Author's Note: This is kind of sad…You've been warned. But, not too sad though (I guess it depends on how you define the word 'sad'). It's a bit long, but I hope you enjoy it.
She was unconscious. I carried her to her designated room—more like a furnished prison cell. Its walls were white. Magneto had done something so that no mutant powers could be used inside here. Everything was white. There was a single bed, and a small table and chair. That was it.
I put her down on the bed and backed out of the area. With the press of a button, I locked Kitty Pryde her very own hell.
I clasped the tray of food. Why did I have to do this? The war's over. We should kill her, it'd be easier. I opened the door.
She was lying on the bed, facing away. Once I stepped in, she frantically sat up and turned around. Her face was full of excitement and anticipation.
"Bobby?" she asked me, smiling.
What?
I stared at her—okay, I glared at her. Bobby Drake? Was she effin' serious?
"No…I'm not Bobby." I spat. That idiot Iceman…He was dead.
"Oh." her face held a look of pure disappointment and she turned away, back to the position when I first found her.
"I'll leave your food on the table." I muttered harshly, and left the room.
No response.
A week has passed. Every single day—three times a day, every time I delivered her food to her—she would smile and ask the same question, utter the same name. Bobby. Bobby. It was always about Bobby!
She would turn around, face full of joy. Then, after a few seconds, she would recognize me and it would all go downhill from there. She wanted the Iceman, she got Pyro.
Every single fucking day. It pained me—not that I care—to see her so happy and delighted just at the thought of that bastard. Why Bobby? Why couldn't she be in love with another, living, person who would one day come and save her…Like that big Russian dude, Peter or the weird blue teleporter, Kurt? I'm pretty damn sure they're not dead.
As the one-month mark neared, her reaction time visibly slowed. She got thinner—more food was left on the trays. More often than not, I would open the door to be greeted by a shivering Kitty Pryde. She looked more and more exhausted as the days passed and I hated it, hated how I had to see this, hated Bobby Drake for doing this to her.
On the twenty-ninth day of her being here, I decided I couldn't take it anymore.
"Is that you, Bobby?" her voice was hoarse. She struggled to turn around.
"Y—yes, it's me, Kitty." I choked out.
"Is it really? Finally?" she sat up abruptly. I guess she was saving her energy for this.
"Yes," I forced out, "finally." I laughed nervously.
"What happened to your hair? Since when did you become blonde?" she gently ran her now bony fingers through my hair; then, she smiled the most dazzling smile I'd ever seen. Color returned to her cheeks in a flush. Bobby is—was a lucky guy.
"I dyed it, love." I gulped. Would she buy it? She didn't notice our different eye colors, though.
"I love it!" she giggled like a child. "What took you so long?"
I sat on the bed next to her, trying to think of an eligible excuse. I felt her cold, lean hand on my cheek, and she smiled.
"I—I had some things to take care of." I shrugged, rubbing my nape.
"No worries. You came!" she suddenly hugged me.
What am I supposed to do? I was not accustomed to such—intimacy....
I hugged her back. She was so thin! I could feel her rib cage under her shirt.
"I missed you, Bobby." she sobbed.
Right. She still thinks I'm that idiot, Iceman. Why was I doing this again?
"Me too, Kitten." I rubbed her back slowly, not sure who I was trying to calm down, her, or me.
She finally pulled away after inhaling deeply. She stared, seemingly taking in every detail of me—of Bobby. Doing this hurts me so much, and not in the sappy kind of way. I hated Bobby Drake, I still do. Why did I have to pretend to be him? For a dying prisoner who deserves some degree of happiness. She did deserve happiness…right? Aaaargh!
"Come on, Kitty, eat something." I hesitantly urged her.
"Only if you feed me!" she giggled.
I was slightly surprised when she reached for the tray of now cold food. For a girl who'd looked as good as dead yesterday, she sure had some energy.
Bobby Effin' Drake. She thinks—she truly believes—that I am him. And because of that, she has the will to live.
She handed me the plastic spoon and smiled widely. I shrugged and returned her grin. I scooped some food and fed her. She finished every last bit of food that day.
This…weird ritual continued on for another two weeks. Every day, I would bring her food in, and she would giggle and dance around, full of fucking happiness. I would sit on her bed, faking a smile, forcing a laugh. It hurts, you know? This was probably the first and only thing I've done which was not for me.
I'd realized something. Every smile she gave me, every hug, my heart would leave a gaping hole in my chest, and my stomach had this weird feeling. Again, not because of the sappy reason, but…it truly did hurt. She loved Bobby. I wasn't Bobby. I don't—deserve her affection. And yet…each day I stay longer and longer, craving that affection. I will never admit this to anyone, but I desperately wanted someone to want me. Even if 'me' was that idiot, Bobby Drake.
