DISCLAIMER: It's been said so many times, and I'm really too tired to think of a new, clever way of phrasing this.
TRUCKLOAD OF NOTES: This came as a direct result of me reading a fic by Yma, and I really hope she doesn't mind me mentioning her here. Check out her stuff on InterNutter's Bulletin Board (URL ) or I'm hosting her fic, 'Held' here on ff.net. It's also a direct result of a fic by Amicitia entitled 'About Me' that I read many moons ago and just popped into my head when I sat down at the computer. Subsequently, I also hope she doesn't get offended at me mentioning her name. It's a compliment, really!
Flames will be ignored, but reviews will make me a very happy bunny indeed. Also, I'm still pleading for people to enter my fanfic competition. Details can be found in my profile.
The title comes from 'Lonely In Your Nightmare' by Duran Duran, and no giving me stick for naming a fic after a Duran Duran song! The lyrics just seemed to fit. Here they are to prove it. They'll make more sense if you read them after the fic is done.
"Show me all the light and shade
That made your name
I know you've got it in your head,
I've seen that look before
You've built your refuge,
Turrns you captive all the same."
ARCHIVING: Just write it in a review or email me at electric_hairdo@hotmail.com and you can have this thing. I'm not an ogre as long as people ask first.
Right, if you've made it through that little lot and still want to see the actual fic, then I commend and present you with it. This isn't usually my style, since I prefer third person narrative as a rule and I don't really excel at one-shots, but I'm trying to diversify a little. Don't know if it worked or not.
___________________
'Captive All The Same' By Scribbler
28th February 2003
___________________
'We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." ~ Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
___________________
My name is Jean Grey.
That's who I am.
Not a very difficult concept, is it? I. Me. Mine.
Me.
Most people notice my hair when they first see me. It's kind of hard not to. Some people say it's my most distinguishing feature. All glossy and thick and red. My mother used to say it was a mane, rather than a hairstyle. My mother used to say a lot of things. But I like my hair. It makes me... me. Sure, there are other redheads, but my hair is mine. I've never had it cut, and I'm not sure I'll ever want to, either. It's my protection, in a sense. The curtain I can hide behind when I don't want to talk to people - which, surprisingly, happens more often than you might think.
I'm the perfect preppy girl. I'm not being arrogant when I say that. It's just how people see me. It's the image I've had for most of my life. Jean Grey, grade 'A' student. 18 years old. Star of the school soccer team. Cheerleader. Never late, always early. Helpful member of the community. Dates Duncan Matthews - as is required, being head of the cheer squad. Presides over the in-crowd social network and the school yearbook committee.
Perfect preppy Jean Grey.
I hate her.
I hate the Jean that people see. The Jean that I cultivate. I hate her so much. I hate the way her hair swings when she walks. I hate the way her voice sounds, all bubbly and upbeat. I hate the way she looks, the way she acts, the way she *is*. But it's been so long now that I don't know how to be anybody else. I don't know how to be me. The real me. The me inside.
Ugh, I don't like it when I get all philosophical. That's Ororo's arena, not mine. She'd probably be able to phrase all this much better than I can. Despite English not being her first language, Ororo's got a way with words. Something I really wish I had around about now.
Oh sure, I can do a sales pitch. One might say that's my forte. Perhaps I should become a sales rep when I graduate, or something. I've had enough practise. That's why Professor Xavier always sends me out to talk to new mutants, to try and encourage them to join the X-Men. Blip. There's another newbie on Cerebro. Let's send out Jean, she'll recruit them for us. Calm, collected, confident Jean. She'll talk sense into them and make them see the light. Jean's perfect for the job.
Does sarcasm work when it's not spoken?
Like I said, sales pitches I can do. But I can't really talk about myself. That's why I'm babbling now. That's why everything I've said so far isn't in any order. Just splashed about haphazardly as I try to come up with something to say that doesn't sound completely trite and so much like a spoiled brat.
