It's been two year since he left.
'Two long years,' she thought. 'Two years..that's forty-eight months, one hundred and four weeks, seven hundred thirty days, seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours, one million fifty-one thousand two hundred minutes, sixty-three million seventy-two thousand seconds.'
Two years...since she died inside.
He left without a word. Mere hours after witnessing the death of Jean Gray. And she hasn't heard from him since. Not a card, not a call, not even a damn smoke signal. And it killed her.
She's sure the Professor knows. He knows where he is, what he's doing, who he's with. But refuses to share any info with the slowly withering young adult. And she hated him for it.
But she hated Logan more. She understood the pain he was in, but everyone was hurting. She was hurting, and he left her to grieve alone. Well, not completely alone.
A sick smile spread across her face as she slowly peeled the long black gloves off her smooth pale skin. She let her fingers glide up the top of her arm, up to her elbow and back down. Her smile grew when she turned her arm over to reveal and abundance of jagged, deep scars covering her wrist. She let her fingers trace a few of the deeper ones before reaching into the drawer in the counter above her head.
She felt around for the soft velvet box that held her only true friends. Gripping the box she pulled it out of the drawer and placed in on the bathroom floor near her knees. Slowly, Rogue removed the top, revealing the slim, shiny razor blades below. Picking up a random blade, she slowly brought it to her upturned wrist. Lightly running the blade from her palm to her elbow, a small tear escaped her eye. Pushing down slightly, barely enough to do damage, she made her way back down to her palm. Her smile faded as she ran the blade roughly across the tender skin of her wrist, going all the way around to make a tight spiral of blood around her arm.
Rogue fell back onto the bathroom floor, letting the razor drop with a distant 'clank'. Tears unknowingly leaked out of glazed over eyes as the fragile girl reminisced about the man that left her.
She brought her arm back into view. Watching as the blood ran quickly down her forearm like a torrent of rain.
'Two years,' she thought. 'This is what you made me.'
She let the welcoming blackness envelop her.