A metallic, raspy hum - like the devil whispering - sighs softly in my ear. An impatient ticking accompanies it, also. My eye cracks open, the banal beige decor and walls (lined with a khaki green) greeting me. I had known this room for a very small amount of time, but it is already beginning to feel confining.
It traps me, and I feel desperate to escape the room that has borne witness to my anxious and worrisome hand-wringing to peeking repeatedly out the window for a threat that never comes.
Am I in my own personal hell?
No.
I'm in El Paso.
I hastily ready myself, realising half the afternoon has been lost to catching up on sleep. Squinting in the sudden harsh light, I slam the motel door closed and cling to the small bag of possessions that remain with me.
The ranch-themed bar across the street calls my name, and I scurry inside to avoid the sun's accusing and all-knowing gaze.
Exchanging crumpled, disfigured notes I accept in return a tall glass of beer. It feels good in my hand, even as the condensation trails over my fingers. My faithful Nokia buzzes, and fishing it out I see a message on its screen.
'Nearly there.'
My stomach drops, and it's replaced with a fast-thundering drum as anxiety bends my brain. Nearly there. What's the definition of nearly there? It varies from person to person. It could be twenty minutes; it could be ten. Maybe even five.
I slip from the peeling barstool, relocating to a dust-coated window overlooking the street and motel. I wait. So far, nothing but heat and tumbleweed. My knee jiggles nervously and I know it's bothering the silent customers around me - I can tell from the pointed coughs and shifting in chairs. Some even glare.
I don't care. My fears overcome me, and my knee has taken a new, neurotic life of its own.
A family of four exit the room next to mine - 755 - and the deep lines adorning the parents' faces painting a portrait; a life of worry, frowning over unachievable bills and late-night pacing. The well-fed frames of their son and daughter contrast with the parents' overly defined and thin shapes adds sacrificed meals to their hardships.
Shifty looks and tense body language slots the final piece into place in my idle profile. Immigrants. Illegal.
I see them so clearly now, so clearly in fact I almost think I should invite them for a drink; like old friends that stumbled upon one another accidentally while both do equally shady business deals.
Imagination ceases as my train of thought is interrupted by a chair being dragged along the scuffed floorboards, a heavy bottomed glass firmly placed down on the table in musical unison.
The chair and glass's owner are the cause of my discomfort. I hadn't seen him in almost ten years, and I had long dreaded the encounter. But we have no choice now - there's too little of us left to cherry pick our allies. My new companion has not aged well. Deep crow's feet and scars surrounds his hazel eyes. Dark drooping eye bags don't help his haggard appearance as they provide more information than he wants; too much booze! Let me sleep!
But no. He can't sleep.
"Logan."
This name, this declaration, seems wrong. It's wrong and we both know it - the brief flush of embarrassment staining my face pink tells him, and his eyes flicker to the table. Logan is the name of another man, someone we knew a long time ago. This Logan - the alien - releases a long and tired sigh.
"Lana."
"It's been a long time." I note slowly, fingertips brushing the rim of my glass as we sit together - the family in their destructive pinto disappearing out of my world and mind.
"I thought you wanted it that way," Logan points out, leaning back in his chair. His peppered beard (with more grey than black, now) straggly and hides his age. The wear and tear hidden underneath the facial hair, but the mental exhaustion in his eyes is too hard to masquerade. I've seen it in my own. "Or am I wrong?"
I pause. He's not wrong, and I'm ashamed of myself until a strong surge of defensiveness looms. I had to protect myself; I would've died like the rest.
"No. You're not wrong, not at all. But I had to protect myself. You fuckin well know that. If it wasn't X's off the wall brain melting mine you know, you know," I hiss, leaning close to avoid being overheard. His eyes bore into my face. "You know they kill us. They kill our kind an-and harvest us to make themselves superior."
"Ubermensch, I thought your old man hated that kinda stuff?" Logan asks dryly, raising a bushy and scarred eyebrow as I feel my face contort into a nasty scowl. "Or was it the people who adopted it?"
"Shut up."
My snapping silences him. A trembling hand lifts the glass to his lips, and for a moment I worry he's going to spill his drink. He doesn't. He's adapted to his body's tremors now.
"What do you want, Logan?" I ask the question that has been burning my tongue. His sudden reappearance, the sudden desperation to find me had been curious immediately - but I still didn't know.
"He's dying. Xavier. His brain, you said so...it kills people. Fuck, Lana...you remember. The day it happened. When he killed - them." Logan says softly, his eyes growing dark and my face softens. I want to hold his hand, like we did a lifetime ago, but I realise now he'd sooner slap me away.
"I was there, and I said to you; get the helmet. The helmet, Logan, that's our chance."
"We don't have that option anymore. Instead, I need you, Lana. Please. Just...fucking help me goddammit," Logan pleads. I can tell from how his face grimaces, I really am the final option. He really has no other choice. Guilt contorts my stomach. I'm not who I used to be. "I couldn't find him. I couldn't find Erik and he has the helmet."
"How have you been controlling them?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Drugs, mostly," Logan reveals to me. "But I can't keep getting shit under the counter. We need what you can do."
"What I used to do,"
"No, what you do."
I release a breath, and as we head into the sun, I realise I'm kissing goodbye my final seconds of freedom; freedom to be selfish, and to mind myself alone.
I'm relinquishing my own safety.