OK, let's start again, shall we? My name is Jean Grey. I'm a mutant. A telekinetic, to be precise, although I do have some talents in the way of telepathy too. Huh, trust perfect old me to get two super-dooper powers instead of just one. Powers I can learn to use, and turn on and off when I want to. Not like Scott or Rogue, trapped inside their own bodies with no hope of...
Sorry, sorry, going off at a tangent there. Where was I?
Oh yeah. I grew up in a pretty normal house. My family were pretty normal people too. No brothers or sisters, but my Mom kept me in check pretty good, so I wasn't indulged too much as a child. I went to a normal kindergarten, then moved on to a normal school and made normal friends that I still keep in contact with every now and again when I want to see what's been going on back where I used to live. My old, normal neighbourhood.
I'm the first to say that I didn't have much angst as a kid. No divorces, no tragic disasters, no mishaps that could come back to haunt me later in life, no nothing like that.
Ugh, bad grammar. See what I mean about not being so good with words when they're about me?
That all changed the day I got my powers. Well, I say day, but I really mean days. Plural. You see, it was a gradual process at first. Um... for example, I'd want a spoon to eat my cereal with in the morning, and the one from next to my Dad's place would suddenly be next to my bowl. Or, I'd walk into a room and the light switch would flip on even as I was still reaching for it. Nothing too dramatic. I was lucky that way.
We figured out pretty early on that what was happening wasn't normal. Especially when the things started to get a little bigger. Especially when I started to hear voices in my head. My folks thought I was just suffering from stress, so they sent me to the school counsellor, and then to a professional one.
I can still remember what the inside of Dr. Harrison's office looked like. All dark colours, heavy Venetian blinds and green leather chairs that squeaked when you moved. Hideous décor. Hideous woman, too. Grey and wrinkly like a mouldy prune, with eyes like a rat. Always darting this way and that, never in one place for too long. She asked me all sorts of intimate, personal questions, and grilled me so much I swear I came out of there lightly toasted.
But nothing could explain what was happening. Dr. Harrison suggested schizophrenia, and for a while I almost believed her. That would've explained the talking, but what about the moving stuff? It was getting bigger by that point. Whenever I got angry things would start to happen, like lightbulbs shattering of their own accord, or windows rattling in their frames.
I know what you're thinking now. Jean Grey? Angry? But come on, I was thirteen. I had hormones too, and teenage temper tantrums and burgeoning mutant powers do not a pleasant mix make. Nor a healthy one for people around me, either.
I used to lock myself in my room so that I couldn't hurt anybody. I don't mind admitting that I was scared. Well, wouldn't you be? I'd never heard of X-genes at that point. I thought I was just some horrible freak. I can remember my Auntie coming over with books on poltergeists to try and explain things. She was always very into the occult. But even she ran up against a brick wall with me.
And people wonder why I was so weird when my power surged a few months ago? Why I didn't want to talk about it? It was like reliving that time all over again.
I remember once getting angry with a boy at school, and a brick wall fell on him. I forget what the reason was now, but I can still recall the strange burning sensation in the pit of my brain just before it hit him There was nothing wrong with it, no cracks or bad foundations. It just sort of.... crumbled. The top bricks came first, flying off and smashing against the floor. Then the rest leaned to the side, like it was drunk, and came down all in one big lump. And he was underneath it. He didn't get out of hospital for almost a month, and for a while it was touch and go whether he'd make it or not.
People avoided me after that. They didn't say anything, but I got so many cold shoulders I was practically living in the Arctic. I didn't care, though. To tell the truth, I didn't want their company any more. People who got close to me could get hurt. I was dangerous.
I'd almost killed a person.
They all knew, somehow, that it had been my fault. They couldn't explain it and they didn't talk about it, but they knew. And I knew that they knew.
He could've died because of me.
Death.
Such a small word. It seems kind of silly that such a momentous thing should be contained inside such a small word. I mean, it's so *tiny*. When you see it written down you don't think about what else it entails. You don't think about the pain it causes. The families and friends left behind. You don't consider the coffin that's going to follow, or the tears and grief and suffering and loss.
I did.
After all, I'd almost caused it.
