🐦

April

April was confused. No, she was baffled. Actually— she was conbaffled. If that word didn't exist in the English dictionary, it certainly did now— especially if someone were to look up the definition of it, it would show a pic of the face she had on.

Instead of saying something intelligent, April said, "Uhh. . . what?"

Her father slowly walked up to the painting as if it were a bomb he needed to diffuse quickly. He lightly brushed his fingertips over the canvas, staring at it as he tried to put his words together into a sentence. "This really is Ashworth. Dead in his home," he confirmed. He gave a worrisome look over to April. "Does this mean anything to you?"

April was at a loss for words. She murmured incoherently, switching between looking at her father and the painting. It would certainly win first prize for best fucked-up painting of the year. "I don't remember doing this. . . I. . .I was asleep and. . ."

"You were asleep?" Her father asked skeptically.

"I took a nap in my room to calm the migraine down and when I woke up. . . I was at the table. But Dad, I couldn't have painted that."

"Hold up— you sleepwalked? After so long? The doctor said you shouldn't be experiencing that anymore!"

April rubbed her thumbs together nervously. "Um, well. . . that's not entirely true. I've had sleepwalking episodes a couple of times over the last few months."

Her father widened his eyes. "You what?"

"But in those instances I didn't do anything as crazy as this! Not that I'm saying I did this because there's no way I could've, but if I did, this would be the first time."

"Why didn't you tell me, April? If you did, I would've scheduled an appointment with our doctor."

"You were busy with your own stuff, Dad. Besides, it's not that serious. All it is waking up in different parts of the apartment."

"April, it's one thing to wake up finding yourself in a different place than you were originally, but it's another to paint in scary detail a gruesome murder."

"Dad, I can't even draw a human hand without it looking like a mushroom hill from Super Mario Bros. to save my life!"

"We've talked about this, April. You know you can't recall much when you sleepwalk."

"Trust me, Dad. There's no way I could've done this."

"So you mean to tell me that Picasso's spirit momentarily possessed you and decided to randomly paint Cooper Ashworth dead in the most twisted way possible and signed not today's date, but Halloween night's?"

"Well, when you put it like that it sounds ridiculous."

"That's the point. No one else was in the apartment but you."

April frowned. There was some damning evidence— like her paint-smudged hands, for starters. "But I just told you I don't possess half of the artistic talent mom had. And even if I did. . ." she cringed at the painting's gory details, ". . .I wouldn't use them to paint the kind of shit she did. You know that."

Somehow, April's reasoning didn't ease her father's skepticism. "But you have to admit this painting is pretty fucking specific, don't you think? Nobody paints something like this unless they looked into a crystal ball and it showed them the 'future'— which is impossible."

"I don't know what else to tell you." April just wanted to wrap up this conversation so she could change out of her uniform and eat. "Besides, what if this doesn't mean anything? It's not like you can wave a magic wand and whatever's painted will come to life."

Her father pressed his lips, April's reasoning picking at the seeds of his doubt for a moment. "That does sound a little ridiculous, doesn't it?"

"I'd be scared if it wasn't. And you know my imagination isn't this grisly."

Her father took a few seconds to think before sighing. "We'll discuss this at another time," he concluded. "For now, I think we should wash up and eat before the pizza gets cold. There's also something I would like to talk to you about."

April's eyebrows curved at that. "Okay." At least the conversation was now over so she didn't have to spend another minute in that art studio looking at that spine-tingling painting. It made her want to take it down to the dumpster, hose it with gasoline, and set it on fire. If she really did do this, why couldn't she have painted the Mona Lisa? It's the only art piece she knew.

April and her father went to their separate rooms. She exchanged her buttoned blouse and school skirt for a sweatshirt and track sweats and, momentarily remembering the text she sent to Talia, checked her phone quickly to see if her best friend had replied back with anything.

Talia gave her only one update:

Taly 👯‍♀️ 🎀: Raph or Mikey haven't texted me back with anything. Strange, right?

Really strange. April forwarded her a text.

