Blame the voices, they made me write it. Continuity is blissfully ignored. Characters and song are not mine. So there. Onwards......
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Memorial
Jeanne M.
And it's not always meant to be, and it's not always up to me.
Lisa Loeb "Wishing Heart"
Our story should, by all rights, begin on a dark and stormy night. There should be thunder and lightning and chaos to reflect the torment in our hero's heart. For in a proper story, the setting plays a vital, muted backdrop to the action and angst taking place. However, my friends, this is not a proper story. This is a story about reality. Not quite our reality, but close enough. And since we all know reality is relative, nothing is as it appears. Please keep that in mind.........
Have you ever noticed Them? You know the ones I mean, They're everywhere. It's hard to miss Them. One mind, one soul, one heart, two bodies that can't seem to get close enough. It's disgusting. I mean, affection is all well and good, but They just don't understand that some things are meant for the bedroom and not in public. And it makes me sick.
Hm? Jealous? Me? Nah.
Okay, maybe a tiny bit.
Maybe a lot.
It's just not fair, we never even got a chance, ya know? I mean, I liked the guy. I didn't love him like They mean the word, but no one can deny there was a little bit of chemistry. And trust me, I know my chemistry. With my powers, I can't afford not to. Just kidding. When you've been with an X-team as long as I have, you know chemistry the moment it comes strolling into the room and says, "Hullo X-dorks, long time, no triangles." Okay, that was bad. But true. After years of being in the mutant biz, you get pretty used to the angst and such. Kinda scary if ya think about it.
But I'm not thinking about it. Because it's not fair. I refuse to kid myself, we never even had a chance. He was so hung up on her it wasn't even funny. I heard him, at night. Always been a light sleeper, call it a survival trait. But at night, I could hear him talking in his sleep. Which is a rather dangerous habit, what if someone other than one of us overheard him sometime? Like if he had fallen asleep in the subway station waiting for a train? It could be nasty all around.
But I don't need to worry about that anymore. He's sleeping so peacefully now.
He loved her. Despite what anyone says about either of them, I know what I know. She's never been my favorite person, true, but the way she acted towards him was unforgivable. Baiting him, leading him on, is that how you treat someone you love? And he loved her anyway. Hopeless. And so totally not fair. I know we're not all that similar on the surface, but maybe if he had looked, he could have seen some more of her in me.
So now I'm standing here, looking at this piece of rock that's his memorial. A pitiful shrine to a man who died in the line of duty. A cause he didn't choose, but that chose him. He deserves better. He deserves to be alive. I'll never get the chance to tease him, taunt him, or let him know how I felt. The funeral is still a blur to me, I remember it, but I can't focus down on the memory. I suppose it doesn't matter.
Fuck.
I suppose I should call in and let the others know I'm okay. The entire team is so paranoid, on edge. If I don't call in, they'll send out a search party, and I don't want that. I don't want them to find me here.
Goodbye, Professor W.
And with that, Tabitha Smith, a.k.a. Meltdown, turned on her heel, never looking back at the receding gray marker, white coat flapping in her wake. And a lit cigarette sitting atop a rock representing another loss..........
....And that, dear reader, is the story. It may not be the story you wanted, but it is the story you get. I don't know where it came from, or why, but it asked to be written and I obliged. As I said, reality is relative, and nothing was as it appeared until the very end. This is the end to my story, and that's all there is. What it means is up to you.