well, unless there's something we mis—" She trailed off at the sight of a small plastic tote marked HAIR. "Bingo." Not surprisingly, Kimber had jammed in a whole stockpile of unsweetened Kool-Aid packets in various shades of red, purple, and blue, and several large bottles that clearly no longer contained sports drinks. Each had been peeled clean and marked in clumsy permanent marker. "Step One?" Amber read aloud skeptically, cracking the cap off of one to carefully sniff the clear contents; she instantly recoiled grimacing. "GUH!" she gagged. "Vinegar!" Still blinking away the pungent stench, she inspected the other bottles' contents. Baking soda, dish soap, clarifying shampoo, olive oil…
"Looks like you get to soak out that red finally, huh?" April commented at her shoulder. Amber stared down the kit as though she expected it to explode.
"…yeah…let's get out'a here. I've got a feeling we're already in over our heads."
4pm, the Lair
Unheard by the five ninjas training across the lair, the soft clickity-clack of a keyboard echoed in the lab; Amber cautiously scanned the screen before her, scrolling through the hundreds of results Bing had thrown her way.
It had taken Donnie a disturbingly short amount of time to hack into Kimber's laptop for her, and even less for him to get it completely tailored to her needs with new passwords. The soothing swing beat of Frank Sinatra—or rather, 'Hank Sumatra' in this world—crooned from the speakers, a welcome respite from silence filled with unwelcome memories. She was still learning about the new world she found herself in, and she'd been ecstatic to find out that Kimber had downloaded 'Musify,' a program almost equivalent to Spotify, Amber's worst addiction. The excited screech she loosed upon seeing that the other woman shared a startling amount of her music tastes had drawn four panicked ninjas to the lab; each stared, bewildered, as she leapt out of her chair and flung herself into a ridiculously uncoordinated happy-dance. Perhaps, she admitted as Sumatra sang of learning the blues, Kimber had some redeeming qualities after all.
Now, hours later, she had settled in for research and soaking in her favorite music. 'Let's see,' she thought, contemplating the links flying past as Sumatra transitioned to Quiet Riley.* 'PTSD causes, PTSD complications, PTSD support group, signs of PTSD—PTSD self-test, Bingo.' Line by line she filled out the form, hope filling her heart. Surely this would prove once and for all that she was just stressed, not broken.
'Experienced or witnessed a traumatic event,' she read silently. 'Does dyin' in a tornado count? Intrusive thoughts…let's see, repeated distressin' mem'ries/dreams, feelin's though it were happ'nin' again, intense physical/emotional distress when reminded of the event, yup, yup, yup. Avoidance and numbing symptoms: Avoidin' thoughts, feelings, an' conversations, activities, places, an' people who remind ya of it? Memory blanks and forgetting important aspects of the trauma, losin' interest in activities, feeling detached, limited range of emotions…Hyper-arousal—THAT doesn't sound dirty at ALL,' she cringed, scrolling further. 'Chronic irritability, shortened temper, fear that relaxin' will bring another trauma, difficulty sleepin'—Boy howdy!—exhaustion, frequent fight-or-flight reactions, panic attacks, exaggerated startle response…' Right on cue, the 4:30 subway train rumbled past, sending her jerking away from the wall, her heart pounding a terrified tattoo against her ribs. 'Yep,' she thought wearily.
One by one she read down the list, clicking all applicable answers with a 'yes.' By the time she finally reached the end of the test, she'd affirmed all answers except for four—and all four referred to drug and alcohol abuse. Even in her previous life, she'd been resolutely drug and tobacco-free, and she rarely drank any alcohol besides Scotch Whisky and Drambuie on hoidays. She practically grown up drinking Scotch, thanks to her Gran'da and it had little effect on her, but she was still careful.
All but four marked 'yes'... "No," she muttered in dismay, falling back in the chair. She scrolled up and down the two-page test again, but the screen didn't lie. She was experiencing a ridiculous number of PTSD symptoms, and if the test was anything to go by, she was in big, big trouble. Half an hour later she'd torn through dozens more similar tests only to get the same results every time.
She was in trouble…and April was right. It was only going to get worse. Disheartened, she returned to Bing and searched again: PTSD cures. The search returned nothing more helpful than a forum trolled with posts like 'a bullet to the head cures everything,' and she begrudgingly searched treatments. Finally, she found some promising results.
