Northstar is dead. Jean-Paul Beaubier is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead. Those words keep repeating in my head, poisoning my head, killing my head. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Killkillkillkillkill. I realize that there's no way to prevent a feril Wolverine from attacking, and being attacked, you're guaranteed dead. But if you're super fast, can't you outrun someone like him, someone like that Weapon X killer? Maybe if he had my powers, if he could blend into the scenery, he wouldn't be dead and there wouldn't be this ugly stupid reminder, this horrible statue that accepts his death.
. . . accepts his death.
I have no one to accept me, no one to help me. My body feels carved out, leaving every word hollow. My throat feels like shaking and groaning and moaning from each day that I'm living. I realize you may think I'm overreacting, and maybe I am, but if you think about it—what's worse than being a gay mutant who's lost everything near and dear to him?
. . . lost everything.
Everyone is getting over him. I'm not. He's not just another advisor of the school, the institute, the mutant sanctuary. He's my mentor, my surrogate father, my friend, the only one I could connect with my problems. He survived them. He even wrote a book. He survived it all.
Then he died.
I will never get over it.