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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
- 48
- 49
- 50
Warning for LOTS of SCOTS and blended accents in this one.♦

Suggested Listening: Sick Puppies "Maybe," Red "Hold Me Now," Evanescence "Bring Me to Life"

48: Did I Have a Dream, or Did the Dream Have Me?
September 29th, Red Fern Florist's
Open the door. Just open the door, Mercy, it's not that hard. Quit bein' a pussy an' open the door! Despite her silent self-encouragement—or, rather, berating—Mercy still stood just outside Red Fern's glass door, hesitating, second-guessing herself. It seemed that everything in her new life led to this moment, this place, and this one inescapable fear—fear of confronting the past she never lived—and the question of how to finalize her ownership of this new life without completely tossing Donna Mays aside. After all, despite all the mistakes Donna made, Mercy owed her new body to her—owed her for all the growing that new body was making her do. Already, she was a stronger person for having to work through Donna's addiction and struggles, and the other-worlder was sure she would only continue to grow.
Mercy would never tell Amber, but in her eyes, the brunette had it easy, if only in one way—her new body's previous occupant already had all her documentation in order, already changed her name before she died—Amber O'Brien was in a new body, true, but at least that new body officially shared her name. Mercy didn't have that sort of luck…she was an addict, still too skinny for her own tastes, and she couldn't quite adapt to the differences in Donna's body and the body Mercy was born to. Worse yet, that body had no documentation after Donna's years of living on the streets, and getting new paperwork was a chore and a half, much less getting her name officially changed. Now, though, the red tape and bureaucratic bullshit were over with—she was once again Angela Mercy Ross in spirit and in name—but she still had one massive hurdle to jump.
The last time she went to Red Fern Florist's, she found out the hard way that her body's previous owner had a history with the store. Donna worked at the store, was close to the family who owned it, and until she went off the deep end, destroyed her life, and burned every bridge she had, that family always had her back. Fast forward a few months, Mercy found herself dropping by the shop like clockwork, unaware of what drew her there or that Abilene Whitaker knew her in the slightest.
The last time Mercy saw Abby, the blonde other-worlder heard something she wasn't ready for—she bolted, determined to never return. Now, a full month later, she stood right outside the florist shop, one hand clenched painfully on the door handle, torn between facing the music and running as far from the problem as she could. No matter how long she stood there, though, one thing was clear to her: running from her problems never got her anywhere. Running would rob her of a friend she never knew she needed—someone else who'd fought their own addiction and conquered it, and someone who could understand firsthand what she was going through. Sure, Abby couldn't understand what it was like being stuck in a world that wasn't her own—she couldn't understand why heavy storms made her skittish or why she couldn't talk about the people she lived with—she couldn't gossip with Abby about the man in her life, the mutant she fell head over heels for, if only because the other woman wouldn't understand.
There was a lot she couldn't tell Abby…but at least Mercy didn't have to worry about the petite clerk reeking of alcohol and triggering the cravings that disgusted her. No matter how considerate Amber was and no matter how much she tried to support Mercy through her addiction recovery, Amber never realized that drinking around Mercy made it harder for her. If Mercy ever asked Amber to stop drinking around her, she was sure it would damage their relationship. Amber would comply without a second thought, but she'd blame herself for Mercy's cravings…and the last thing the braided lunatic needed was something else to blame herself for. Besides, the cravings weren't quite so bad anymore. She could handle the stench of Amber's Scotch, Daron's Bourbon, and even Beverly's wine—she could even handle tasting them on Raphael's lips and tongue without the urge to go drain a bottle on her own—but every now and then she just needed someone who could understand her troubles. Abby was in Mercy's boat—she was a recovering alcoholic but had been clean much longer; she understood the struggles Mercy was going through.
By the time she realized she'd made her decision, the bell above the door was jingling and her feet were crossing the heavy black mat inside the doorway. A head of fuchsia and electric blue hair popped up over the counter, the hazel eyes beneath it focused on her, and the owner winced. "Hey," Abilene Whitaker mumbled then ducked back under the counter to return to her task.
