"you're all on your own and you've lost all your friends
you tell yourself that it's not you,
it's them."
___________

Raphael doesn't leave his bedroom for the rest of the day.

At first, he storms around the dark room, snarling and shouting in utter frustration. His fists collide with his wall, his lamp, anything he can find, smashing it to smithereens. When his knuckles start to bruise from all the punching, he resorts to kicking, slamming his feet into his bed, his dresser, his drumset. When he has nothing left to break, he throws himself onto his bed, glaring up at the ceiling. He ignores Michelangelo's call to dinner—any appetite he once had has faded long ago. The only thing he feels in his stomach is rage, bubbling like lava deep within his core. So instead of eating with the others, he broods in the shadow of his room, the one place in the lair where he can be alone with his thoughts. All the while, the voices of his family echo in his mind, haunting, scolding, shouting at him.

"Stop being dramatic."

"Grow up and take some responsibility, you big baby!"

"Your rage is like a fire...and as long as you refuse to put it out, it will continue to burn all in its path."

"Ah, shut up," he growls to no one in particular. "What do you know, anyway?"

He tries to shrug their words off, but they don't fade from his mind, and neither does the look in Leonardo's eyes. Raphael grits his teeth, doing his best to shut the memory out, but it refuses to leave. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees it. He's pinned Leo down like that plenty of times before during training, but this time...it was different. The look on his face wasn't one of frustration or anger.

It was fear. For him, for what he could've done.

For a moment, a cold wave of guilt crashes over the red-masked warrior, making him flinch. His family has a point, and he knows it. He won't deny that he's hard on his brothers, maybe sometimes too much so. But why can't they see? He's only harsh because he doesn't want to see them hurt. Is he wrong for working hard to be the best he can for them, then being upset when all they do is slack off? Besides, he's not like his brothers—he's not a natural-born leader like Leonardo, a genius like Donatello, or emotionally intelligent like Michelangelo. His strength is all he has to offer. If he can't use that to protect his family, to push them to be better, then what's the point? If they bothered to consider his point of view for once, they'd know that. But no, they'd much rather chastise him, scold him for being angry instead of trying to figure out where that anger comes from. They don't even realize they're part of the problem.

They just don't understand. They never have.

The turtle growls, rolling over in bed. Despite what the others probably think, his anger isn't something he's proud of, and it's certainly not something he wants—but it's not something he can help, either. It's been a part of him for as long as he can remember, a curse he never asked for but was born with anyway. His rage is like a storm raging nonstop inside him, shrouding his world in dark clouds until he's blinded. It's a monster constantly trying to swallow him whole, one he battles over and over again, only to lose every time. It's a million thoughts and emotions that swirl through his head like a hurricane, never stopping, never standing still. And all the others do is make it worse, then call him a crybaby when he reacts. What sense does it all make?

None.

"Why don't they get it?" he blurts. "I don't want to be angry all the time! I don't want to be like this!"

He shuts his eyes, a massive sigh escaping him.

"But I don't know how to stop."

Talking to someone is supposed to be the best way to solve a personal problem. He's learned that from all the times his brothers have told him "you need therapy", jokingly or not. But why talk if no one will listen? If he goes to his brothers or Casey, they won't take him seriously—they'd just make fun of him for being soft and ignore him. April might try to be sympathetic, but she'd probably end up chewing him out for being too harsh, which is the last thing he needs to hear. And he can't go to his Sensei. No, he'd only shout at and punish him, just as he had earlier.

At the end of the day, he's all alone.

Raphael has been lost in his thoughts for so long, he doesn't realize he's been crying until he feels the wetness on his cheek. He wipes his tears away forcefully with a sniff. As he sits up, his gaze falls on the empty spot on his dresser where Spike once sat. His heart twists. If the little tortoise were still here, he'd listen, but he's gone. In his place is Slash, a deranged monster probably wreaking havoc in the city somewhere. The mutant huffs, turning away. At least the deranged monster liked having him around.

Being painted as the bad guy all the time has grown exhausting, to make a long story short. Yes, he has trouble controlling his emotions, but his family should know better than to add fuel to the fire. It's been a constant cycle since they were little: he gets mad over something, they make it worse, he flies into a rage, and in the end no one gets punished but him. To say he's sick of it would be an understatement. They'll never learn, Raphael realizes. No matter how hard he tries, his brothers and father will never understand what it's like to be him. As long as he's a part of the team, they'll do nothing but make his life hell.

Unless...he's no longer a part of the team.

What would it feel like to run away and never look back? Raphael doesn't know, but he's willing to find out.

"I'm done."

Has he quit twenty-six times before? Maybe. But this time will be different. This time, he'll leave with no regrets and forge a new life for himself, one where he can be himself free of judgement or shame. No longer will he be compared to his brothers, constantly reminded of what a failure he is. He won't have to hear his family's constant complaints, or be criticized simply for breathing. He'll be free to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and no one could stop him. For once in his life, he'll live for himself and only him. He could even become a vigilante, like the Nightwatcher or the kind always claims himself to be, ridding New York of crime on his own.

The idea makes him smile.

When night falls, Raphael makes his move.

The lair is dim when he finally slips into the common area. Everyone else has retired to their rooms for the night, leaving their home silent for once. He packs some essentials: extra shurikens, a smoke bomb or two, and bandages, and then he raids the fridge for snacks, packing as much as he can into his belt, his shell, his knapsack. Ice Cream Kitty mewls at him when he opens the freezer, but he ignores her.

"Frozen fleabag," he mutters as he shuts it again and leaves the room.

He spares a glance at the dojo when he passes by. No doubt his Sensei is in there, resting peacefully in his room. The mutant turtle gives a small sigh and tears his gaze away.

"Goodbye, father," he murmurs.

Raphael moves toward the exit, but finds himself pausing just as he reaches it. His eyes travel over the lair, his home, the place he'd spent the first fifteen years of his life. He takes in all the little details he's become accustomed to over the years—the humming of the arcade machines, the soft ripple of the pool below the tire swing, the musty but familiar scent of his brothers. He risks a glance down each end of the back hallway, taking note of the doors to his brothers' rooms. They're all sound asleep, with no idea one sibling is leaving them for good. The red-masked turtle sighs, uttering his final words as he turns away.

"So long, guys. Thanks for nothing."

With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he hops over the turnstiles and steals away into the darkness of the sewers.