Fire
© Scarlet-Child
Disclaimer: I don't own X-men or any of its characters. The lyrics are from the 'The Mixed Tape' by Jack's Mannequin.
I figured I'd rewrite this. I was a pretty crap writer at fourteen.
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This
is morning
That's when I spend the most time
Thinking
'bout what I've given up
This is a warning
When
you start the day just to close the curtains
You're
thinking about what I've given up
John eyelids fluttered open, his blue eyes burning holes into his apartment's ceiling. He groaned, after remembering why he was so unwilling to wake up in the first place; why he was thankful to fall into peaceful dreamings of her.
Wanda Maximoff. Aka the Scarlet Witch.
The only girl he truly loved. And the only girl he truly blew it with.
The pyromaniac jumped out of bed, one hand combing through his slightly dishevelled red hair, and the other groping for his pants on the muddled tower of clothes on the carpet. He pulled them on over his polka dotted boxers and did his best to ignore the painful throbbing in his forehead.
Although, when he thought about it, the pain in his head was nothing compared to the stabbing sensation rippling through his heart - the pain nothing but a thousand hexes could compare to. And he would willingly take a thousand hexes to get her back.
If only he hadn't lied to her…
Where
are you now?
As I'm swimming through the stereo
I'm
writing you a symphony of sound
Where are you now?
As
I rearrange the songs again
This mix could burn a hole in
anyone
But it was you I was thinking of
It was
you I was thinking of
At times like this, when he was with any other girl, poetry was the best cure for heartache. He settled himself at his desk and pulled his notebook out of the pile of cluttered papers. The same notebook he had filled pages and pages of poetry and songs about Wanda. Poetry was natural to him; he had easily poured his heart and soul into that book, just as she had easily taken ahold of his heart and ripped it in two.
He lowered his pencil to write, but the only words that were coming to him were cold and meaningless. For a minute, he considered that it was just writer's block, and he'd get over it.
With a bitter laugh, he watched the pad burn. The smell of ash met his nostrils, and he let the remains flutter to the floor, satisfied that it had suffered just as much pain as he had.
The apartment was completely trashed. He'd get evicted for it, he was sure. Not that it really mattered anymore.
Wanda had done her fair share of trashing before she left. There were cracks in the walls, chips on the dresser, and half of her possessions were draped across the floor. Apparently she hadn't bothered to take anything she considered not important enough with her.
Like the giant toy duck John had won her at a carnival…
John knelt down and picked it up, staring into its black, unforgiving eyes.
'Don't worry Gertrude,' he whispered to it wistfully, 'At least one of us still loves you.'
The duck stared back, unblinking.
He smirked, realizing what a fool he must have looked like, speaking to a toy duck. He placed it back down, and eyed the rest of the objects on the floor.
Wanda's favourite red dress…
Her necklace…
Everything she had left was a painful reminder of what he had lost. Maybe that was why she had left them.
She was teaching him a lesson.
I
read your letter
The one you left when you broke into my
house
I'm retracing every step you made
And you
said you meant it
And there's a piece of me in every
single
Second of every single day
But if it's
true then tell me how it got this way
He still remembered their first meeting as clear as day. He remembered what she was wearing, the expression of determination sculpted on her face. Hell, he even remembered what colour her nail polish was.
And he could still feel the hex she had thrown at him.
Her hexes burnt …
He didn't care if he ever saw her again. She was just a job, an assignment, something that he had to do, and was paid for. But lo and behold, she came back, determined to find her father.
He was the one who carried her unconscious body into the Acolyte's base. He was the one who watched her have her mind wiped against her will.
And he still didn't feel anything… it was almost as if he was a robot - he didn't think for himself, he always followed someone elses orders. Whatever Magneto did, he did. At that time, nothing mattered to him. As long as he could play with fire, and have it within his grasp, then what did the rest of the world's problems matter to him?
John sighed again, packing Wanda's belonging into an empty duffel bag. It was so much easier not to think about her. But the only flaw in his plan was that she popped up in his thoughts much too often, to just be able to throw her away with a bag of old clothes.
It wasn't until Magneto's death that he fell back into reality. Guarding the base of the boss who wasn't likely to return just wasn't much of a thrill. His friends were gone. He had nothing to go back to. There was just no point in the situation. So he left.
And then he bumped into Wanda in the street.
I can't get to you
I can't get to you
The last six months were the happiest in his life. No expectations or rules to live by. He was free. Wanda was like a dictionary to him; she brought meaning to his life, and with it, happiness And he didn't need to cause destruction for it. In fact, he felt he didn't need to tell her the truth. After all, it was all in the past.
John sat down on his bed, his cerulean irises focusing on his pride and joy - his zippo lighter. But even his lighter reminded him of her.
'All you care about is your Goddamn lighter!'
And where are you now?
He stood up quickly. He just couldn't stay there anymore, not when everything he owned reminded him of her. And her memory was just too painful.
And where are you now?
He should have told her the truth. He should have told her that he had played a part in ruining her life. But would she have stayed…? He knew the answer to it, but he was just too darn stubborn to admit it.
He paused at the doorway, shooting a glance at the waste basket sitting lopsided next to the door.
And where are you now?
The fire in his palm flickered, beckoning him, telling him that it was all going to be okay; that it would easier without Wanda. After all, fire made him who he was.
A single tear trickled down his cheek, as he realised that he wasn't the same person anymore.
Fire might have created him but it played its part in driving Wanda away.
It made him want to hurt, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, it had caused everything.
With one well-aimed shot, he tossed his lighter into the bin.
And he walked away, all screams, regrets and memories eventually fading into silence.
And
this is my mixed tape for her
It's like I wrote every note
with my own fingers
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