Disclaimer: Rogue and Remy are not my characters, Baskin Robbins is Baskin
Robbins, yada yada yada. You get the gist of it. The writing is mine.
Remy's like a gallon of Baskin Robbins Chocolate Mint Chip. Or a quart, whatever. I don't pay attention to that stuff.
What I mean is, you always want more. You get all depressed when you hit the bottom of that dinky plastic-coated paper stuff with your spoon. Or you put it away because someone else comes in and you don't want to share, then you feel guilty that you're being greedy. But mainly, it's that you have to finally put the lid on when you're only halfway done because you don't want to weigh five hundred pounds when you wake up tomorrow.
Believe me, guilt weighs more than five hundred pounds. But that was just a metaphor or a simile or whatever. You know what I mean.
I don't think he ever really forgave me for leaving him in Antarctica. But Remy, he files away all his hurts and doesn't ever like to talk about things. He kinda dances around the edges, touches on it but backs off when I try to help him with it. I hate it when he does that. Mystique always told me to face your fear and get over it.
Then again, look at me. I've been hiding from my fears all my life. Running. Ran from Caldecott, ran from Mystique, ran (or rather, flew) away from the man I loved. Was I afraid when I left him? Yes. And for the first time I actually faced my fear, only to realize that my will wasn't anywhere near as strong as that gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had to forgive him. I hope he forgives me.
Not that it helps that he even offered to tell me before that. But he knew that I wouldn't touch him , back in Seattle, so that doesn't count.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever really forgave myself. Someone once told me "People will only forgive you after you forgive your own sins". That's bull. I've been forgiven for countless things that I still wake up crying with guilt for. Sometimes, though, I actually want them to hold a grudge. Then I wouldn't feel like they all think I'm a kid, that I'm not responsible. Before I'm responsible for anything, I have to be responsible for myself.
Then I have to be responsible for Remy.
Someone else once told me "you always hurt most the thing that you love". I hope it was true. But I don't want it to be true anymore. God knows Remy's had enough hurting in those twenty-seven miserable years he calls a life. Problem is, a lot of that hurting can't be blamed on love. Only my actions can be, and that's a bit questionable too.
What's worse, we can never get close enough to show it anyway but verbally, and then he goes around skirting the edges of the topic again, still dancing. I wish he'd just make a point. But he never does.
I guess, if we were normal, we could have sealed it with a kiss. We can still kiss, but I'd kill him because I'd never ever let go. So I can't kiss him. He can't make things better with a good hug or holding hands or anything that shows, to the world, that we care about each other. Nothing but pretty words. That's all our relationship is. Empty promises, broken vows, and pretty words.
I've said some of those promises, and broken them too. We both swore that "what was aint gon' hurt us". And look who turned back on her word the instant the chance arose, to divert attention from her own sercrets. Is that why I did it?
Someday, if I live long enough, I'm either gonna laugh or cry at these pretty words. I'll look back and wonder what would've happened if I'd never left him, if he'd never come back, if these vile thoughts had never entered my head. I'm not sure, but I think I love him. Even if it is only a relationship of pretty words.
Remy's like a gallon of Baskin Robbins Chocolate Mint Chip. Or a quart, whatever. I don't pay attention to that stuff.
What I mean is, you always want more. You get all depressed when you hit the bottom of that dinky plastic-coated paper stuff with your spoon. Or you put it away because someone else comes in and you don't want to share, then you feel guilty that you're being greedy. But mainly, it's that you have to finally put the lid on when you're only halfway done because you don't want to weigh five hundred pounds when you wake up tomorrow.
Believe me, guilt weighs more than five hundred pounds. But that was just a metaphor or a simile or whatever. You know what I mean.
I don't think he ever really forgave me for leaving him in Antarctica. But Remy, he files away all his hurts and doesn't ever like to talk about things. He kinda dances around the edges, touches on it but backs off when I try to help him with it. I hate it when he does that. Mystique always told me to face your fear and get over it.
Then again, look at me. I've been hiding from my fears all my life. Running. Ran from Caldecott, ran from Mystique, ran (or rather, flew) away from the man I loved. Was I afraid when I left him? Yes. And for the first time I actually faced my fear, only to realize that my will wasn't anywhere near as strong as that gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach. I had to forgive him. I hope he forgives me.
Not that it helps that he even offered to tell me before that. But he knew that I wouldn't touch him , back in Seattle, so that doesn't count.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever really forgave myself. Someone once told me "People will only forgive you after you forgive your own sins". That's bull. I've been forgiven for countless things that I still wake up crying with guilt for. Sometimes, though, I actually want them to hold a grudge. Then I wouldn't feel like they all think I'm a kid, that I'm not responsible. Before I'm responsible for anything, I have to be responsible for myself.
Then I have to be responsible for Remy.
Someone else once told me "you always hurt most the thing that you love". I hope it was true. But I don't want it to be true anymore. God knows Remy's had enough hurting in those twenty-seven miserable years he calls a life. Problem is, a lot of that hurting can't be blamed on love. Only my actions can be, and that's a bit questionable too.
What's worse, we can never get close enough to show it anyway but verbally, and then he goes around skirting the edges of the topic again, still dancing. I wish he'd just make a point. But he never does.
I guess, if we were normal, we could have sealed it with a kiss. We can still kiss, but I'd kill him because I'd never ever let go. So I can't kiss him. He can't make things better with a good hug or holding hands or anything that shows, to the world, that we care about each other. Nothing but pretty words. That's all our relationship is. Empty promises, broken vows, and pretty words.
I've said some of those promises, and broken them too. We both swore that "what was aint gon' hurt us". And look who turned back on her word the instant the chance arose, to divert attention from her own sercrets. Is that why I did it?
Someday, if I live long enough, I'm either gonna laugh or cry at these pretty words. I'll look back and wonder what would've happened if I'd never left him, if he'd never come back, if these vile thoughts had never entered my head. I'm not sure, but I think I love him. Even if it is only a relationship of pretty words.