Lucky Enough to Live

by flying feather scribbles

[Sequel to Explosive Energy] Emmaline has started her life over. Then she runs across a sudden fight between Superheroes and Super-Villains near Central Park and finds Danny injured. She takes him back to her apartment to find he is dying and there's nothing she can do, and his friends don't even know. Just a great new start of her final days to life.

1. Fresh Air

Hi hi hi! This is my sequel to "Explosive Energy". For those of you who haven't read it, if you would like to, it is in the X-Men: Evolution category. ;-) I'd greatly appreciate reviews, you know, just because it's always nice to get other people's opinions, and know that people are actually READING the story. :-) Anonymous reviews are great too! If anybody has any advice, ideas, criticism, complaints, or maybe even praise, then you can either PM me or put it in a review- I'd appreciate any of the above, especially constructive criticism and ideas for the story! Now, to begin. (I don't want to bore you with my talk.)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything except my OC (Emmaline Carlson), the idea, and any poetry. :-)

Chapter 1: Fresh Air

We should all start to live before we get too old.

-Marilyn Monroe

I take a deep breath in, and allow the wind's song to sweep me away to another land. The beautiful silence makes my chest swell, then I slowly let the breath out. Everything is so peaceful, and I am overwhelmed by the joy of existence.

Slowly, I open my eyes and stand, feeling refreshed and full of energy. My hands are buzzing, so I gently shake them. The soft green grass is comforting to my bare feet, and the gentle breeze caresses my hair. Humming to myself, I begin the walk back to my apartment. I may only be seventeen, but the man who I rent the apartment from doesn't seem to care, much. The walk back from Central Park is only twenty minutes, and I love the light exercise. It's a Sunday, so I don't have to work today- not that I spend a particularly large chunk of my time at work, though I do enjoy my job. If it can be called that. The rest of my time is open for whatever I want to do, and in New York City, it is easy to keep myself busy.

I usually take my time to enjoy the sights, but for some reason, I feel the urge to hurry tonight. Perhaps it's that the sky has turned a nasty shade of green, or that the wind has picked up, but either way, I'm nervous and jumpy. When I get back to the apartment building, I dash up the stairs and slam the door behind me, locking it.

I have a television, but I don't use it much. I need to distract myself now, though, and I have a feeling that reading or listening to music won't cut it this evening. Collapsing into my squashy armchair, I glance around the small room that I happily call home.

It's dingy, but I don't mind. I repainted the walls a pale, cheerful yellow. I couldn't think of anything to do about the stained linoleum floors though, so I just covered it in various rugs from the Flea Market, Craig's List, Ebay, the thrift store, and those kind of places. My "kitchen" is quite nice, I think, considering how much I pay for rent: there's a counter surrounding the cooking area, an oven, stove, fridge, freezer, microwave, and plenty of cupboard space for one person. There's a large window, and nearby I have an old-fashioned tube TV hanging on the wall, and a cushy secondhand armchair with a side table and reading lamp. I can't afford to buy many books, but the ones I do have sit upon a wooden bookshelf along with various other precious trinkets of mine. The bookshelf also holds a few library books that I've borrowed, and a cheap CD player/radio. On the other side of the room is my small bed, covered with tons of pillows and blankets. The walls are covered with hand-drawn pictures and quotes. Nearly everything is secondhand and used, but I don't mind.

I turn the TV on to the news station, staring in horror at the scene. There's some dark creature in a black cape fighting Spider-Man. I sigh, tears welling up in my eyes. I know his story, just like everybody else's. I know he is Peter Parker. I know what happened to his uncle. I'm Emmaline Carlson, so of course I know- I'm cursed. The memories are mostly faint, but I can still remember what happened even if the images don't haunt my everyday existence or dreams. It's easier to immerse myself in martial arts, reading, meditation, volunteering, that sort of thing. I still don't trust myself around children, though, or else I'd be babysitting all the time. It's been eight months. None of the people from the forgotten place have visited, but I've seen faces that make me do double-takes while shopping or strolling through the park, since I'm still in New York.

I turn away, knowing I shouldn't prod. I'm always afraid I'll remember more. I suppose I could try calling that man to do it again, make them gone for good, but I'm afraid. Afraid of those images. So I decide to take a walk back to the park. Maybe there will be a yoga class there.

The walk is long, and dreary. Everybody's faces are hidden, shadowed with fear. When I finally reach Central Park, it starts raining. Storming. Lightening streaks across the sky, and thunder echos angrily. I feel stupid for leaving my apartment when there are Super-Villains out, even though my apartment isn't exactly 'safe'. I run blindly in what I assume is the direction back to my apartment, amid a chaotic, screaming throng of people. Cold laughter rings in my ears, and debris crashes all around me. I've walked right into the middle of the scene. Stupid, stupid me. I desperately want to help, but I've built a normal life, a happy life, and I'm afraid to let go. People, in utter terror, are trampling over others, stampeding in their rush to safety. I am shoved against a tree, a rather tall, strong tree, so I do the best thing I can think of: I climb it.

Clinging to the branch, the wind whips the leaves across my face. Superheroes are fighting, I can see them. I close my eyes, then open them again, trying to calm myself, but I can't. So I am doomed to watch, a mere witness who has done nothing to hurt, but also nothing to help. The man in the cape laughs coldly again, but I can see a boy in a green costume, with a yellow bandana tied over his eyes and a glowing hand running toward him. Just as I think he'll smash the man in the cape, he crumples to the ground. Behind the boy, a lady in a long purple dress cackles, then waves her hand toward me. The boy crashes into my tree, and lays there. I close my eyes, trying to tune out the battle before me. I know civilians are dying, I can feel it inside me, a pang wrenching my gut every few minutes.

After what feels like eons, a huge wind sweeps the area, and I open my eyes to see the man in the black cape gone, and the superheroes rushing away. Probably chasing the villains, I suppose, as, shaking, I unsteadily crawl done the tree.

The boy is slumped against the tree, still. I feel terrible for him. His mask has slipped away, revealing a handsome face and shoulder-length blonde hair. Carefully, I kneel and feel his chest. There is a faint rising and falling, rising and falling. He's alive. Barely.

I notice something shiny near his back, and I look more closely. A long rod of metal is driven into his back. Something inside me shatters for the boy. I stand up. Surprisingly, there are still cars driving away, taxis dashing off. I hail a cab.

Then, I lift the boy into the backseat. The driver doesn't say anything- he must realize that lots of people were injured. "Hospital?"

I shake my head, stuttering out my apartment's address instead. I know that the hospital won't take him, not now. That man with the cape- there's something about him that I know I should remember, but can't. Anyways, I realize that the city's going to change, now, or is already changing. The hospital can't help him anyways, nobody can survive that stab. I know he'll die, but better that he die peacefully than with his enemies.

When I get out, I drag him into the scarcely used elevator, then into my apartment. I lay him gently on my bed, on his stomach. I kneel down, grasping his hand and closing my eyes. I can feel all the energy around me, but I concentrate only on the boy's. Not to find out about him, just the wound.

It's punctured his lung.

I open my eyes, and lean against the bed, swaying. I can't pull it out- that would kill him. I don't know what to do. So I drag over my stool from the counter, and sit there, holding his hand and crying. Crying. Letting the tears fall. I don't even know why I brought him here anymore, why I did anything I did.

When I feel his hand tighten around mine, it only makes me sob harder.

So? How was it? Review, please!

-flying feather scribbles