"Hi," Mercy replied awkwardly, inching around the counter to see what was going on. From the looks of it, a box ripped and scattered rolls of receipt paper everywhere; right in the thick of the mess, Abby knelt on the industrial foam mat collecting and coiling up the paper rolls and returning them to the taped up box. Without bothering to offer, Mercy dropped to her knees as well and began assisting with the cleanup. For a while, neither spoke, but Abby repeatedly shot furtive glances up at the silent blonde who took it upon herself to help her.
"You haven't been by for a while," the petite clerk finally pointed out.
"Yeah." Mercy locked her eyes on the mess and fought not to lose her nerve completely. "I just…I needed some time, Abs." She finally looked up and met Abby's eyes, her own apologetic under her furrowed brows. "Sorry fer runnin' off on ya like that...I never knew Donna—I mean I—had a history with this place…it kinda threw me off."
"You say Donna like she's not you." Abby studied Mercy's eyes and posture for clues. "You do know you're Donna…right?" Mercy sighed, carefully coiling up another strung out roll of paper.
"I remember nothin' of my previous life, Abby," she admitted between goosebumps springing up along her skin. "The paperwork says I'm Donna, the people I've met say I'm Donna, even the hospital's records say I'm Donna, but I recall nothin' about being Donna. I don't remember anything before wakin' up under that bridge on New Year's Eve." Mercy cringed at the reminder and the pity in Abby's eyes and turned back to the roll of paper in her hands. Pity always rubbed her wrong, but she really couldn't blame Abby for feeling it; until Amber and Donatello found her in the park and brought her home, she was pretty pitiful. "Every day, it seems, I learn more about the person I supposedly was…an' every day I feel more disgusted with her. I'm not who I once was an' I'll never be that person again." She met Abby's eyes again, nervous, and glanced from one to the other, searching for any sign of comprehension. "I'm Mercy now—Mercy Ross—the chapter of my life I don't remember is closed."
Abby held the shared gaze, her lip trembling in what Mercy was sure was an attempt not to cry. Finally, she roughly scooped up the last rolls of paper and shoved them into the box without bothering to straighten them up, then lunged to her feet to shove it back under the counter again. "So this is it, huh?" she demanded with no small amount of bitterness. "You burned your bridges once before, now you're burning them all over again."
"I'm not burnin' anything," Mercy corrected standing, "I'm just straightening my life out…sometimes in order to move on, ya gotta clear away what holds ya back. Donna holds me back, Abs, an' if I haven't gotten her—my memories back by now, I'm not likely to ever get'em back." The blonde fell silent, sharply reminding herself to keep a clear head—Abby couldn't know she was an entirely different person—she wouldn't believe her. Honestly, Mercy sometimes found it hard to believe it herself, and she was living with it every day! Every day, she woke up in this strange new world, and every time she looked in the mirror, the eyes of a stranger stared back at her; still, she knew in her heart this was no dream. Mirrors never lie, but they could only relay what showed on the surface. Mercy took in a deep, steadying breath, then finally asked what she came to ask. "Abby, have ya managed to fill that part-time position?"
Abby blinked at her in confusion, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. "No," she answered at half-speed. "Why?"
"I'd…um…" Mercy speared her fingers through her hair, messing it up even more than it already was. Donna's hair always resembled a haystack compared to Mercy's sleek blonde hair, and it drove her insane. "I was wonderin' if—if I could apply for it." Abby stared her down, comprehension dawning on her face.
"So you didn't come to say goodbye," she acknowledged in a hushed tone. Mercy shook her head in agreement.
"Naw." The blonde gave a wry smile that felt more like a cringe. "I came to see if ya still want me around…I know ya cared about Donna, but she's gone…I'm not. If you can learn to see me instead'a Donna, I'd rather stick around." Abby's silent, scrutinizing gaze made Mercy fidgety and nervous, waiting for the inevitable rejection. When the clerk finally spoke again, there was no rejection…only a challenge.