"Exposure therapy?" she read aloud, her tone dubious. "Studies have shown that techniques commonly known as 'systematic desensitization' and 'prolonged exposure therapy' are useful in helpin' suff'rers of PTSD get their symptoms under control. At the very root, both revolve around repeatedly exposin' a patient to distressin' media relevant to the trauma that caused their symptoms, all in a safe, secure, supportive environment. When combined with talk therapy, coping skills, an' anti-anxiety medication, many suff'rers find that taking back their lives is easier than with medication or talk therapy alone. Distressin' media relevant to the trauma?" she balked. "I…I guess it's worth a shot. If I can beat this on my own, without havin' to see a doctor…"
There was no doubt in her mind; if it would keep the guys—her guys—safe, she'd do anything short of dying again…and even that was beginning to seem reasonable. 'I've gotta get things under control…I've just GOTTA!'
Glass shatters. Timbers creak and trees groan. The air hangs with the itchy stench of mold and mildew. Watery needles pelt her bare skin. Flashes of light splinter the skies. A ceaseless deafening concussion rattles her eardrums.
Demons howl in the wind, crying 'abandon! Abandon all hope!' Amidst it all, a skull-shattering grinding roar echoes through the water-thick air, proof that the funnel careening her way is no mirage. Death knocks on her door with a foul, cadaverous grin.
Screams—someone screams at the top of their lungs as the sky festers into a noxious green and grey haze. Lungs ache, heart pounds, eyes burn and skin stings. The wailing voice stutters in gasps and sobs, wracking already sore ribs.
Out of the darkness, a pair of strong arms wrap her in a frantic grip. The reaper's embrace cannot be trusted - she fights and claws to escape with her life. Warm raindrops course down her cheeks and neck; the phantom arms only tighten their grip, one shifting to seize both flailing wrists.
Out of the whirling tempest, a heartbreakingly soft tune reaches her ears; could it be, she wonders? Could the tune truly fix her, save her? She turns her back to the looming tempest, guided along the blood-slicked ground to the source of the gentle humming. Somewhere between her memories, blood clears into rain, corpses fade into stones and wildflowers, and wrecked houses and cars smooth into rustling trees and bushes. Among a field of cheerful daffodils and soothing heather stands a shadowy figure with striking hazel eyes.
'It's alright, Amber,' the figure soothes, beckoning her to its side. 'Come back to me—you're safe. I promised to protect you, to fix you, and nothing's changed—I keep my word, you know.'
'Could it be true?' she wondered wearily, fighting not to collapse at the figure's large, blurry feet from exhaustion. Could she be safe, could the mysterious figure protect her? Strong arms wrap her in a familiar grip, anchoring her in place and warming her freezing heart. As the world falls away around her, she feels no fear. Well-loved lines from a previous life rumble through her memory as the world fades to grey, daffodils, heather, and all.
"For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils."
Oblivion.
"Wha…" Amber asked hoarsely as familiar brown canvas faded into view. What happened? Why did she suddenly feel so tired? Even lifting her head to meet the frantic hazel eyes above hers seemed to take too much effort. Why was she on the floor? When had she left the desk chair, and why was Donatello physically restraining her?
"What were you thinking?!" Donatello demanded, his voice sharp with panic. Bewildered, Amber just blinked at him, too numb to realize her face was dripping with tears. "You…" His expression twisted in a mixture of horror and anger as he ranted at her, finally releasing her wrists. "You did that on purpose—you seriously sent yourself into a massive, full-scale flashback on purpose! What were you thinking, Amber Jean O'Brien?!"
Finally, the pieces fell into place; she jolted, whipping around to see the laptop. It was shut, the distressing video footage no longer visible. "I…" She faltered, avoiding Donnie's frantic eyes. "I was tryin' to…to get rid of it. Exposure therapy helps, an'—"
"—exposure therapy," the genius retorted shrilly, "not intentionally triggering yourself into a total meltdown with graphic video footage of an EF-5 monster tearing apart a school!" Frustrated beyond belief, he stormed over to the security system displays, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists to the point where tendons and sinews jutted out in stark contrast. Shaking from anger and nerves, he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths, reminded himself that losing his temper wasn't helping things any more than her ignorant blundering had.
"Amber." When he finally spoke again, his voice was tight and carefully controlled. "You can't just dive right into the deep-end with this…you started at the end and probably made everything even worse. You've gotta take baby steps!" The sudden, smothered sniffling behind him shook him from his anger; sure enough, she was fighting another fit of tears, clearly humiliated and disgusted with herself.
