Title: Flower Power

Author: The Xylia

Genre: Action/Adventure/Drama

Rating: PG for mild action/violence and overall dark mood of piece (though probably no worse than X2)

Description: The story of a mutant who is anti-mutant herself, told from her POV and her best friend's.

Universe/time: Set two weeks after X2 in the movie universe

Spoilers: From X-Men 1, X2, and a bit from the comics (but nothing big there)

Disclaimer: The idea of X-Men and mutants all belong to Marvel comics, the creators of the X-Men comics, the people that made the movies, and anyone else officially involved with X-Men. I am not making any money from this. However, this story-line, Kelly, Sam, their families, and their friends from their school are mine; please don't use/steal them or main details or ideas from this story.

Other author's notes: As said above, please don't steal anything from this. I'm trying very hard to make everything about this completely original (particularly Kelly's powers); please help me keep it that way by not copying.

Telepathy is in italics.

I would appreciate correction of any wrong details.

Dear diary – wait, am I allowed to start that way if I'm not actually writing this down? I'd like to – write it down, I mean – but what if that little terror that calls herself my sister gets a hold of my diary? Just yesterday she ransacked my room looking for lipstick. It literally took me hours – ow! Bad train of thought. Um…This gorgeous finch sat on the tree outside my window for a whole hour yesterday, practically posing for me while I sketched him. Anyway, I don't want anyone to read this, not even my best friend Sam (short for Samantha), so I'm just going to pretend I'm writing this down.

Today Mom dragged me to a psychologist. She said I've been acting withdrawn lately. The psychologist actually tried to make me explode – and he's supposed to be good? I just barely held my temper. He told Mom that I have anger issues because I bottle up my anger. No kidding. He would too, if he was in my shoes! Oww. I'm going to color my sketch of the finch tomorrow after school.

I guess I should back up. When I get angry – or frustrated, or any other negative emotion – it actually hurts me. As in, physically. See, my flower close up. The do anyways at night, and they open back up in the morning (if they didn't close, I'd probably bruise or even squish them while I slept, which would be painful), but they don't like closing because of my emotions. When they do, it hurts, the tighter they close the more so. Should I back up further? This is sort of stupid, really, since I already know this, but…

I'm a mutant. At least, I suppose I am. I can't imagine what else I could be. I mean, I have green hair with flowers literally growing in it! Luckily, my hair, at least, absorbs dye, even if the flowers don't. When my hair first turned green and the flowers first came in, my parents were furious. They thought I'd dyed my hair like I'd been bugging them about. But who in their right mind would want to dye their hair forest green? Definitely not me.

That morning, a month ago, I woke up as usual and was going to go downstairs, also as usual, but I felt little hard things in my hair. I tried to brush them out, with no luck. Instead, I could feel them start to expand, almost like flowers blooming. In fact, that's what it felt like. I would have thought my sister had superglued plastic flowers or something to my hair, and managed to make them inflate or something, but I could actually feel the flowers. Not as in I could feel them pressed against my scalp, but I could actually feel them! When I touched the petal of one, I could feel my finger pressing against that petal. And when I pulled that petal off, trying to get it out of my hair, I almost screamed. Imagine pulling a toe off; that's what it felt like. (Not that I've ever pulled a toe off, but that must be a pretty good comparison.) I could feel something cool and sticky in my fingers and ran to the bathroom, tears of pain streaming down my face. The rest of the flowers were hurting, too, not just the one that the petal had been attached to.

Looking in the bathroom mirror, I saw that I was actually bleeding from where the petal had been connected. But I was bleeding a milking white liquid, like the "juice" of some plants. I don't know what I was thinking, but I tasted it, and it was sweet.

Then I began to take in the rest of my appearance. I must have fainted. I remember – I don't think I've forgotten a single detail of that morning while I was in the bathroom – waking up on the bathroom floor with a little bump on my head. My head…I had, and still have, eleven flowers in hair that turned green and thick, each strand as thick as ten normal ones. Then my mom was yelling for me to get up. I had to idea what to do – would you? I could barely believe what was going on. The night before, my hair had been of normal thickness and black, devoid of any objects whatsoever.