"I've a cousin on my mother's side who's cut off all communication with the rest of us." Mercy blinked at the change in topic. "He got in a car accident without his seatbelt on and suffered a traumatic brain injury." Abby watched Mercy closely, her expression blank and her arms crossed in defense. "He coded at one point, but the doctors were able to save him. They put him in an induced coma to heal. When he woke up, he was a completely different person—he didn't recognize any of us, he didn't have any of the habits or quirks we knew, and he thought he was someone entirely different." Mercy winced, turning to inspect a potted cactus on the counter and trying to hold her tongue. "His name was Mark and he was a career businessman who'd never ventured far from Queens; when he woke up, he claimed to be Jacob, a firefighter from Georgia and a father of three boys. He even spoke with a southern drawl, even though he'd never had any distinguishable accent before."
"That's…odd," Mercy commented weakly when it became clear Abby wasn't going to continue.
"Yeah," Abby agreed with a pointed stare. "What's just as odd is that Donna spoke like a Bostonian and was a natural with people…you twang like a guitar string and you clearly have some social anxiety going on." CRAP. "My cousin became a stranger when he woke up. He kept insisting he was someone else entirely and saying 'Mark is gone—I'm not him.' We couldn't accept that he wasn't the person we knew and loved anymore; eventually, he shut us all out."
Mercy hesitated, thought over her words carefully, and finally decided the question was worth the risk of asking. "Abby…what'd he say about the time before he woke up? Was it…was it anythin' about clocks?" Abby blinked in stark astonishment.
"Y-Yes!" she answered in an almost-squeak. "He kept going on and on about ticking clocks and the smell of dusty books…no one ever understood what he meant or where he came up with that." Mercy cursed inwardly and dug her fingers through her riotous hair. Right before her eyes was proof that she and Amber weren't the only souls brought to this world for another chance—they weren't the only ones granted a new lease on life, and they weren't the only ones who kept their memories in that new body. "Are you…telling me…?"
"Ticking clocks," Mercy admitted instead, meeting Abby's hazel eyes askance. "The smell of dust, an' a strange light that brightened an' dimmed…a light that nearly blinded me, then vanished into pitch black darkness when I opened my eyes." Abby stumbled over to the counter and leaned against it, shaking her head in disbelief. Silence choked the room—a tense silence that Mercy was sure would end in a blood-curdling scream. Instead, it ended with a question that wasn't a question.
"Donna's dead, isn't she?" Mercy couldn't meet Abby's eyes. "She's dead…and somehow you've been dumped in her body…just like that Jacob person was dumped in my cousin's body."
"Yeah," Mercy muttered. "I can barely believe it myself, but it's—it's true…my best friend an' I both wound up in the same boat, dead an' brought here for another chance, but we had no idea it happened to other folks…maybe it's not as uncommon as we thought."
Abby shook her head, still struggling to process the inconceivable explanation. Finally, she turned to dig through the counter's storage shelves for a stapled sheaf of papers; she held them out to Mercy but didn't let go when the blonde reached to accept them. "When did you come, Mercy?" Abby asked seriously. "How long has Donna been gone?"
"I first awoke in this world on New Year's Eve," she admitted nervously. "I had no idea you were connected to Donna…until a few months back, I didn't even know anything about'er except that she was a homeless alcoholic. If I'd'a known, I'd never'a come here—you didn't deserve this sort'a—"
"Stuff it, Sweet-Cheeks," Abby cut her off and finally let go of the papers. "Stay clean—keep working on your sobriety and stay out of trouble. Once you've got all your paperwork in order, bring that back. Fill it out for Mercy, don't put anything of Donna's on it, don't even add her name as an alias. Donna's gone, so let her stay gone…hearing about her would only hurt Mother more. If you can hack the training and my mother agrees, you've got the job…but you can't tell her about Donna, or any of that. Got it?" Mercy nodded, not even glancing down at the application in her hands.