"I'm s-sorry," she stammered, choking on her tears. "I…I just…I d-dunno what t-to do! I thought I c-could beat it—on m-my own!" The more she spoke the further she drifted from sniffles into sobs, and the more shuddery her breathing grew. Though he was still pretty angry at her, Donatello fiercely reminded himself that she was as much out of her league as he was…she needed support, not screaming. If screaming could repair her, she'd have attached herself to Raph from the start; instead, she dove into his lap headfirst in a blind panic, never realizing what she was doing. She needed logic, comfort, and intelligence, not a 'screw the world' attitude and hair trigger. Sobbing staggered into hiccups—a precursor to hyperventilation if he ever saw one. He stalked back over to her side, dropped to crouch before her, and wrapped her tightly in his arms, unable to resist the urge to bury his snout in her still-fruity hair, cringing at the scent left by Kimber's Kool-aid dye.
"Braids," he muttered gently into her scalp, "you were lost when we found you, and you're still lost now, but you don't have to stay that way." Her breaths smoothed and calmed with every gentle pattern he rubbed into her back and shoulders, and he could feel her pulse slowing through her neck. "I'm here—you do know that, right?" Watery green 'kicked puppy' eyes met his through tear-streaked glasses; she answered with a reluctant nod. "You're not alone—you've got friends—you've got me! You want to beat this on your own, but sometimes you absolutely have to accept help. If…"
He hesitated; his gut told him that she needed help he couldn't give, needed to see a specialist, but she'd been so vehement against the idea. After all, more than she feared for her sanity, she feared for his family's safety. At least, he admitted, resolving himself to his decision, she only had another two days left of her agreement with his master. Cruel though it sounded, he had no doubt that she wouldn't be able to make it—she'd fail the test Splinter had put before her, and she was bound by her word to seek help if she failed. He may not know much about Amber yet, but somehow he knew she would keep her word. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that certainty, or where it came from. "Amber, please…let me help you? Let me guide you through this?"
He didn't really expect her to start crying again, but by this point he probably should have; she really was just on an emotional roller coaster from this trouble, he thought wearily. "D-Dee," she whimpered, "what'd I ever d-do to-to deserve you?" Even as her tears soaked the front of his coveralls and chest, he smiled at the comment, recalling a similar one the day his family brought her home.
"Must've spent your whole life kicking puppies," he teased, smirking when she laughed despite herself, the sound rattling in her chest. "We'll get through this…You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, and on one condition, you'll have me right beside you every step of the way."
"Anythin'!" His smug grin caught her entirely off guard.
"You've lived with us going on three weeks; you seem to know my every thought, feeling, and habit, but I barely know anything about you." She winced. "You're practically a closed book, Braids. My condition is simple: Let me get to know you? Start talking with me more often?" This time, when her eyes sparkled back at him, they gleamed with mirth rather than tears.
"Twist my arm, why don't ya," she teased weakly as she swiped her cheeks clean. "I warn ya now, though, it'll be sheer torture—I'm actually pretty boring."
As the two bantered back and forth in their way, an eavesdropper outside the door scowled angrily. Later on, he took his frustrations out on the punching bag, distracted by memories of punch red hair strewn across torn sheets and a breathy Jersey accent crying his name.
Just past dusk
Central Park was even bigger than Amber expected…and that was saying something. Earlier that evening, Leo pointed out that the team was long over-due for a full patrol and three of the four brothers split up to check separate hotspots. Donatello barely managed to talk his way out of patrol over previous plans, citing that April was expecting him to drop by that evening. In a rather surprising move, Leo agreed - and suggested he take Amber along for some fresh air. Amber smelled a setup.
Their task accomplished, they tramped quietly through the empty park Central Park. It was nice to get some fresh air, Donnie pointed out as they emerged from a hidden manhole - especially fresh air without the stench of the sewers and the stale air from the subways.
At his heels, Amber remained quiet, subdued. Her meltdown earlier left her weary in body and mind, and she still silently berated herself over her careless actions. She wasn't an idiot, she thought darkly; she should have known better. Now the family she lived with were surely convinced she was hopeless and utterly incompetent. Everyone had heard it - Heck, Mikey teased that the pushers in the Bronx could have heard her panicked shrieks. She could see the worry in his eyes as easily as she saw his grin. Not a month ago, all the worry and pity she saw in the eyes around her would have infuriated her to no end, pushed her into recklessness to prove that she wasn't weak; by now her ego had taken too much of a beating to even flinch.
