I picked at the meat, that was set before me, swirling it on my fork, and
smearing the sauce as my meat passed over the porcelain. Even this
lifeless attempt at art was by far much more interesting then whatever Jean
was talking about.
"A good student should always be" blah blah blah. I swear if she didn't have her daily public adoration she would wither up and turn to dust. Not too bad of a picture, as I felt my lips curling up in the vague form of a smile. I decided that whatever the meat was that Logan cooked for us was, deserved to be in my stomach and not on the floor, so I left.
I almost made it out of the room too, but Scott, ever the helper, blocked my escape root. " Oh Rogue, remember that you have nightly chore duties." Why can he ever just say what is necessary. No he has to make it sound all professional and leader like. Just say I have to wash dishes, that's it. Very simple really, Rogue, you have to wash dishes. Six little words.
But of course not, we are talking about Jean's male ultra ego here.
I of course kept this to myself and muttered something along the lines of whatever. I have been spending too much time in Kitty's presence.
It isn't as if I hate doing the dishes, or exactly love them either. Moving my hands in water free of burdens of cloth or gloves was something I always looked forward too. It was a time where I can completely be a normal teenager. This was the time I can remember what it was like being normal back in Mississippi with Irene (?) before I was the untouchable, before I was a mutant, before I had to cover up for the plain and simple fact that I can kill with a touch.
I know I can.
Kill with a touch…
Its not that shocking, I literally suck the other person of there very being, drawing into myself the very essence of what a person needs, a person requires to live, to breathe to be themselves.
I know how far I need to go; I see the line before me every time I am touched. It's sort of a big bright event horizon that looms always closer with every second that passes. It brings with it a perverted thrill that I cannot explain, a thrill that I can cheat at the very rules that make this god forsaken place, a thrill that always is stopped when I break the contact.
Once the thrill leaves, I'm bombarded with everything. Not the simple "life passing before my eyes", nothing is ever as orderly and neat. It's all a complete jumble, forcing that millisecond of joy into one of complete and utter agony. Thought smells, past actions, past regrets. Memories of tears and fears, of ended love, happy childhood memories, and the pain of the first rejection, mothers and annoying 4th grade teachers, nostalgic sights and fanciful dreams, stuff that liters the un-conscience is dumped onto my unwilling brain, and the sub-conscience keeps its endless stuffing of no nonsense crap that pertains to the art of what happened in a bathroom yesterday. My self is forced to the tiniest portion of my mind and the foreign perpetrator reigns supreme.
And that is when the real terror begins.
The battle of keeping my own life above the tragic/happy existence of the intruder. My own thoughts and my own actions balanced unequally in the matter of the most important. While the basic natures of the foreign one is breaking loose of my fragile constraints only to plaster my very soul with the uneraseble smudge.
But back to washing of dishes
The tedious chore of washing the cups, and the plates, and the forks, and the spoons, and all other materials needed in the dinner routine. I try to keep them in nice orderly piles and just grab at random the materials I plan on scrubbing.
The part that I don't love about the dishes, is the mess people leave. Something that tends to give little hints to the owners. For example, Kurt's plate is licked dry, no smear of sauce left or anything. But its still gross, or the tell tale sign of Jubilee. She has to put ketchup on anything, a sort of guilty pleasure, and there by leaves large quantities left over on her plate.
I look over my shoulder at the gathering of my teammates, score yet another point for the bad part of washing dishes.
Its not like I want to join as they laugh and tease amongst each other, talking about some danger room session or a Kurt joke that every one has heard before, but yet still laughs at, its just…
I know its silly, but I can see myself as Cinderella, doing the dirty work as the evil stepsisters/brothers are out painting the town red. Getting close to one another, and just acting like a normal teenager, goofing off, sharing their brilliant incites on why the world works, normally ending with the profound statement by Bobby in the form of a giant belch.
Ironic isn't it, I cannot have a life do to the fact of my abilities, and yet my abilities is what gives me the chance of seeing what I'm missing out in, or just teases me off what I cannot have. Maybe not ironic, but definitely cruel.