"Yer takin' this suspiciously well," she remarked, searching Abby's expression for any sign of a broken brain.
"Yeah, well," the petite clerk admitted with a cringe, "after that alien invasion a few years ago, it takes a lot to freak out a New Yorker. We've talked a lot since you first came here, and I'm pretty confident you'd never hurt me. Right?"
"Right," Mercy agreed with a sheepish smile. "Thanks, Abs." Sensing that the discussion was over, she turned to retreat through the tall glass door. One foot inside and one on the front stoop, she paused, turning back to smile at the quirky little clerk. "Even if I can't hack the job," she admitted with an anemic smile, "I'll still come by to visit and shop…I don't know what you were to Donna, but I consider you a friend." Before Abby could answer her—to agree or to refute—Mercy burst through the door with renewed energy. She was homeward bound…funny how the word 'home' now conjured concrete walls and hazel eyes rather than faded wood and musty straw.
Maybe this new life wasn't so bad after all.
When Amber left Willsdale behind, Spring was nearly over; now, Winter holds the small town in a familiar death-grip. Ice-laden trees glitter in the blinding sunlight and the hills shimmer with frost. As usual, there is no snow—it almost never snows in Willsdale until January—but the square has been decked out for Christmas.
The town square melts away in shades of light and shadow, leaving behind another familiar place—a rustic wrap-around porch. Tarnished wind chimes hang from the eaves, worn wooden furniture lines the walls, and dead plants decay in heavy planters. Amber shakes her head, smiling wryly. Ginny O'Brien was even worse at caring for plants than her daughter, but she never gave up on trying to keep them alive or left the dead ones to linger. Why haven't the leafy corpses been banished to the rubbish yet?
A low creaking noise draws Amber's attention to the far corner. A familiar man sprawls in his favorite rocker, staring out across the fallow field behind the house, all the way to the cemetery. Amber recoils in horror at the sight. Glen Devon has always been a stout, sturdy man who refused to let his advancing age affect him beyond his greying hair and beard. She cannot reconcile the man before her with the man she knew in her past life. This Glen Devon is thin, weary, and weak with shadow-hung eyes and unkempt hair—too weary to do more than rock back and forth in the old rocker. Worst of all, the unseen woman can hear him wheezing…every breath rattles in his lungs, whistling on the way in and rasping on the way out.
"Gran'Da, what're ya doin' out'ere?!" Amber demands hurrying over to stand right before him. "Ya'll get sick—ya need'a be inside, y'auld codger, it's frezzing out'ere!"♦ As every time before, though, he neither hears nor sees her—she's dead in this world, despite her frequent returns to it, and no one in this world can see or hear the protests of a dead woman. "Gran'Da, please." Amber's eyes burn with unshed tears. "Please, dinnae throw yer life awae o'er me! Dinnae do this to yerself, to Mum an' Da! They need ya, Gran'Da!"♦
"Da, what're ya doin' out'ere again?"♦ The unexpected voice sends a bolt of ice down Amber's spine and she warily turns to greet the new arrival. Her mother. Ginny O'Brien lumbers across the porch to her father's side, armed with a woolen blanket and a heavy coat. The last time Amber dreamed of her mother, the fine strands of yellowish-white in Ginny's unruly auburn hair were spreading, but now, those traces have become thick streaks. "Yer not even wearin' a coat, y'auld coot! Yer gonna get sick again!"
"Leave." If Glen's appearance startled his unseen granddaughter, the new raspy weakness of his voice breaks her heart.
"No!" Ginny plantis her feet and crosses her chubby arms in a defiant stance. "The doctor said you shouldn't breathe cauld♦ air anymore—you got pneumonia once, and you'll get it again if you keep breathing cauld air like this! Come inside, Da, fer pity's sake!"