After a bout of hysterics, I decided to act as normally as possible for now. It was sort of automatic, almost a mental shutdown. I was no longer panicking, but I couldn't cope with this thing, so I just did what came naturally. Like I said before, my parents were furious about my hair, but the idea that it was natural didn't even occur to them.

Most of the rest of the day is a blur. I remember Sam asking me if I was okay; she said I was acting weird. Practically all of the teachers thought I was acting spacey. (I used to be not quite, but almost, a model student. I still am to some extent, but school just isn't that important to me anymore.) But the only part I can really remember during school is, as I flared up at people (I was extremely sensitive right then), or whenever panic started to take over again, my flowers closed some and they hurt. Now I was getting worried. During lunch break I locked myself in a bathroom stall. I couldn't understand why they were hurting. The petal had actually grown back before I left home, and it wasn't just that flower, anyway. They had hurt like heck in my bathroom at home, but when I had sort of gone into denial I had just ignored it, like it would go away. They had been hurting just a little the whole day, but now it was increasing. I started to panic again, and they closed, hurting considerably more and turning brown, like they had at home. When I shoved down the panic, they opened some and hurt less, and the colors turned more vibrant and less brown. Testing, I thought of the exam I had aced yesterday. The flowers responded to this happy thought by opening further, and I actually felt euphoria bordering giddiness.

No joke. I still have eleven flowers, attached to "vines" that are actually my hair, which respond to my emotions. A positive emotion will cause them to open and send me the happiest feeling ever, but a negative emotion will make them close and hurt. Neutral emotions, such as puzzlement (just by itself, with no frustration), won't any effect. (Actually, when I'm confused they sway, almost like they're looking for sun or something, but that's an exception.)

I used to be a huge extrovert. I wasn't the greatest with anger management, but I didn't throw things or anything like that. I guess I'm pretty nice; can anyone really judge themselves like that? If you asked a random acquaintance of mine to describe me in one phrase, they'd probably say "party girl". It was true. Not the bad parties, (I'd be back by eight, and I don't drink or do drugs, or go anywhere where people do), but I did go to a lot of them. I still do, but I don't enjoy them. It's almost impossible to, since I have to keep my moods steady, and it's hard for me to constantly be happy. People notice the flowers when they're just sitting in my hair, apparently just clippings from a plant twisted into my hair. What would they think if they saw those flowers wilt before their eyes, or actually reopen? If a student saw that in my school, it would take a half-hour max for everyone to know I'm a mutant. Half of them would believe that I'm an alien, or here to kill everyone. Some would believe both. I'd be ostracized at the least. Even Sam would probably leave me, but I wouldn't blame her.

How do most mutants feel about themselves? From the stuff on TV, you'd think they're proud of their mutation or something. But that can't possibly be true. Who could be proud of not being human? Sure, some mutants look human, but they're not. None of them…us…are.

I've tried four times to turn myself in. Four! Every single time, I chickened out. I'd reach for the phone, but I can't press the numbers. Self-preservation can override and conscious decisions, I guess. But now I have to deal with the guilt on top of everything else. Because I know what mutants are: Inferior, freaks of nature, and dangerous monsters. Think about that last one. What if my…powers (gosh, that's such a positive word for something so horrible) increase, and I turn into a monster and…what if I kill? What if I already am a monster, but I don't even realize it yet? By not reporting myself, am I betraying the race I once thought of as mine?

I've been asking myself these questions for twenty-seven days now, and I still don't know the answers. I just know I can't do this for much longer. I don't know what I am going to do, but I can't keep deceiving my friends and family; I can't keep hiding my powers. I've dyed my hair back to black, but what if I lost control of my emotions? It's not just my hair flowers that mirror my emotions. Any flower, any plant, does. My hair flowers are more sensitive than other flowers, and any flower is more sensitive than general leaves or vines. (Anything covered with bark doesn't seem to be effected.) It makes hiding my power ten times harder. If my hair was the only thing, maybe I could just wear a hat and have it completely cover my hair, though my friends would think it weird. But what happens to plants around me is extremely noticeable. I can't seem to kill flowers or plants – but I wonder, if I died, would I take some flowers with me? – but I can definitely make them wilt, so they look dead, and bloom.

