It was a daily struggle, her hands itched, the seams chaffed at her wrists, it was a constant ache. Her fingers knew nothing but cotton and silk, wool and leather. She was always cold. No matter how many layers she piled on, it was cold cold cold cold, and she didn't know if it came from outside anymore, maybe she had become cold. Frozen inside her own milky skin. She stared at her hands, trying to see through the obscuring material. For some reason she couldn't imagine them. She knew what they looked like, sure; she had to take her gloves off eventually ( even though some nights the thought of what her bare hands could do made her unable to sleep until they were back safely inside their leather prisons), but they never felt like her hands anymore. Those hands that could tell a life story with a brush. Those hands that destroy with prolonged contact. Those hands that stole souls. Those hands were not hers.

She flinched instinctively as she heard a struggle; with a glance to Kitty's bed she saw a mess of limbs fighting to right themselves as Kitty fell through physical existence. The smaller girl trembled eyes downcast, chest heaving and face flushed. Rogue knew she should go tend to the other girl. Knew Kitty was probably terrified beyond what her body language suggested. But she couldn't force herself to uncurl from the fetal position. She was being ridiculous, she was being absolutely ridiculous; but she couldn't help it. She was terrified. Every inch of uncovered skin burned. The thought of accidently brushing her best-friend with the mass of uncovered inches was paralyzing. She clenched her eyes shut tightly, a few rebellious tears leaked out anyways. In shame, she rolled over, pressed her lips tight and tried to fall back asleep.

She was used to cruelty, it was expected, she was different of course they were cruel. What had anyone (besides Kitty and Logan) done to make her think that just because she escaped Mississippi she had escaped human cruelty? It never changed, people were always the same, these girls that stalked the high school halls may as well have been the same girls who had pulled her hair in elementary school. Green eyes flashed up, a confirmatory glance; her locker was still empty, the last barrier between her and the monster had been stolen away. A crooked smile slit her face with twisted white and crimson. Hot tears slid down her cheeks and laughter bubbled from somewhere in her numb chest, slipping from her shaking mouth in short bursts. She could never escape. Her skin was her prison. Why couldn't she just peel it all off? But skin always grows back; hers would grow back poisonous as ever. She shrank further into the shadowed corner, making herself as small as possible, pressing the knobs of her spine into the bricks of the wall and curling her arms to her chest. She felt naked and vulnerable, lightheaded and nauseous. And still the hysterical laughter burst from her crimson lips, which cracked from the width of her grin. Her green eyes were glassy and empty. Her hands were bare.