"Pneumonia?!" Amber demands shrilly. "When'd ya get pneumonia?!" Unaware of her presence, Glen turns to scowl at his daughter.
"Then su be it,"♦ he spits. "Leave me, Jennet." Amber flinches at the name—Ginny's birth name, and the name Glen only ever uses when he's about ready to wring her neck. Ginny recoils at the address but her worry for her father wins out in the end. Visibly steeling herself for the argument about to occur, she storms over to Glen's rocker and reaches out to grasp his bony shoulder. He shrugs her hand off roughly, his murky blue eyes flashing in rage. "I's too late," he insists sharply. "Ye made yer bed, now lie in it!"
"Don't try an' pin this on me!" Ginny insists, her temper rising. "No one's makin' ya sit out 'ere in the cauld like a fool—yer doin' it all on yer own, I'm just tryin'a help ya!"♦
"Ye pushed yer own daughter awae!"♦ Amber shakes her head, recognizing what is going on right before her eyes. In all her years, Glen never confronted Ginny about what she put Amber through—at least not anywhere Amber heard of it—now, it seems nothing holds him back. "Yer own bairn—she wiz yer own dotter, Ginny, an' ye pushed'er awae—cahst 'er oot all because she wouldnae fit the mold ye wan'ed 'er tae!"♦ In a rage, Glen bursts up from his chair, staggers when the blood rushes to his feet, and catches himself on the porch rail.
"Da, be care—!"
"Stew it, Ginny!"♦ he barks even as he fights for breath. "This's yer awn fault—if ye hadnae driven'er aff, Amber wouldnae've been all the wae across toon—she'd stell be aroond'ere—she'd stell be alive!"♦ Ginny chokes, her eyes welling up.
"Stop it!" Amber cries at her unhearing relatives. "Stop this, right now! It was no one's fault, no one but mine!"
"I…" Ginny sniffles shaking her head. "I never—never meant to—to drive'er off…I just—I just—"
"Meant'er no, ye did drive'er aff! If ye hadnae chased'er aff, she would've been seefer—she would've called us fer help instead of bidin' wit' the neeburs in the hall like she did—because ye chased'er aff, she never called us, never reached out a'tawl—and she died!"♦ Ginny backs away from her father, frantically shaking her head in denial; Amber's denials never register to either of them, no matter how loud she screams them. "An' on tap of all'a tha'," Glen snarls at his daughter, "tha' fuss ye kicked up at'er funeral would shan any spirit—Ahmber's surely pure scunnert wit' ya!"♦
Unable to handle any more of it, Ginny bolts across the porch and through the back door, sobbing uncontrollably. Glen only manages to keep his mask of fury in place a moment longer, then heartbreak overwhelms it. Murky blue eyes watering, he feels his way back to the rocker and collapses in it, staring out across the field to the cemetery where Amber is buried. "Ah'm sorry, Jeanie-Burd," he croaks aloud burying his face in his hands. "Ah should've done tha' years back…I should've stood up fer ye years bafore now…mibbe…mibbe i's my fault, too, after awl."♦
The world is already fading away, falling away in shades of shadow and light, but Amber struggles to remain in the dream if only long enough to pass along a message. She snatches at the rocker intent on urging her grandfather onto his feet, but her hands pass right through it. She reaches for the back door intent on opening it in hint, but she cannot feel the doorknob under her fingers. Raging at her helplessness and the horrific situation her loved ones have built themselves, Amber refuses to surrender to the blackness creeping around the edges of her vision. As the world goes solid black around her, the last thing she sees is her grandfather openly weeping into his hand.
She's dead in this world…the living never hear the demands of the dead.
Soft humming pulled Amber from her sleep—a familiar tune she hadn't heard in a while. Rough cloth scratched her and worn leather straps stuck to her skin. Blinking away tears she didn't recall crying, she pried open her eyes, taking stock of the situation. Tucked in bed, slumped up against the old wooden headboard, book sprawled open on the covers…she tried waiting up for Donatello and his brothers to return home from patrol, but she fell asleep…and she dreamed.
