Hey everybody! I've been away for a while, reading and doing a boatload of homework (still am, actually, but that's beside the point), and I've decided it's long past time for a new story. I'm not quite sure where this is going yet, but I'm aiming for a possible Magneto love story, about ten chapters. We'll see what happens.

Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men.

Chapter 1 ~ Hope

The sun wakes me harshly, shining brightly onto my face and blinding me the moment I open my eyes.

Groaning, I slap a hand over my face to block the glare, thus succeeding not only in darkening my face but also hitting it uncomfortably hard. My face now stinging, I stumble out of bed, searching blindly for the curtains.

I manage to close them to the sun, but not after considerable stumbling, crashing, and swearing.

Wiping a hand wearily down my face, I look at the clock to find the minute hand ticking dangerously close to the twelve. I bite out a curse and race around the room, dressing and running out the door in lightning speed.

I skid into the classroom just as the bell rings, still brushing a comb through my hair and blinking the sleep from my eyes.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Berkley. If you would please take a seat?"

He gestures at an empty chair in the front of the classroom, and I bite back the curse I want to spit at him for his barely-concealed amusement. It is a well-known fact that I can never manage to get up on time, and ever since that stupid alarm clock broke a week ago, I've been late nearly everywhere. I don't need constant laughter at my expense; I know how damn funny I look racing to class with a comb still in my hand and my shoes untied.

"Language, please."

And of course, I'm still half-asleep so I don't remember that this particular professor reads minds and would be able to hear all my bitten-back curses.

What a wonderful way to start the day.

After class, I make to race out the door, eager to return to my room and get back to sleep for a few hours, but a gentle nudge in my mind stays me and I turn to the professor with a groan.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Walk with me?" He wheels out of the room in a specially-designed plastic wheelchair, expecting me to follow. I fall into step next to him as we journey down the hall.

"What is it?"

"How are you holding up?"

My breath catches in my chest because of course that's what he would be asking. Why did I ever think I could escape his notice?

I do not answer, and I steadfastedly do not think about the long nightmare-filled nights and bare few hours of sleep in which I manage to catch rest and memories that are not mine that fill my emotions to bursting.

He looks at me with this look of care in his eyes, and even though I try to look away, I am caught in his gaze.

I stop walking, barraged by a feeling of pain and betrayal so intense it takes my breath away. For a moment I want to fall into the wall and just curl up in a fetal position, clutching my body to try to drive away the pain, but then I take a deep breath and remember that it's not real.

Not for me, anyway.

"What was it this time?"

I am on a beach panicking they left me how could they leave me am I dying waves of blinding pain rising from my back breath short panicking shadows over me they're gone am I alright? I can't feel my legs I can't feel my legs I can't feel my legs how could they do this to me?

The professor looks like I just slapped him, backing up an inch with the force and surprise of that painful memory. He says nothing more, just looking at me with something like pity and apprehension and discomfort in his bright kind eyes, and I don't want his pity because this is who I am.

"I make you uncomfortable." It is not a question; it is a statement. It's ironic that I should make a telepath uncomfortable, since our powers are uncannily similar.

"That's absurd, Moneta." But I can feel it in him: the roiling discomfort, the wish to get away from someone who can take and see and judge his worst memories with just a glance in his eyes. "I merely wish to help you control it."

And now he has me intrigued – what if there is a way? What if I could manage some semblance of control over this? What if some day I could look into someone's eyes without the fear of experiencing pain and rage and despair and love and roiling, frothing emotion trying to burn me alive?

"How?"

My name is Moneta Isle Berkley.

I am twenty-four years old.

I am a mutant.

This is the story of how I lived.

Alright, so that's the first chapter of the first X-Men story I've ever posted online. I've started a fair few, but this is the only one I've gathered enough courage to show off, so please tell me what you all think!

We all write to become better writers, so please help with that and give me your thoughts on my writing. (I know, it's a small sample size, but I have four chapters written and [hopefully] more coming)

Review! :)

~ TheAlabasterPhoenyx