I still think about it. Every time I use my powers, in fact. I'm conscious that something could go wrong. One tiny slip and somebody else could be under a pile of bricks. One of my teammates this time. One of the people I'm supposed to be protecting. Even the Brotherhood. When we're fighting them, we're two different teams. Two different sides. But if I slip up, it's one of our schoolmates dead on the ground. Someone we know. Someone *I* know. I don't like them, but I don't want them dead.
I guess that's why I don't like using my powers unless I have to. I don't just 'port around instead of walking like Kurt, and I don't use spikes to make skateboard ramps like Evan.
Wait, that came out sounding all wrong.
I... ugh.
What I mean is, it's too easy for me to hurt somebody. In a fight it's different. I *have* to use my powers then, but I don't like it. It's a necessity, not a pleasure.
Sometimes I'll slip. Everybody does. It's just that the consequences are potentially worse when I do it. I'll use them for something small, like slamming that door in Evan's face when he was videotaping me in my nightdress. Hey, I was angry. I still felt guilty about it afterwards. What if I'd pushed him too hard? I know he hit that wall. I heard him. 'Thunk', like wet meat on a slab. My uncle used to be a butcher, and have his own little shop, so I know what it sounds like. I also know that it's very easy to break someone's neck if they chance to hit at the wrong angle. I had to look out afterwards, and I was so relieved when I saw him walking away down the hall.
People don't realise what it's like to have powers like these. I don't always know how much force I'm putting behind something. It's not like using a muscle. When you're holding a drink can and crushing it in your fist you can feel when the metal starts to give. With telekinesis it's not like that. I don't have any skin or nerve endings to tell me when to stop. I can't gauge whether I'm doing too much or too little.
If I picked somebody up with my powers, I could easily rupture their lungs by squeezing them too hard. If I push back an attack from an enemy with my mind, I could break their spine without even realising I'd done it.
It's scary, having that much power. A huge responsibility.
I'm only 18. Why do I have that much to worry about? I should just be concerned with school and going to parties and stuff. Teenage things like acne and getting my homework done. Normal things.
God, I want to be normal.
Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you? Jean Grey not liking her powers? But they're so cool. *Everybody* wants to be Jean Grey. Everybody wants her perfect life.
Everybody can have it.
Back to what I started off by saying, then. Old refrain. Bor-ing.
The Professor helps where he can. The world's best counsellor, Scott once called him, and I suppose he's right. He is, after all, and empath amongst other things. But.... ach, nothing's coming out right today! It's a lot more difficult to put this stuff into words than you might imagine.
OK, let's try to get some kind of order here, shall we?
Professor Xavier recruited me relatively easily. I was so frightened by my powers when the first, vastly different incarnation of Cerebro picked up on me that I was willing to do practically anything if he could help make the things I was doing stop.
And he did.
Pretty simple job. I was the first student at the Institute, and therefore, for a while, the only one. Most people seem to think that Scott was the first, but the Professor busted him out of social services a couple of months after I got there. As a result, I got all the benefits on my own. Xavier could concentrate on helping me, and I learned quickly. I wanted to be normal again. It was a blow when I learned that this wasn't something that could be cured. Being a mutant was a permanent deal. I had to live with it.
So I did.
There was an initial bit of denial. I didn't want to believe I couldn't be normal again, so I just blotted out the thought. But it didn't leave me alone, and eventually I just had to accept the fact that this was my life. This was what I got.
I. Me. Mine.
So I built a new kind of normal for myself. One that didn't involve mutant powers, or being part of a team. I threw myself into school, working as hard as I could and practically bullying people in clubs and societies to accept me into their ranks. I wasn't content unless I got their approval, their respect, and I worked my butt off day and night trying to fit in.
Bayville High didn't know what had hit it. Soon the trophy cabinets were starting to fill with things I'd won, bits and pieces I'd earned. Medals, statuettes, gold figurines. I blew threw things, becoming captain, champ, the winner. My teachers were amazed at my grades, and I basked in it all. I fitted in there. The in-crowd wanted me; other people wanted to be me.