"Hey Rogue, now that your done with the dishes you want to go outside and shoot some hoops with us?"
"Nah, Ah need to go study for my exams"
"A good student should always be" blah blah blah. I swear if she didn't have her daily public adoration she would wither up and turn to dust. Not too bad of a picture, as I felt my lips curling up in the vague form of a smile. I decided that whatever the meat was that Logan cooked for us was, deserved to be in my stomach and not on the floor, so I left.
I almost made it out of the room too, but Scott, ever the helper, blocked my escape root. " Oh Rogue, remember that you have nightly chore duties." Why can he ever just say what is necessary. No he has to make it sound all professional and leader like. Just say I have to wash dishes, that's it. Very simple really, Rogue, you have to wash dishes. Six little words.
But of course not, we are talking about Jean's male ultra ego here.
I of course kept this to myself and muttered something along the lines of whatever. I have been spending too much time in Kitty's presence.
It isn't as if I hate doing the dishes, or exactly love them either. Moving my hands in water free of burdens of cloth or gloves was something I always looked forward too. It was a time where I can completely be a normal teenager. This was the time I can remember what it was like being normal back in Mississippi with Irene (?) before I was the untouchable, before I was a mutant, before I had to cover up for the plain and simple fact that I can kill with a touch.
I know I can.
Kill with a touch…
Its not that shocking, I literally suck the other person of there very being, drawing into myself the very essence of what a person needs, a person requires to live, to breathe to be themselves.
I know how far I need to go; I see the line before me every time I am touched. It's sort of a big bright event horizon that looms always closer with every second that passes. It brings with it a perverted thrill that I cannot explain, a thrill that I can cheat at the very rules that make this god forsaken place, a thrill that always is stopped when I break the contact.
Once the thrill leaves, I'm bombarded with everything. Not the simple "life passing before my eyes", nothing is ever as orderly and neat. It's all a complete jumble, forcing that millisecond of joy into one of complete and utter agony. Thought smells, past actions, past regrets. Memories of tears and fears, of ended love, happy childhood memories, and the pain of the first rejection, mothers and annoying 4th grade teachers, nostalgic sights and fanciful dreams, stuff that liters the un-conscience is dumped onto my unwilling brain, and the sub-conscience keeps its endless stuffing of no nonsense crap that pertains to the art of what happened in a bathroom yesterday. My self is forced to the tiniest portion of my mind and the foreign perpetrator reigns supreme.
And that is when the real terror begins.
The battle of keeping my own life above the tragic/happy existence of the intruder. My own thoughts and my own actions balanced unequally in the matter of the most important. While the basic natures of the foreign one is breaking loose of my fragile constraints only to plaster my very soul with the uneraseble smudge.
But back to washing of dishes
The tedious chore of washing the cups, and the plates, and the forks, and the spoons, and all other materials needed in the dinner routine. I try to keep them in nice orderly piles and just grab at random the materials I plan on scrubbing.
The part that I don't love about the dishes, is the mess people leave. Something that tends to give little hints to the owners. For example, Kurt's plate is licked dry, no smear of sauce left or anything. But its still gross, or the tell tale sign of Jubilee. She has to put ketchup on anything, a sort of guilty pleasure, and there by leaves large quantities left over on her plate.
I look over my shoulder at the gathering of my teammates, score yet another point for the bad part of washing dishes.
Its not like I want to join as they laugh and tease amongst each other, talking about some danger room session or a Kurt joke that every one has heard before, but yet still laughs at, its just…
I know its silly, but I can see myself as Cinderella, doing the dirty work as the evil stepsisters/brothers are out painting the town red. Getting close to one another, and just acting like a normal teenager, goofing off, sharing their brilliant incites on why the world works, normally ending with the profound statement by Bobby in the form of a giant belch.
Ironic isn't it, I cannot have a life do to the fact of my abilities, and yet my abilities is what gives me the chance of seeing what I'm missing out in, or just teases me off what I cannot have. Maybe not ironic, but definitely cruel.
"Hey Rogue, now that your done with the dishes you want to go outside and shoot some hoops with us?"
"Nah, Ah need to go study for my exams"