Kissing Tomoka on the forehead, Hamato said his last ‘goodbyes’. In a frenzy he collected what the thought he would need to start his new life. The old Hamato Yoshi was gone for good, never to return. Leaving his car in the parking lot, he grabbed his bag, headed into Kansai International Airport, where he bought a one-way ticket, and boarded a plane bound for New York City…
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Chapter 2: Meet the Turtles
Streets teeming with traffic, sidewalks flooded with people, skies filled with buildings; were it not for Hamato’s frequent trips into Tokyo, surviving New York City itself would seem harsher than any verdict the courts could’ve handed him. Although, if he truly believed that, he wouldn’t have run. No, there wasn’t any denying the gravity of the situation, or any absolution of his sins, nor the fact he’d have to atone for them one day. Hamato would face his maker upon passing into the afterlife, and be wholly adjudicated for his actions. In the eyes of the law he knew he was guilty beyond reproach, but he was too scared to go to jail, too frightened to face a jury of his peers. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think he meant to strike her down for her cheating ways. But Hamato didn’t mean to hurt her: she suffered because of her infidelity. Why should he pay for her unfaithfulness? She was dead, he was banished, and justice had been served. Oroku was collateral damage, but he was no innocent bystander. Himato faced eternal damnation; his prison a creation inside his own mind, never forgetting what he’d done, or the animal he’d transformed into.
The authorities didn’t stop him once he landed at JFK. Nerves shot on the flight over, the stewardess had to cut him off from the drink cart. Passed out for the majority of his flight, drunk with alcohol, grief, guilt, and crashing from the adrenaline high of committing a double murder a few hours prior, Hamato had to be shaken back to consciousness after all the other passengers had departed. Convinced a platoon of armed police officers would be awaiting him at the terminal, ready to put him into cuffs, and escort him to the nearest precinct, there was no uniformed squadron, no commissioner or lieutenant, no federal agents or other enforcer ready to extradite him. As far as New York was concerned, it was just like any other day in The Big Apple.
He’d never been to New York. He’d never even been to America. His English passable, having studied it in school and brushing up on it for his job’s sake, Hamato understood the language, piecing together broken sentences, but nothing fluent. He was going to have to learn how to speak it if he were going to last, and here was where he was going to have to remain, because there was no way he could risk using his real identity ever again. To the rest of the world Hamato Yoshi was as dead as his wife. Right now he wanted to become someone new by getting lost in a sea of strangers.
The surface world was more than he deserved. In the sunlight, up above, is where the pious belonged, breathing the fresh air, feeling the sun upon their face. That was a fortuitous experience reserved for the righteous. Sunlight, oxygen, stimuli, were more than Hamato merited. A masochist, he actively strove to suppress incentive and deprive optimism. Days became weeks, turning into months, which accumulated into years. Alone, he was left to fend for himself, totally susceptible to influences beyond his control, resigned to living amongst the other dregs and deplorables. Hamato came here with a death wish, willing to succumb to the evil spirits now living inside him. Lacking the constitution for suicide, he was plagued by the constant need to take his own life, yet too cowardice to do it.
Sunlight hurt his eyes, injured his cornea, dilated his pupils: the sensory overload too hard to process, he would become nocturnal now, hiding from civilized society. During the evenings he would emerge, cloaked in the shroud of an anonymity by the city, lit by headlights, streetlights, and marquees. Concealed by night, Himato moved freely without fear or constraint, wandering the vast cosmopolitan landscape before the dawn broke, and respectable folk found their way back among the public sphere.
Subterranean, he looked for refuge in the sewers. No one bothered him down there. At first he kept to the streets, a common bum on your average, typical New York block. After purchasing his plane ticket he couldn’t use his credit cards. In such a hurry, he didn’t have the wherewithal to withdrawal funds from his bank account. Fleeing the country his utmost concern, Hamato barely had more than the money in his pockets at his disposal when touching down at the airport. Despite Hamato’s transgressions, he was nonetheless a resourceful individual. From meager upbringings, he built a successful career and enviable life. Occupied by many hobbies and interests, Hamato’s humility masked his extraordinary capabilities. Not flashy or one to brag, often he offered his opinion altruistically, not looking for, or anticipating, accolades in return. Responsible and blessed with good common sense, he made good decisions, not sabotaging his own trajectory. Well, mostly…
Aside from harmless mischief as a youth, Hamato mainly conformed to the mold his middle-class family groomed him to mature into. Adolescence to adulthood spent studying, practicing, analyzing, calculating, examining, dissecting, configuring, and manipulating the world around him. Meeting Tomoka was the first time in decades he pushed himself out of his comfort zone. Rupturing their union, separating from her, would be the last time he would ever feel again. His soul crushed, his spirit fractured, his essence was splintered into a million pieces.
That’s what they called him in the tunnels: “Splinter”. He wrote in a journal when he was especially melodramatic, one of his poems called ‘I Am Splintered’. Whenever he crossed paths with a fellow forsaken friend, that’s how he introduced himself. No one used real names down here. Everyone ashamed of who they are, who they’ve become, they went by nicknames, aliases, and pseudonyms. Rarely did he encounter someone who actually cared what he referred to himself as anyways. Hardly anyone bothered him. Most people did everything they could to avoid living in such squaller. He was a nameless hobo roaming the underground, residing on the periphery of the abandoned Worth St. subway station over by City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge covered in graffiti, garbage, and grime: and it was perfect.