"Good morning, Bobby!" she squealed and jumped from her bed.
I grinned and set the tray down. She leapt up and down. Her energy levels were rising each day, she was getting less skinny and more color was in her cheeks. I hugged her back, still not used to closeness. Once again, I couldn't help but think that that bastard didn't deserve her at all.
"I got you breakfast." I sang.
"Yay!" she hugged me and I swung her around in circles.
"Eat!" I commanded jokingly. "You'll need your energy."
"Okay." she gave me a slight smile and dug in.
While she ate, I walked around her room, contemplating when I should tell her. This is killing me. I can't go on acting as if I was the one she wanted, the one she cared for, the one she looked forward to seeing every day.
"Bobby?" She asked after she'd finished her breakfast.
"Yeah, Kitty?" I responded softly. We sat on her bed and she immediately cuddled up to me—to Bobby, in her mind's eye.
"I love you." she smiled dreamily. She'd told me this last night, too.
I know you love Bobby. It's always Bobby. Bobby who won all the girls, Bobby the cool guy, Bobby everything! When will it be me? Will anyone ever love me?
"I know. I love you too." I gulped. Did I mean it?
"Don't leave me again, okay?" she sighed. "I can't live without you."
That's it! Bobby this, Bobby that. What about John?!
I tried my best to control my temper; this hasn't been a problem with Kitty before! But I've had enough. I regretted ever wanting or trying to make her happy, even though she was dying. I was never into self torture—I'm not a masochist; so why did I have to hurt myself. Time to end this once and for all.
"Kitten." I stood up, palming my lighter.
"Yeah?" she smiled that captivating smile of hers. It's not going to work this time…'This time'?
I took a deep breath.
"I'm not Bobby." And I never will be.
"Don't be silly," she laughed, it was like little birds singing. "of course you are."
"Bobby's dead, Katherine." I glared at her. Why was she hurting me like this? "I killed him." I flicked my lighter on and off.
"Stop playing games, Bobby. It's not funny anymore." she looked ghostly pale.
"For the last time, I am not Bobby Drake. My name is John Allerdyce. Learn it." I shouted at her.
"Oh come on! Bobby's not dead, I saw him last night! He brought me my dinner! We even talked about life and the stars and summer and—and I told him I loved him!" she cried out frantically.
"That was me, Kitty! Bobby never came here! Iceman is dead!" I exploded. No stopping me now. "When will you get that I was the one who talked with you until it was past midnight, that I was the one you danced, laughed, and smiled with, that I brought you your food for the last effin' month, that I was the one who fed you and—resurrected you when you looked like you were dying, that I'm the one enduring all this pain and—and sadness just because I want you to be happy before you die—and when will you finally realize that Bobby doesn't love you, I do!" I screamed at her. I was out of breath now.
She stood there, silent tears flowing down her face. Then, she lay down on the bed, facing the wall, facing away from me.
"John Allerdyce…" she whispered.
"What?" I forced out harshly.
"I...I hate you." she said calmly.
How can she be so fucking calm in condemning me? Was it that easy? A sharp pain stabbed at my chest as she lay there, motionless.
I tried.
I left her room.
When I brought her lunch that day, it was a déjà vu of the first day. No reaction, no sign that she'd registered me there. And dinner, breakfast the next day, for the rest of the month she stayed that way. I never saw her face again, it was always her back to me. There came a time when I would just look at the floor, the table, the wall—anywhere but her.
She got paler and thinner; she looked like the most fragile porcelain doll ever. And I, I realized that leaving her like this hurt me even more than pretending. At least when I pretended, she laughed, she smiled, she talked, she ate, she lived. And I felt something I'd never felt before—I felt loved.
I wasn't meant to be fucking loved, anyway. I think I should've taken the hint when my parents kicked me out.
Soon, I noticed that I retrieved the tray the same way I left it—full of food. She wasn't eating. She probably wanted to die so she can be with Bobby, and never have to see me again. It stung, because…I wanted the same thing. I wanted for Magneto to just kill her, so I wouldn't have to step in that damned room any more. So that I wouldn't have to see her dying right before my eyes.
I slammed the tray on the table and glared at her back. I did this every day now. Slam. Glare. Curse. Get out. Curse some more. Lament on why this was happening to me. Swear at Bobby. Deliver next meal. It was a never-ending loop of pain.
"John." her voice was soft, the way I remembered it.
"What?" I said venomously. I didn't want to interact with her ever again. Figuratively, I touched and I was burned. How ironic.
"I'm dying." she coughed out. I heard the bed creak, but I was still halfway out the door.
"I know that, you don't have to fucking say it." I glared at the wall.
"John, look at me." she pleaded.
"No." I scowled at the damned wall. Why was she making this harder?
"John, I love you."
I stood there for about forever....
Then I walked away.