When Scott arrived I tried to bring him into the world I'd created, but you could tell from the first that he wasn't interested. I still try today, and I think he's warming to the idea a little more, but I get the distinct feeling nowadays it's too little too late. He's already been deemed an outsider. A social outcast. All those from the Institute have to a point. They hang around together, friends and housemates.
But not me. I always valued my status too much. I turned my back on them when they asked me to eat lunch with them, choosing instead to sit at the popular table, and have Duncan squeeze the air out of me for the duration. I'd laugh and talk with the people sitting there, not once looking across at where the others were. The people I lived with. Mutants like me.
I have no code-name, because that would've meant conceding to what I am. To what I'm a part of. Xavier tried to get me to choose one when I first arrived, but I wasn't having any of it. I was Jean Grey, and that was that. The others could say what they wanted about keeping identities secret out in the field, but what was the point?
I just wanted to be normal. Being with them jeopardised that.
So I shut them out. I returned their waves and smiled at them, but it was always the smile popular girls gave to those the rung beneath them on the social ladder. To all appearances, they were people I lived with and occasionally did favours for. They weren't my friends.
Except Scott. I really tried with Scott. Perhaps because for such a long time it was just him and me at the Institute. But I didn't give up my little world. Not even for him. Nothing could make me let go of it. Nothing. It was too precious for that.
It's taken me until now to realise what an idiot I was.
You see, everything I have, everything I spent so much time building up and polishing. It's all false. All of it. None of it's real. Not really. Just a façade I put up to make myself feel normal again.
Normal.
I can't have it all ways, I know, but... now you're going to want to laugh, but please try not to. It's... this is difficult to say.
I'm lonely.
You've all heard the phrase, 'it's lonely at the top', right? Well, it's kind of like that. I only just realised it, sitting here, Duncan's arm around me and his breath hot on my cheek. He's talking, but I can't really hear him. Did I ever really listen? Or was I too concerned with the image he and I would create to bother thinking about who he really was. Is. Whatever.
I can see the other guys from the mansion, laughing together. Like a family. Kurt has a french-fry up his nose, and Kitty's pulling a face. Nobody in the in-crowd would *ever* dream of pulling a stunt like that. It's just... not done.
I can see Evan chatting to Rogue about something, and she's smiling. She doesn't do that very often. Maybe that's why she doesn't have many friends. They're nudging Scott, bringing him into their conversation, while Amara and Jubilee squabble about something beside them. I can see Sam and Rahne, Bobby and Roberto. Ray is standing up and waving to someone across the room, while Jamie sits eating his lunch with a smile on his face from whatever prank he's pulled this time. Ray sits down, and the yoghurt on his seat goes everywhere.
They're all laughing.
Laughing without me.
And something clicks into place in my mind.
This is all a sham.
I tried so hard to get where I am now, but after everything I don't want it. I don't want the adoring and jealous glances. I don't want to be hugged by someone who's only interested because of what I represent to his street cred. I want to be me.
I want to be me.
Me.
But who am I?
It's like I'm two separate people. The Jean Grey people at school know, with her lacquered over looks and all around perfection, and the Jean Grey inside. The one I beat down for so many years. The one I spent so much time pretending wasn't real.
Hello Jean Grey.
Hello Jean Grey.
Hello Miss Popular.
Hello... who? What defines the other me? Bits of Miss Popular have bled into my home-life, embedding themselves there so that I can't make out the differences between the two. I'm second in command, which is close to the top. I'm always at the top, smiling down on those below me.
Which one is real?
Or are they both?
I hate her, but she *is* me. It's too late for me to turn back. She's got her claws in me. Deep in me.
I'm popular.
I'm not.
I'm loved by those around me, but the people I live with barely know who I am. I'm the one who recruited them, made them feel at ease and at home.
Is that all I am really? Just the figure in the background? Part of the scenery? Did I spend so much time on the false Jean that I don't know who the real one is?
What's real?
What's normal?
Do I want to be normal?
Do I hate it?
My name is Jean Grey.
That's who I am.
Not a very difficult concept, is it? I. Me. Mine.