Thus, there she was, tramping through the darkest, most dog-forsaken corners of Central Park, ducking from shadow to shadow with Donnie, and trying to focus on relaxing and not stumbling into every park bench and its brother. Just in front of her, Don scanned the park cautiously, evaluating everything with practiced ease. Drunk passed out by the restrooms: Harmless. Homeless woman snoring on a bench: No threat. Loud, giggly, probably high couple playing suck-face on the swings: Keep a distance, but clearly too stoned to be a threat to anything but themselves.
As he silently guided them through the park, Amber studied the books April had checked out for him. PTSD and Mild Traumatic Brain Injury—nothing unflattering about that title, she sulked. The Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Sourcebook : A Guide to Healing, Recovery, and Growth—a doorstop of a book that could probably break toes if dropped. Last but not least was something that suspiciously resembled a textbook: A Mind Frozen in Time: A PTSD Recovery Guide. April mentioned that one of the ladies at the reference desk had suggested it, claiming that it had helped a friend of hers get through her own recovery following an assault. Amber wasn't assaulted, though, so she wasn't sure just how well the book would help her. As hard as she focused on contemplating the books she carried, she never noticed a leg sticking out of the nearest shrub until she tripped over it.
"YAK!" she squawked, flailing to catch her balance and falling right into Donatello's outstretched arms; as the pile of books rained down around them, Donnie single-handedly collected each in turn before they could find a foot. Impressive. "Please tell me that's not a dead body!" Amber whimpered. A quick scan revealed the truth; the person was alive but malnourished, dehydrated, and far too cold for their own good. Probably homeless, he realized with regret.
"No," he answered under his breath, uncertain if the person was asleep, unconscious, or liable to see them if they didn't haul-ass. "We'd better—" Before he could finish his sentence, the rest of the body appeared, pivoting up out of the bushes like a risen corpse in a bad horror movie. Greasy blonde hair hung to about her shoulders decorated in twigs, dead grass, and leaf litter; bleary, sullen grey-blue eyes threatened bodily harm from sunken cheeks. "Don't…move…a muscle," Donnie whispered to Amber, hoping against hope that they hadn't been seen. As though he'd never even spoken, the woman in the bushes snorted in annoyance, scowling viciously.
"Go fuckin' figure," she muttered under her breath as she made herself comfortable in her leaf nest again. "Crazy in my other life, gotta be crazy in this one, too…giant fuckin' turtles…bloody fuckin' Heck...Amber'd never believe this one."
At the sound of her name, Amber startled violently. She knew that voice, that accent, that bitter snarkiness - even though the face was somewhat different, she even knew that! She knew the woman's dark humor and perpetual attitude problem, and above all else, she knew the woman herself. Even as Donnie gaped and sputtered at her, she darted to the shrub-line, latched onto the woman's filthy sneaker, and threw every ounce of strength into hauling her out into the light. "The fuck, Lady?!" the woman snapped kicking at her. "Gi'off'a me—Yer muggin' someone who ain't got nothin' worth stealin'!" -
"Mercy!" Amber cried frantically, eyes darting frantically from one blue eye to the other, searching for recognition. "Good God A'mighty, Mercy!" As realization and dismay shattered the blonde's scowl, as Amber tackled her to the filthy ground and sobbed over her, Donatello realized April was right…
This was only going to get worse.

UP NEXT: "good grief, there's two of them!" in Mercy

⇒ All information about PTSD in this chapter has been compiled from a combination of reference books, websites, and personal notes; no individual sources are directly quoted, and this information can be found in some form or other in just about every text regarding PTSD.
⇒ Books: PTSD and Mild Traumatic Brain Injury and The Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Sourcebook : A Guide to Healing, Recovery, and Growth can both be found at the New York Public Library, according to their online catalog. Never read'em personally, but they looked pretty in-depth and weighty. Don't know if the NYPL has A Mind Frozen in Time: A PTSD Recovery Guide, but I personally vouch for that book. It's been a Godsend, really, especially since it's formatted in a way that doesn't require much focus—I never had attention/focusing difficulties 'til PTSD hit, but have had no difficulties whatsoever with this book. Unfortunately, attention problems and distraction are a rarely noted side-effect of PTSD and may never truly go away.
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A New Lease on Life