Donnie, fresh from patrol and still musky from sweat, held her tucked into his chest, petting her hair and humming that so-familiar tune. Lights will guide you home and ignite your bones, and I will try to fix you. In her previous life, it was a favorite of hers that always brought her hope, but she had yet to hear it a single time in this life…at least, she admitted silently, she only ever heard it from Donatello. She still wasn't sure what to make of that; it was just another inconsistency that made her head spin. She sat up against Donnie's plastron, silently trying to banish the nightmare.
"Are you alright?" His voice was gentler even than his touch, as though he expected her to break down. Was she really becoming that predictable?
"Yeah." Amber scrubbed a frizz of hair out of her eyes. "I' wiz—it was just a nightmare—just another freaky nightmare. How was patrol?" Donnie stared her down, shaking his head.
"Forgettable," he answered dryly, "nothing out of the ordinary. Now what do you mean another freaky nightmare? You were crying out in your sleep, Hon—You woke Mercy and Dad couldn't rouse you…You were speaking clearly, too, but I could barely understand you." Amber blushed, avoiding his always intelligent eyes.
"Go figure," she muttered. "It's not bad enough talkin' funny when I'm awake, I've gotta talk funny in my sleep, too. What'd ya hear?" The genius visibly hesitated, but his curiosity won out and he answered.
"Garahn-Dah," he answered softly, completely butchering the pronunciation of the endearment. "Mum, Dah, and dinny thraw yer life a wee—or something like that…that one was the worst of it." Inside, Amber was amused; on the outside, she was cringing.
"Ya totally butchered that, ya know?" she deadpanned. Donnie shot her a sharp glance.
"My mispronunciation of unfamiliar dialects is not the issue here," he retorted. "You were dreaming about your family, and if your explanation of it was just another freaky nightmare is anything to go by, you've been having these dreams often." The weary brunette settled into his shoulder with a sigh. There was no point in arguing it. She never could hide things from Donnie well…she'd promised to quit trying, too.
"Don't throw your life away," she translated in a sigh. "It's ridiculous—they're just weird dreams, dreams don't come true—"
"How often are you dreaming about your family?" Donnie cut her off, urging her to meet his eyes with callused fingertips at her chin. "What are you dreaming about?" She started to demand if it even mattered, but fell silent at the worry in his eyes. "Braids, tell me…don't bottle this up." Amber's eyes watered and she closed them, shaking her head in defeat.
"It started out maybe a couple dreams a month." Her voice creaked mid-way and she paused to clear her throat. "Over Summer, it started happening more and more often—several dreams a month, then even a dream or two weekly." She finally met his eyes again, defeated. "I'm dreaming about my loved ones almost nightly now, Dee…an' it's always the same thing…they're fallin' apart without me. Aaron's drinkin' too much an' he's given up entirely, Da's drinkin' more an' shuttin' out Mum, Mum's fallin' apart, Gran'da's sick an' blamin' my Mum…" She choked; she'd always been closest to her grandfather, and seeing him struggling, even in dreams, was killing her. "Gran'da blames Mum fer what happened…he's pushin' everyone awae an' spendin' all'is time starin' out at the graveyard…the place I'm…buried…"
The tears she struggled to smother broke free and she buried her face in Donnie's neck with a choked sob. As always, Donnie was her rock, her shelter from the storm; it hurt to see her like this, but he wasn't sure just what he could do to fix the problem. Dreams, after all, weren't his area of expertise…and until recently, he'd have entertained no doubts that dreams were entirely fictional, merely the fanciful constructs of a resting brain. Then he started remembering a series of dreams he still didn't recall dreaming. Long summer nights chasing fireflies with a braided brogue-tongued girl child…lazy Autumn afternoons exploring hills, valleys, and interesting rock formations with a shy brown-haired teenager…best of all were the cool spring nights he dreamt—nights full of rain, wind, and love-making with a fascinating woman he'd fallen for over a lifetime of dreams. Those dreams taught him to love rain…now, he knew that woman in real life, and still saw her in his dreams.