Me.
I.
But who am I?
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FINIS.
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TRUCKLOAD OF NOTES: This came as a direct result of me reading a fic by Yma, and I really hope she doesn't mind me mentioning her here. Check out her stuff on InterNutter's Bulletin Board (URL ) or I'm hosting her fic, 'Held' here on ff.net. It's also a direct result of a fic by Amicitia entitled 'About Me' that I read many moons ago and just popped into my head when I sat down at the computer. Subsequently, I also hope she doesn't get offended at me mentioning her name. It's a compliment, really!
Flames will be ignored, but reviews will make me a very happy bunny indeed. Also, I'm still pleading for people to enter my fanfic competition. Details can be found in my profile.
The title comes from 'Lonely In Your Nightmare' by Duran Duran, and no giving me stick for naming a fic after a Duran Duran song! The lyrics just seemed to fit. Here they are to prove it. They'll make more sense if you read them after the fic is done.
"Show me all the light and shade
That made your name
I know you've got it in your head,
I've seen that look before
You've built your refuge,
Turrns you captive all the same."
ARCHIVING: Just write it in a review or email me at electric_hairdo@hotmail.com and you can have this thing. I'm not an ogre as long as people ask first.
Right, if you've made it through that little lot and still want to see the actual fic, then I commend and present you with it. This isn't usually my style, since I prefer third person narrative as a rule and I don't really excel at one-shots, but I'm trying to diversify a little. Don't know if it worked or not.
___________________
'Captive All The Same' By Scribbler
28th February 2003
___________________
'We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." ~ Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
___________________
My name is Jean Grey.
That's who I am.
Not a very difficult concept, is it? I. Me. Mine.
Me.
Most people notice my hair when they first see me. It's kind of hard not to. Some people say it's my most distinguishing feature. All glossy and thick and red. My mother used to say it was a mane, rather than a hairstyle. My mother used to say a lot of things. But I like my hair. It makes me... me. Sure, there are other redheads, but my hair is mine. I've never had it cut, and I'm not sure I'll ever want to, either. It's my protection, in a sense. The curtain I can hide behind when I don't want to talk to people - which, surprisingly, happens more often than you might think.
I'm the perfect preppy girl. I'm not being arrogant when I say that. It's just how people see me. It's the image I've had for most of my life. Jean Grey, grade 'A' student. 18 years old. Star of the school soccer team. Cheerleader. Never late, always early. Helpful member of the community. Dates Duncan Matthews - as is required, being head of the cheer squad. Presides over the in-crowd social network and the school yearbook committee.
Perfect preppy Jean Grey.
I hate her.
I hate the Jean that people see. The Jean that I cultivate. I hate her so much. I hate the way her hair swings when she walks. I hate the way her voice sounds, all bubbly and upbeat. I hate the way she looks, the way she acts, the way she *is*. But it's been so long now that I don't know how to be anybody else. I don't know how to be me. The real me. The me inside.
Ugh, I don't like it when I get all philosophical. That's Ororo's arena, not mine. She'd probably be able to phrase all this much better than I can. Despite English not being her first language, Ororo's got a way with words. Something I really wish I had around about now.
Oh sure, I can do a sales pitch. One might say that's my forte. Perhaps I should become a sales rep when I graduate, or something. I've had enough practise. That's why Professor Xavier always sends me out to talk to new mutants, to try and encourage them to join the X-Men. Blip. There's another newbie on Cerebro. Let's send out Jean, she'll recruit them for us. Calm, collected, confident Jean. She'll talk sense into them and make them see the light. Jean's perfect for the job.
Does sarcasm work when it's not spoken?
Like I said, sales pitches I can do. But I can't really talk about myself. That's why I'm babbling now. That's why everything I've said so far isn't in any order. Just splashed about haphazardly as I try to come up with something to say that doesn't sound completely trite and so much like a spoiled brat.
OK, let's start again, shall we? My name is Jean Grey. I'm a mutant. A telekinetic, to be precise, although I do have some talents in the way of telepathy too. Huh, trust perfect old me to get two super-dooper powers instead of just one. Powers I can learn to use, and turn on and off when I want to. Not like Scott or Rogue, trapped inside their own bodies with no hope of...
