Suffer the little children
by sugar.coated
*Ring a-round the roses*
Cerulean eyes, void of any emotion, looking straight ahead. White hair, hanging lifelessly around a pale face with to sharp features. Thin arms wrapped around equally thin legs, brittle body rocking back and forth.
*A pocket full of posies*
Fingers slowly tracing old scars, new scars, fresh cuts. So many of them. He'd been here too long. Why weren't they coming for him?
*Ashes!*
Trying to remember them, desperately clinging to tiny suggestions of memories to keep from going insane.
*Ashes!*
Maybe this was all a dream. In a short while there would be banging on his bedroom door and someone would come in and wake him up, comfort him, tell him that no mutant hunter had captured him, he was safe at home and now he should get his lazy butt out of bed and go to school.
*We all fall down!*
Maybe everything was a dream. Maybe there were no such things as mutants, no places like this, no national experiments going on. Maybe this was all the result of a human teenager's too vivid imagination and too many science fiction movies.
*We all fall down*
He laughed, a short insane sound, then sobbed. Maybe this was what was real. Had been all along. Maybe the life he thought was real, something outside this sterile white prison, the things that kept him sane, was a dream. The fragments he remembered were just a fantasy. Maybe there was no point in trying to survive, because there would be no one to save him, nothing to escape to, no life outside these walls, no matter how much he wanted it to be.
*We all fall*
He sobbed again, laughed, and kept rocking.
The end.
AN: I woke up 5:30 this morning with this in my head, and it just wouldn't go away. I thought it turned out okay, so here it is. Please review, seeing how this is my first fic here and all. It only takes a second or two. Just remember that I wrote this more asleep than not, and English isn't my everyday language.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything X-men. I got the title from a short story by Stephen King, and the nursery rhyme belongs to . . . whoever. I do own this story.
by sugar.coated
*Ring a-round the roses*
Cerulean eyes, void of any emotion, looking straight ahead. White hair, hanging lifelessly around a pale face with to sharp features. Thin arms wrapped around equally thin legs, brittle body rocking back and forth.
*A pocket full of posies*
Fingers slowly tracing old scars, new scars, fresh cuts. So many of them. He'd been here too long. Why weren't they coming for him?
*Ashes!*
Trying to remember them, desperately clinging to tiny suggestions of memories to keep from going insane.
*Ashes!*
Maybe this was all a dream. In a short while there would be banging on his bedroom door and someone would come in and wake him up, comfort him, tell him that no mutant hunter had captured him, he was safe at home and now he should get his lazy butt out of bed and go to school.
*We all fall down!*
Maybe everything was a dream. Maybe there were no such things as mutants, no places like this, no national experiments going on. Maybe this was all the result of a human teenager's too vivid imagination and too many science fiction movies.
*We all fall down*
He laughed, a short insane sound, then sobbed. Maybe this was what was real. Had been all along. Maybe the life he thought was real, something outside this sterile white prison, the things that kept him sane, was a dream. The fragments he remembered were just a fantasy. Maybe there was no point in trying to survive, because there would be no one to save him, nothing to escape to, no life outside these walls, no matter how much he wanted it to be.
*We all fall*
He sobbed again, laughed, and kept rocking.
The end.
AN: I woke up 5:30 this morning with this in my head, and it just wouldn't go away. I thought it turned out okay, so here it is. Please review, seeing how this is my first fic here and all. It only takes a second or two. Just remember that I wrote this more asleep than not, and English isn't my everyday language.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything X-men. I got the title from a short story by Stephen King, and the nursery rhyme belongs to . . . whoever. I do own this story.