It made no sense to him, it couldn't be explained, but the truth remained: he knew Amber before he ever met her. He dreamed of her long before she ever wound up in this world and, for some unknown reason, he mentally blocked out the dreams he was remembering. Every now and then, some uncanny occurrence would make him wonder if she, too, dreamed of him. A mere three days after she burst into his life, she snuck into his room while he was still sleeping and left him a plate of poptarts and a mug of too-sweet coffee, without ever being told of his fondness for poptarts. The first time she ordered pizza for the family, she ordered him a thin crust with chicken and extra mushrooms and onions—his favorite—without ever asking his preference. Every day brought another incident that made him wonder if she, too, dreamt of him, but every day, he convinced himself against the possibility. After all, it was odd enough that he dreamed of her before he met her; for her to have dreamt of him as well was pushing it.
"Why do you do that?" Her unexpected question startled him back to himself; he never even realized he was humming to her again.
"Hm? Oh…I guess it's just a subconscious thing," he admitted with a sheepish smile at the calming woman finally emerging from his neck. "Master used to sing to us when we were afraid as children, then when we started growing up and getting embarrassed, he started humming instead." He gave a self-deprecating laugh and easy shrug. "Kids think they're so tough, pretending they aren't scared of the monster in the closet even with their knees rattling from fear. At least humming was more discreet…even if he only knew soap opera theme songs."
"Heh. Dahd sure loves'is soaps, huh?" Amber's smile was small and forced.
"Yeah." Donnie urged her closer into his shoulder, smoothing his palm soothingly up and down her side. "I'm still not sure where I heard that song, but it fits—the meaning remains the same, no matter where it came from. I promised to protect you, to help you, to fix you, and I don't break my promises."
Amber fell silent again, ruminating into his neck. "They're just dreams, Dunnie," she reminded with a weary sigh. "…just ridiculous, fictional, entirely unrealistic dreams. My family…" She scoffed, shaking her head at the thought. "They wouldn't fall apart like this—they're too strong to let something like my death destroy them…it's just my imagination, that's all."
"But what if it's not?" the genius pressed her. "What if what you're seeing isn't—"
"It can't be true," she insisted weakly. "I refuse to contemplate the possibility…because if—if what I'm seeing is really happening…" Haunted grey-green eyes met his, brimming again. "…there's nothin' I can do about it. I can't go back to my old world…I can't go back there, not even to help my loved ones…The dead don't rise again, no matter how much their loved ones cry on their graves."
He wanted to argue the point—he wanted to remind her that she rose again, if only in another world—but he decided to withhold that reminder for the time being. Instead, he settled back against the headboard, clumsily peeling away as much of his equipment as he could without making her move. By the time he was through, she was already asleep again, tucked into his side and pillowing her head on his plastron. Her eyes darted rapidly behind her eyelids, her breaths short and quick— already, she was dreaming again, and this dream was surely no more pleasant than the last.
Dreams were only fiction—fanciful constructs of a tired mind—weren't they? Donatello silently studied the sleeping other-worlder in his arms. For her sake, he hoped they weren't real…the alternative was too painful to even consider.
