Hey! I is back! This is short...oh, well.
Read the Author's note at the end, kay? Enjoy!
Glossy hazel eyes stared blankly at the carved rock. Rain poured down around the lone figure in the green, coating the grass in a sheen of fresh precipitation.
Water trailed down the rigid contours of the man's face, dragging his sordid raven hair into his eyes without a care. Blinking added to the consuming amount of rain dripping in his face, but he wasn't crying. He stopped being able to do that long ago.
His ever-alert eyes scanned over the deep engravings on the rock for the 64th time, reading but not believing the words pressed in the stone.
R.I.P.
-Jean Grey-
He looked up to the sky, gazing into the clouds as if he could see her face again. Hear her voice in the thunder. Feel her embrace as the rain coated his body. See the spark in her eyes when the lightening crashed down away from him.
His neck arched starkly as he glared to the ground beneath his feet, the burly man clenched his fists releasing the newly stained claws, and dropped.
His knees now sopping in water and soil, his eyes tracked the lights in the building in front of him.
Second floor, Fifth room.
First floor, Rec. room.
Second floor, Second room.
Second floor, Ninth room.
Third floor, Seventh room.
First floor, Fourth room.
Second floo-
His face snapped vaguely in the direction of the clap of thunder, not caring enough to gripe about how the sound usually hurt his ears. He leaned back on his haunches, straightening his back as he turned back to the grave in front of him.
The short man's forehead creased, brows drawn, as he shut his eyes no longer able stand looking at the cursed block.
He stood, boots squeaking heavily in the wet ground.
Thunder rang through the sky as a warning toll.
He walked forward, passing the grave, a seemingly unimportant addition to the grounds.
Lightening struck above his head, no longer trying to find him as a conduit.
He pressed open the door, stalking passed giggling girls who stared after him and whining teachers who moaned about the state of the carpet.
The sky opened up over the city, shedding the tears he could not.
He went into his room, unaware of the empathetic eyes that had followed him.
Sad emerald eyes looked through the small window, watching the poor soul trudge through the rain.
She gazed restlessly as he dropped the claws from his hands and plummeted to the awaiting ground.
...as if it would swallow him up. She shifted uncomfortably at the thought, squirming at the possibility.
Her hands twirled the oddly colored strands of hair between her fingers as she stared.
She bit her lip as his eyes scanned briefly over where she was hidden in the building. He did this everyday. A monotonous routine. A drilled schedule.
Went out to the grave...Stood there hopelessly in shame...Hoped something would put him out of his misery...Went back inside and holed away in his room until dinner.
She'd been there to watch him every time.
Watching and waiting, just in case he did something stupid.
Her chest cinched painfully as his eyes swept over her spot again, not stopping.
The girl's body was racked with a small set of shivers as the memory resurfaced of the day after...you-know-who, passed.
He'd tried to kill himself. And it was a bloody, gruesome affair. You never want to see a heart broken man with a healing ability try to take his own life.
Her hands pulled her hair as she thought of it; he just about ripped his own throat out. Slicing his arms wasn't drastic or long-lasting enough.
He'd found his fix. For then.
Now what?
Now it seemed, thank God, that he was content to wallow away.
Which, by no means, was a good thing. It was just...better than the other option.
The door slammed, taking her away from her thoughts of the same man who was walking past her room this very second.
She took short, shy breaths until he was further down the hall, nearly three doors, and began breathing normally.
She had never been introduced to the strange instructor, other than Scott's depiction that he was a 'Good-for-nothing, wife thief'.
And that his name was Logan.
She reflected on that.
He didn't seem like a Logan.
Most definitely didn't mourn like a 'Good-for-nothing, wife thief'.
He mourned like a broken man with no where to turn.
And looked like a...James...
Yeah...
Yeah, that seemed about right.
Yeah, sup guys.
I don't really know what to think about this. I love it, personally. But it doesn't really seem like a one-shot, you know? Seems unfinished.
Should I try to continue? What do you guys think?
This was, in fact, another WRFA prompt, written in 'bout an hour, very short... You're dead and I'm sorry / Stickers. Maybe that's why it doesn't seem done... it doesn't have the 'stickers'...
I dunno.
Me no own da X-men...though I do seem to be having fun with them as of late.
I-V