April: Wth? So nothing new then? 🤨

All April really knew was that the guys were supposed to drop in during the drug bust at the docks and take it from there. It wasn't anything they couldn't handle, right? An in-and-out job? Heh, that's what Raph said when we raided the drug lab and then look what happened— which, okay, that was my fault. But still! A few seconds later— DING!

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: You don't think something went wrong, do you?

When you and your siblings were trained by a ninja master for nearly your whole life, you'd think you could protect yourselves from anyone. But then April remembered all those times where the Sa— ahem, Hamato (ugh, she didn't know if she was ever going to get used to that) siblings went up against Shredder's ninjas and how their strength was unmatched. Was there a chance that The Reaper and his friends were at the docks, too? Also add the Russians into the equation and the whole thing equals into a disaster.

April: Well, we saw Mikey and Raph at school and they didn't say anything

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: I recently met up with Leo and he didn't mention anything either

April: ?? That's low-key suspicious

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: How?

April: You gave them the tip! The least they can do is tell you if it was useful or not

April: Unless....

April: They're not telling us everything they know 🧐

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: Why would they do that? I thought we agreed there would be no more secrets on the matter of Shredder and my mother

April: Something ain't right here. My spy senses are tingling 🕵️

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: Do you mean that 'feeling' you always get?

April: Yeah! It's not just their lives at stake

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: And not just ours, either. Priya's as well

April: But the others don't know Priya gave you the intel?

Taly 👯‍♀️🎀: No, but it is not hard to figure it out

April: K. As long as Shredder and The Count don't know, then we're good

For now, anyway. Shredder was one sneaky fuck and probably had many ways to extract information through god-knew-how-many connections he had— as he'd done in the past when his ninjas first attacked her and Talia. All anyone could do was pray that neither Shredder or his business partner or hell— even the Russians— knew that Priya was a double agent.

April: Talk to u later. Gotta eat 🍕

April left her phone to charge as she skipped towards the kitchen. Maybe something drastic did happen at the docks, but how bad could it have been for them to be quite about the ordeal? Did they see something they weren't supposed to see? Or hear something worrisome? Whatever it is, why wouldn't they tell?

The ninja family and their secrets. Hmm.

Dinner went pretty okay. April wasn't going to let a freaky painting stop her from guzzling her soda or plowing through three slices of barbecue chicken pizza (and one-upping her dad by grabbing another slice. She wasn't sure she was going to be able to eat it, but she still grabbed it) until her stomach stretched farther than her boobs. She set down her soda and let out a loud burp.

"Shit. Scuse me," she said sheepishly. Her elbows were propped up on the table. April remembered how much her mother hated elbows on the table. It was considered sacrilege in her eyes. Her mother made her and her father practice good dining etiquette every time they ate to prevent slouching and respect tradition. Why or how her mother came to care this much about dining etiquette, April didn't know. But as much as April and her father tried to follow the routine of sitting up straight and keeping their elbows off the table, sometimes all they wanted to do was just eat when they came home.

"You do this every time," her father pointed out. "Proving your superiority just because you can eat more slices than me."

April shrugged. "Not my fault I'm better at it. Besides, I thought you'd have more skill at that than me, considering pizza is what you and your precinct eat when you're doing overtime. Along with doughnuts."

"That is a harmful stereotype against cops. We eat other things."

"Like the sandwiches you all get at the deli on Church? Yeah, that's one hell of a food palette."

"Sorry we don't have a cafeteria with an all-you-can-eat buffet assortment like your school does."

"That's probably one of the few things I like about Roosevelt."

Her father lightly chuckled. Then his expression turned a little serious. He looked like he wanted to muster his words first before having the courage to say them. "The Meridian Institution of Fine Arts contacted me at work today. They've decided to donate your mother's paintings to a special art exhibition at the Reflections Gallery in two months."

April swallowed a chunk of her buttery pizza crust (she didn't understand those kind of people who just leave the crust sitting on their plate) and blinked. The first mentioned name should strike a familiar chord with her, for it was the art school her mother attended to benefit from extra training. However, April wasn't sure if her mother really needed it in the first place, as she was a pretty fucking good artist. In fact, April knew the paintings that were going to be seen by everyone at the exhibition were most likely the paintings April saw her mother working tirelessly on in her old art studio so she could bring them back to her school and show off. Y'know— the ones that were actually vibrant and dynamic and conveyed positive feelings and NOT the ones that were hauntingly fucked-up.