Wind moans through the barren trees. Fog hangs heavy in the air, all the way from the valley floor up to the tops of the surrounding hills. Somewhere in the mist, Donatello can hear crying—heartfelt sobs and hiccupping gasps that twist his gut into a pretzel. He scans his surroundings warily, searching for the source—there, a familiar woman kneels before an unfamiliar and solitary grave in the lowest, marshiest, most bracken-infested point of the holler. "Braids, what're—"
"Tha's me doon thar,"♦ Amber whimpers thickly without looking away from the sagging soil atop the grave—her grave. "Ah'm buried'ere—Ma family needs me, but Ah'm buried'ere! Ah cannae help'em—they cannae e'en see me!"♦
As though called by her distress, five figures manifest around her—four men and one woman. A tall, lean man with dark hair and grey-blue eyes—a tall, broad-shouldered elderly man with pale blue eyes and mostly greyed hair—a young man who seemed a rougher, sturdier clone of Daron Williams with off-kilter blue eyes—a tall, lean man with long white curls and nervous grey eyes—a short, tubby woman with frizzy auburn hair and bottle-green eyes. Not even noticing Amber kneeling at her own grave, four of the five people come together at the site and start yelling at one another; the white-haired man tries to break up the fight to no avail.
Amber begs the spirits to stop, pleads for them to rely on one another instead of pushing one another away, but they never hear a word. Distraught with her helplessness, Amber turns to Donnie, her eyes streaming without notice.
"Dunnie…help me…please, help me!"

UP NEXT: the plot thickens in The Only Constant is Change
NOTE
Title from Rush, "Nocturne"
Glossary
♦ Ya'll get sick—ya need'a be inside, y'auld codger, i's frezzing out'ere! – You'll get sick—you need to be inside, you old codger, it's freezing out here!
♦ Please, dinnae throw yer life awae o'er me! Dinnae do this to yerself, to Mum an' Da! – Please, don't throw your life away over me! Don't do this to yourself, to Mom and Dad!
♦ Then su be it. – Then so be it.
♦ Don't try'n pin this on me! No one's makin' ya sit out'ere in the cauld like a fool—yer doin' it all on yer own, I'm just tryin'a help ya! – Don't try and [blame me for this]. No one's making you sit out here in the cold like a fool—you're doing it all on your own, I'm just trying to help you!
♦ Ye pushed yer own daughter awae! Yer own bairn—she wiz yer own dotter, Ginny, an' ye pushed'er awae—cahst'er oot all because she wouldnae fit the mold ye wan'ed'er tae! – You pushed your own daughter away! Your own [child]—she was your own daughter, Ginny, and you pushed her away—cast her out all because she wouldn't fit the mold you wanted her to!
♦ Stew it, Ginny! This's yer awn fault—if ye hadnae driven'er aff, Amber wouldnae've been all the wae across toon—she'd stell be aroond'ere—she'd stell be alive!" - Stow it, Ginny! This is all your fault—if you hadn't driven her off, Amber wouldn't have been all the way across [town]—she'd still be around here—she'd still be around here—she'd still be alive!
♦ "Meant'er no', ye DID drive'er aff! If ye hadnae chased'er aff, she would've been seefer—she would've called us fer help instead of bidin' wit' the neeburs in the hall like she did—because ye chased'er aff, she never called us, never reached out a'tawl—and she DIED! – Whether you meant it or not, you DID drive her off! If you hadn't chased her off, she would have been safer—she would have called us for help instead of [staying' with the neighbors in the Town Hall like she did—because you chased her off, she never called us, never reached out at all—and she DIED!
♦ An' on tap of all'a tha', tha' fuss ye kicked up at'er funeral would shan any spirit—Ahmber's surely pure scunnert wit' ya! – And on top of all that, that fuss you kicked up at her funeral would [shame] any spirit—Amber's surely [disgusted] with you!
♦ "Ah'm sorry, Jeanie-Burd…Ah should've done tha' years back…I should've stood up fer ye years bafore now…mibbe…mibbe i's my fault, too, after awl. – I'm sorry, Jeanie-Burd…I should have done that years ago…I should have stood up for you years before now…maybe…maybe it's my fault, too, after all.
♦ Tha's me doon thar! Ah'm buried'ere—Ma family need me, but Ah'm buried'ere! Ah cannae help'em—they cannae e'en see me!" – That's me down there! I'm buried here—my family need me, but I'm buried here! I can't help them—they can't even see me!
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A New Lease on Life