Sorry, sorry, going off at a tangent there. Where was I?
Oh yeah. I grew up in a pretty normal house. My family were pretty normal people too. No brothers or sisters, but my Mom kept me in check pretty good, so I wasn't indulged too much as a child. I went to a normal kindergarten, then moved on to a normal school and made normal friends that I still keep in contact with every now and again when I want to see what's been going on back where I used to live. My old, normal neighbourhood.
I'm the first to say that I didn't have much angst as a kid. No divorces, no tragic disasters, no mishaps that could come back to haunt me later in life, no nothing like that.
Ugh, bad grammar. See what I mean about not being so good with words when they're about me?
That all changed the day I got my powers. Well, I say day, but I really mean days. Plural. You see, it was a gradual process at first. Um... for example, I'd want a spoon to eat my cereal with in the morning, and the one from next to my Dad's place would suddenly be next to my bowl. Or, I'd walk into a room and the light switch would flip on even as I was still reaching for it. Nothing too dramatic. I was lucky that way.
We figured out pretty early on that what was happening wasn't normal. Especially when the things started to get a little bigger. Especially when I started to hear voices in my head. My folks thought I was just suffering from stress, so they sent me to the school counsellor, and then to a professional one.
I can still remember what the inside of Dr. Harrison's office looked like. All dark colours, heavy Venetian blinds and green leather chairs that squeaked when you moved. Hideous décor. Hideous woman, too. Grey and wrinkly like a mouldy prune, with eyes like a rat. Always darting this way and that, never in one place for too long. She asked me all sorts of intimate, personal questions, and grilled me so much I swear I came out of there lightly toasted.
But nothing could explain what was happening. Dr. Harrison suggested schizophrenia, and for a while I almost believed her. That would've explained the talking, but what about the moving stuff? It was getting bigger by that point. Whenever I got angry things would start to happen, like lightbulbs shattering of their own accord, or windows rattling in their frames.
I know what you're thinking now. Jean Grey? Angry? But come on, I was thirteen. I had hormones too, and teenage temper tantrums and burgeoning mutant powers do not a pleasant mix make. Nor a healthy one for people around me, either.
I used to lock myself in my room so that I couldn't hurt anybody. I don't mind admitting that I was scared. Well, wouldn't you be? I'd never heard of X-genes at that point. I thought I was just some horrible freak. I can remember my Auntie coming over with books on poltergeists to try and explain things. She was always very into the occult. But even she ran up against a brick wall with me.
And people wonder why I was so weird when my power surged a few months ago? Why I didn't want to talk about it? It was like reliving that time all over again.
I remember once getting angry with a boy at school, and a brick wall fell on him. I forget what the reason was now, but I can still recall the strange burning sensation in the pit of my brain just before it hit him There was nothing wrong with it, no cracks or bad foundations. It just sort of.... crumbled. The top bricks came first, flying off and smashing against the floor. Then the rest leaned to the side, like it was drunk, and came down all in one big lump. And he was underneath it. He didn't get out of hospital for almost a month, and for a while it was touch and go whether he'd make it or not.
People avoided me after that. They didn't say anything, but I got so many cold shoulders I was practically living in the Arctic. I didn't care, though. To tell the truth, I didn't want their company any more. People who got close to me could get hurt. I was dangerous.
I'd almost killed a person.
They all knew, somehow, that it had been my fault. They couldn't explain it and they didn't talk about it, but they knew. And I knew that they knew.
He could've died because of me.
Death.
Such a small word. It seems kind of silly that such a momentous thing should be contained inside such a small word. I mean, it's so *tiny*. When you see it written down you don't think about what else it entails. You don't think about the pain it causes. The families and friends left behind. You don't consider the coffin that's going to follow, or the tears and grief and suffering and loss.
I did.
After all, I'd almost caused it.