"So they want to show mom's artwork, huh?" April mused. "What of it?"

Her father leaned forward. "The Meridian Institution also asked if I'd like to donate any of your mother's art I might have stored away."

April turned her gaze away and played with the drawstrings of her pants. She could hear the reluctance in his voice. She was no mind reader, but she knew exactly what he was thinking: 'I'm not ready.' Honestly, April couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Would any husband not be driven to keep his wife's artistic talent close to him despite how she ended up? On one hand April understood that.

But on the other hand, what April couldn't understand was how her father couldn't see past the times her mother was alive, creative, and full of potential— before her eventual decline to madness. Curating her mother's art studio, preserving every art piece she'd ever made— what was he trying to atone for? In the end, he did what he had to do. Why feel guilty for doing the right thing?

"What did you tell them?" April asked.

Her father's neutral, calm demeanor wasn't as genuine as April thought it was. He sighed. "I told them I would think about it. I have until the end of November to give them my answer."

April didn't speak. She knew that was her father's way of saying 'no.' "What day in December?" She suddenly asked. "Do you know?"

He nodded. "The fifteenth."

"That's just a couple of days before. . ."

"I know. They made sure not to host the exhibition the day of the anniversary."

April studied the table. At least the institution was aware enough to make that conscious call. Moments passed. Then April said, "It won't be a bad decision."

"What won't?"

"Donating every painting in the shrine you built for her to the exhibition," April clarified. "You'll still be keeping her memory alive— just in a different way." While she truly meant what she said, April really only wanted anything that reminded her of the pain and uneasy memories that had been following her for almost seven years to be gone from her sight. Not just for her, but her father as well.

"April, every art piece inside that studio represents a cherished memory— your mother's memory. Don't you remember how you and your mother always hung out in the studio? How you two had so much fun painting and drawing that she even called you her 'little apprentice'?"

"That was before she changed, Dad." April tried to keep her voice leveled, but she felt a spike of irritation. "She wasn't my mom anymore."

"Even if she was going through a breakdown, April, she was still your mother."

"A breakdown?" April half-heartedly laughed. "That's a lenient way of saying she was full-on mega-crazy. Those disturbed paintings and drawings she did prove it, Dad. Amongst other things."

"All I'm trying to do is honoring the version of your mother I once knew!" Her father argued.

"No, you're not!" April stood up, the force sliding the chair back. "You're honoring her creativity, not her deterioration. You choose to remember the way  she was when she was actually long gone, Dad!" The pent-up frustration stirred in her stomach, causing the pizza in her system to harden like cement. She breathed heavily. She didn't want to argue. She didn't want the subject of her mother to cause a dent in her evening. "I want to ask you, Dad: do you  still regret that decision? Choosing me over her?"

Her father stood up as well, looking like he heard the most absurd thing ever. "What?! Of course not! It was for you and your mother's sake!"

"If that's true—" she slowly walked up to her father "—then why act as if you need to make up for it?"

She could see it— in the contortion of her father's brows, his tense lips, and the dilation of his pupils— that she hit with a question he knew he had the answer to but didn't know how to say it. But he knew, all right. He was never going to accept the fact that her mother fucking lost her mind and killed herself.

She went to her bedroom, stopping at her doorway to spare a resentful glance in the direction of the art studio. She heard echoes of her life in her old apartment. Some were of shits and giggles and relatively pleasant times, but some were of memories she'd rather soon forget— resurrected from the graveyard of shitty memories she'd plotted in the back of her head.

Somehow, she pictured the painting of Cooper Ashworth's 'supposed' death that was on top of the desk laughing at her, gleefully dancing the hokey-pokey for succeeding in bringing up shit from the past. It was silly to pin the blame on a non-human object, but it really was that fucking thing's fault.

She wished this apartment came with a fireplace. That way she could burn that painting and every creepy fucking art piece in that cursed room her father called a shrine.