Disclaimer: My first story and everybody does so hey, why not. Well let's see, I don't own any part of X-men or the character of Jean Grey, I am simply just a teen doing what she loves and see how I do I suppose. But I don't own a thing but my imagination.

A/N: Just in case somebody doesn't know this story is told from a 17 to 19 year old Jean Grey. And please don't publish without my permisson.


I get sick and tired of it you know. Everyone looks up to me and admires me. They shouldn't really, and I know that but I still let them. Not because I crave the attention, but because I love the feeling of being in total control simply because what they know, is simply what I allow them to know, the entity I assume. And they fall in, desperately needing what I put out. While I curse them for it, I smile. All they want is the feeling of being in control, but they're not really, I am.

The girl they thought would be the one to turn to, doesn't exist. They believe in a lie, a lie given to them by a "troubled teen" as I was once perceived as. One that covers up red watery eyes with a false hope smile. A girl that hides small cuts caused by a single razor blade with the leather that shows her as one of the proud X-men. The patron saint of liars and fakes. But you know the difference between me and them? Their problems don't affect me. There are no apologies to be given out because I simply give them what they want, and what they want is someone to confide in and trust, a hero serving under the leader, but I'm none of that now am I?

And maybe I think the truth is the worse thing I could bring myself to do to them, but no, I wouldn't. I'll let them give in or just give up. So I'll keep their petty secrets and horrible deeds hidden and then they'll come out accidentally on purpose at the worse possible moment but not by me, no, they have to keep coming back. But their worlds would collapse and fall into a hopeless depressed state slowly slipping. Their young or old souls would cease to exist and they'd either come back for another round, or they're gone. And I'll watch on with a blade in my hand and smile, and I know that's absolutely terrible and my conscience may sometimes ask "where is your heart?" But you know what the worse part is? I couldn't care less.


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