I still think about it. Every time I use my powers, in fact. I'm conscious that something could go wrong. One tiny slip and somebody else could be under a pile of bricks. One of my teammates this time. One of the people I'm supposed to be protecting. Even the Brotherhood. When we're fighting them, we're two different teams. Two different sides. But if I slip up, it's one of our schoolmates dead on the ground. Someone we know. Someone *I* know. I don't like them, but I don't want them dead.
I guess that's why I don't like using my powers unless I have to. I don't just 'port around instead of walking like Kurt, and I don't use spikes to make skateboard ramps like Evan.
Wait, that came out sounding all wrong.
I... ugh.
What I mean is, it's too easy for me to hurt somebody. In a fight it's different. I *have* to use my powers then, but I don't like it. It's a necessity, not a pleasure.
Sometimes I'll slip. Everybody does. It's just that the consequences are potentially worse when I do it. I'll use them for something small, like slamming that door in Evan's face when he was videotaping me in my nightdress. Hey, I was angry. I still felt guilty about it afterwards. What if I'd pushed him too hard? I know he hit that wall. I heard him. 'Thunk', like wet meat on a slab. My uncle used to be a butcher, and have his own little shop, so I know what it sounds like. I also know that it's very easy to break someone's neck if they chance to hit at the wrong angle. I had to look out afterwards, and I was so relieved when I saw him walking away down the hall.
People don't realise what it's like to have powers like these. I don't always know how much force I'm putting behind something. It's not like using a muscle. When you're holding a drink can and crushing it in your fist you can feel when the metal starts to give. With telekinesis it's not like that. I don't have any skin or nerve endings to tell me when to stop. I can't gauge whether I'm doing too much or too little.
If I picked somebody up with my powers, I could easily rupture their lungs by squeezing them too hard. If I push back an attack from an enemy with my mind, I could break their spine without even realising I'd done it.
It's scary, having that much power. A huge responsibility.
I'm only 18. Why do I have that much to worry about? I should just be concerned with school and going to parties and stuff. Teenage things like acne and getting my homework done. Normal things.
God, I want to be normal.
Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you? Jean Grey not liking her powers? But they're so cool. *Everybody* wants to be Jean Grey. Everybody wants her perfect life.
Everybody can have it.
Back to what I started off by saying, then. Old refrain. Bor-ing.
The Professor helps where he can. The world's best counsellor, Scott once called him, and I suppose he's right. He is, after all, and empath amongst other things. But.... ach, nothing's coming out right today! It's a lot more difficult to put this stuff into words than you might imagine.
OK, let's try to get some kind of order here, shall we?
Professor Xavier recruited me relatively easily. I was so frightened by my powers when the first, vastly different incarnation of Cerebro picked up on me that I was willing to do practically anything if he could help make the things I was doing stop.
And he did.
Pretty simple job. I was the first student at the Institute, and therefore, for a while, the only one. Most people seem to think that Scott was the first, but the Professor busted him out of social services a couple of months after I got there. As a result, I got all the benefits on my own. Xavier could concentrate on helping me, and I learned quickly. I wanted to be normal again. It was a blow when I learned that this wasn't something that could be cured. Being a mutant was a permanent deal. I had to live with it.
So I did.
There was an initial bit of denial. I didn't want to believe I couldn't be normal again, so I just blotted out the thought. But it didn't leave me alone, and eventually I just had to accept the fact that this was my life. This was what I got.
I. Me. Mine.
So I built a new kind of normal for myself. One that didn't involve mutant powers, or being part of a team. I threw myself into school, working as hard as I could and practically bullying people in clubs and societies to accept me into their ranks. I wasn't content unless I got their approval, their respect, and I worked my butt off day and night trying to fit in.
Bayville High didn't know what had hit it. Soon the trophy cabinets were starting to fill with things I'd won, bits and pieces I'd earned. Medals, statuettes, gold figurines. I blew threw things, becoming captain, champ, the winner. My teachers were amazed at my grades, and I basked in it all. I fitted in there. The in-crowd wanted me; other people wanted to be me.