I first discovered that when I came home from school, the same day my hair changed, July 9th. I was sitting in my mom's garden, staring into the woods. I don't have a garden myself. I guess it's sort of ironic, really. The power to make plants bloom and grow (assuming I'm in a good mood, anyway), but I barely care about them at all. In my book, trees and plants serve as homes to animals, nothing more.

Anyway, I was hoping to see a deer, or even just a woodpecker, when a sudden breeze blew my hair, not yet dyed black, into my face. Seeing the flowers attached to it shattered my shield of denial, and the full memory of the day's occurrences hit me. I began to sob. I couldn't stop, even when my flowers hurt so badly they were probably partly accountable for my tears. But I did finally stop, in shock; every single plant within ten feet of me, with the exception of the tree branches (their leaves and needles were effected, though) was drooping and brown. Even the moss – heck, even the algae covering the little pond! – looked dead. Once surprise partially replaced my fear and desperation, they started to look a bit more alive, but it wasn't until I had completely had my emotions under control that they recovered. No one's said anything, so I hope – desperately – that the whole thing went unnoticed.

A ten foot radius sounds large, doesn't it? It did to me, then. Not anymore. Now, anything within thirty feet of me registers my moods. And I thought it might become less as I gained control over my emotions. At this rate, in eleven months from now, anything within two-hundred and fifty feet of me will be effected in a year!

I have a little…ritual makes it sound like I enjoy it…procedure developed. Every morning, and whenever I go out, I look at the weather (to see how the plants will probably be looking without my influence) and think about what's been going on in my life lately and how I feel about the people I'm seeing. Then I decide what my mood will be for the day, or at least until I'm alone again, and could have an opportunity to change the flowers to less or more wilted ones, if I actually could pull them in and out. If I do a good job deciding, I won't noticeably change the plants I go near, and I'll be able to maintain my mood through the whole day, so my flowers, and other plants, don't change. So far I haven't had any incidents, but I almost wish I have. Then someone else would call the police, since I can't.

I think that's enough as far as backing up goes. As for right now – I'm sitting on my bed, all curled up. I wish I could go outside, but the further away I am from plants, the better. Most everyone has noticed the way my emotions have been so steady lately, but no one but my family or Sam has really thought anything of it. I think Sam's going to drive me crazy, though. She won't stop asking me if I'm okay, just because I didn't yell at Nickie (my sister) when she completely erased my computer disk, or something like that. It's nice to know she cares, but…I wish none of this had ever happened, I wish my hair was still naturally black, that the only flowers in it are the ones I put in…I guess I'm lucky those are my only distinguishing features, though. They say the mutant that tried to assassinate the president is completely blue. That would be horrible. No way to hide; everyone that looked at you would know…Oh, NO! I'm starting to sympathize with him…it. I can't do that. It's a good thing that it can be identified by sight. It'll be caught quicker. It would probably be a good thing if I could be identified by sight, but I can't bring myself to let my hair grow out green. I should, for the good of everyone, but I just can't.

A knock on my door interrupted my mental diary entry. Uncurling, I quickly grabbed a magazine, checked my hair with a portable mirror I've started carrying around, and called, "Come in".

My mom opened the door and entered, followed by Dad. I glanced at my clock, surprised that he was home already; time had really flown. I caught a glimpse of my sister, two years younger than me, trying to peek in. I had no doubt the twelve-year-old would be eavesdropping.

"Kelly, your mother and I would like to talk to you about what the psychologist said," my father began.

I forced a smile. "What about it?"

"We would like you to stop holding back your emotions," Mom answered. "You never did before; what's changed?"

This wasn't heading in a good direction. "Oh, I'm probably just maturing or something. Or it could be hormones," I added as an afterthought.

Dad shook his head. "This isn't maturing, honey. Mature people show emotions, they just don't let their emotions control them. There's a huge difference between having control and hiding them."

I shrugged, hoping to avoid having to answer any difficult questions. Mom sighed, looking at me with huge sad eyes. "We want our little Cow back," she whispered, causing me to blush. When I was six, my sister had accidentally called me "cow" instead of "Kel" (we were visiting a farm, and she was staring at the cows). Don't ask me why, but the name stuck for four years. When I turned ten, I insisted against it, and I haven't been called that since.

My parents went then, leaving me to my thoughts. For the umpteenth time, I wondered what they, as anti-mutant I as was – am! – would do if they knew the truth.