When Scott arrived I tried to bring him into the world I'd created, but you could tell from the first that he wasn't interested. I still try today, and I think he's warming to the idea a little more, but I get the distinct feeling nowadays it's too little too late. He's already been deemed an outsider. A social outcast. All those from the Institute have to a point. They hang around together, friends and housemates.
But not me. I always valued my status too much. I turned my back on them when they asked me to eat lunch with them, choosing instead to sit at the popular table, and have Duncan squeeze the air out of me for the duration. I'd laugh and talk with the people sitting there, not once looking across at where the others were. The people I lived with. Mutants like me.
I have no code-name, because that would've meant conceding to what I am. To what I'm a part of. Xavier tried to get me to choose one when I first arrived, but I wasn't having any of it. I was Jean Grey, and that was that. The others could say what they wanted about keeping identities secret out in the field, but what was the point?
I just wanted to be normal. Being with them jeopardised that.
So I shut them out. I returned their waves and smiled at them, but it was always the smile popular girls gave to those the rung beneath them on the social ladder. To all appearances, they were people I lived with and occasionally did favours for. They weren't my friends.
Except Scott. I really tried with Scott. Perhaps because for such a long time it was just him and me at the Institute. But I didn't give up my little world. Not even for him. Nothing could make me let go of it. Nothing. It was too precious for that.
It's taken me until now to realise what an idiot I was.
You see, everything I have, everything I spent so much time building up and polishing. It's all false. All of it. None of it's real. Not really. Just a façade I put up to make myself feel normal again.
Normal.
I can't have it all ways, I know, but... now you're going to want to laugh, but please try not to. It's... this is difficult to say.
I'm lonely.
You've all heard the phrase, 'it's lonely at the top', right? Well, it's kind of like that. I only just realised it, sitting here, Duncan's arm around me and his breath hot on my cheek. He's talking, but I can't really hear him. Did I ever really listen? Or was I too concerned with the image he and I would create to bother thinking about who he really was. Is. Whatever.
I can see the other guys from the mansion, laughing together. Like a family. Kurt has a french-fry up his nose, and Kitty's pulling a face. Nobody in the in-crowd would *ever* dream of pulling a stunt like that. It's just... not done.
I can see Evan chatting to Rogue about something, and she's smiling. She doesn't do that very often. Maybe that's why she doesn't have many friends. They're nudging Scott, bringing him into their conversation, while Amara and Jubilee squabble about something beside them. I can see Sam and Rahne, Bobby and Roberto. Ray is standing up and waving to someone across the room, while Jamie sits eating his lunch with a smile on his face from whatever prank he's pulled this time. Ray sits down, and the yoghurt on his seat goes everywhere.
They're all laughing.
Laughing without me.
And something clicks into place in my mind.
This is all a sham.
I tried so hard to get where I am now, but after everything I don't want it. I don't want the adoring and jealous glances. I don't want to be hugged by someone who's only interested because of what I represent to his street cred. I want to be me.
I want to be me.
Me.
But who am I?
It's like I'm two separate people. The Jean Grey people at school know, with her lacquered over looks and all around perfection, and the Jean Grey inside. The one I beat down for so many years. The one I spent so much time pretending wasn't real.
Hello Jean Grey.
Hello Jean Grey.
Hello Miss Popular.
Hello... who? What defines the other me? Bits of Miss Popular have bled into my home-life, embedding themselves there so that I can't make out the differences between the two. I'm second in command, which is close to the top. I'm always at the top, smiling down on those below me.
Which one is real?
Or are they both?
I hate her, but she *is* me. It's too late for me to turn back. She's got her claws in me. Deep in me.
I'm popular.
I'm not.
I'm loved by those around me, but the people I live with barely know who I am. I'm the one who recruited them, made them feel at ease and at home.
Is that all I am really? Just the figure in the background? Part of the scenery? Did I spend so much time on the false Jean that I don't know who the real one is?
What's real?
What's normal?
Do I want to be normal?
Do I hate it?
My name is Jean Grey.
That's who I am.
Not a very difficult concept, is it? I. Me. Mine.
Me.
I.
But who am I?
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FINIS.
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