Chapter ten of Surreal Sights! Trying not to spoil, but Dholefire, I have no doubt you will like this one. I think (Though that's doubt, isn't it?)
Okey, more stuff than usual. I do not own Piotr (Colossus), Remy (Gambit), Pyro, Magneto, or Professor Xavier or Rogue or Cyclops and any other X-Men person who might be in here but I'm not sure. What little left is mine.
Oh, and I don't own the poem. For those of you who don't know, it is "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe.
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There was no dancing with gypsies, no laughing; none of Garnet's useless flirts. The world as I knew it had changed. The diamond castle was gone, perhaps for forever, and in its place was an ancient, ominous one. Rogue's castle.
The crimson sky was churning, looking more like a sea of blood than ever, and foreign icy winds were screaming along the barren land before the drawbridge. There was nothing but pain. And I was alone. Like Rogue was alone.
The gypsies, CROWS, Lions, Diamond Protectors. All gone. Would I ever see them again? Maybe, maybe not.
I could feel someone struggling through the icy blasts, though I doubted they would make it to the grand castle doors. It was probably best they didn't. If they were even real.
I waited in total darkness, hiding in one of the rooms as Rogue had. But I had no motivational speech. No one to help me out. I was stranded on a deserted island, made of stone and blood. And forever there would I be.
One upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
I couldn't help smiling as the words sang into my heart, the truth. My life was written out symbolically more than a century before my birth. Though I suppose existence is just strange like that.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping on my chamber door
Was someone knocking at the front gates? I could not tell. But, whoever it was and if they were really there, they would be gone soon. No one ever stayed long in this awful world. The only survivor was me.
'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-"
Only this and nothing more."
"'Tis some visitor." I whispered. "Only this and nothing more." But there shouldn't be a visitor. Even if there was, perhaps I was cruel enough to leave them out in the place of their demise? No. I couldn't do that. I allowed the doors to open, letting whoever it was into the dank entryway. But I put more doors between us. Although a visitor to my house, there would be no visitors to me. Not today. Not ever.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in bleak December
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor
A chilling draft swept through the room. Long since dead, of his own causes even, his words still haunt my soul. Ever since I learned them in the eighth grade, they have haunted me. And each ghost who haunted died in the gypsies' fire. But what happens when that fire burns out? The ghosts have already perished, do they come back to this dreaded world?
Eagerly I had wished the morrow; -vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore
I couldn't even remember what my mother looked like. My dad had thrown away all pictures, all jewelry, all tokens and knick-knacks of hers. It was like I had never had a mother at all. But she was the reason I fought so furiously against the man who was supposed to be my father.
Victoire. The name of beauty. The victor, though in the end she lost. Was it right for an invisible face to be your guide? I hoped so. I had enough wrongs to compromise.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore
But my mother was forever lost to me. I couldn't even lie to myself that she existed, tell myself she did not cease to. I couldn't bring her memory to dance with me around the fire. Because that memory did not have a face.
But the person leaning in the doorway did.
"A nice pie floater'd be good in this weather." Pyro. What the hell was he doing here?!
"I don't want company. How'd you get through the storm?" I didn't even have the heart to glare at him.
"Once I got to the front doors, it was simple. They swung right open." I didn't know why, but his voice always seemed to get higher on the last words of his sentence. But, then again, it may not seem to. Maybe they actually did.
"That's because I opened them for you, Génie." My voice hardened.
"Genie? Isn't that one of them mystically things?" His voice was honestly confused. I rolled my eyes.
"It means genius in French, stupid."
"Oh, why thank you kindly." He said graciously.
"I was being sarcastic."
"…Oh."
The room fell silent once more. No, not once more. It hadn't been silent; the winds were too forceful, constantly berating the walls. Where were they?
"The winds are gone." My voice sounded regretful for some reason.
"That's a good thing, right?" He asked pointedly. At my glare, he quickly added, "I mean, now you can leave. Right?"
"Wrong."
"Wrong?"
"Right." I scowled at this pointless, repetitive conversation. What was his problem? "I stay here. There is nothing for me on the outside. I can let you out, though."
"No! You hafta come with me! I mean us!" He frowned slightly at his jumbled words.
"No, I don't hafta do anything." I hissed. "I have no mom, no dad, no friends, and no life. For all I know, I could be dead! For all I care, I could be dead." The last sentence got really quiet.
"No friends? That really hurts, right here." Pyro put his hand over his heart. I rolled my eyes again.
"No offense, monsieur, but I don't particularly consider crazy madmen to be friends. Pyrogéné. Is that the name of a regular friend?"
"Well, it sounds all fancy when you say it, so yeah." He smiled.
"You are too… strange." I sighed, shaking my head. Is this what my life had really come to?
"Look whose talkin', troppo." He said matter-of-factly.
"I should dump you in a poisonous bog. What's the point of a conversation if neither can understand each other, even if both are speaking the same language?" I sniffed.
"You have a poisonous bog here?" He completely ignored the second half of my comment. I rolled my eyes before closing them. I concentrated on the putrid, oddly-colored air and muddy grounds far to the South.
Of course, Pyro's first comment was, "Whoo-whee! It smells worse then a dutch oven in here!"
"Hold your breath, then." I sighed in irritation.
"I have to breathe eventually!" He argued.
"No, you don't. Not here." I held my breath, and we waited there for about two minutes.
I moved out of the bog after that, already bored of the smelly place. This time we were in a large, flowing meadow filled with flame-colored flowers. In fact, they were so thick it felt like you were walking on fire. Or a cranberry bog. Though that is technically still a bog, it smells a lot nicer.
Pyro smiled slightly at this part. "Aww, you even made a meadow for me!"
"Don't give yourself so much credit, Hothead." I replied. But there was no fire in my voice this time. He hadn't done anything to deserve my anger, and for the first time I realized how… cruel I had been. Not just to Pyro, either.
He cleared his throat. "Yes?"
"How long have we been in here? In real time, I mean?" He looked slightly uncomfortable, and bothered.
"I don't know. That's what I've always loved about this place. There's no recognition of the passing of time." My voice was airy, wistful even. It wasn't like I was speaking; more like listening to someone else but knowing what they were going to say.
"I need to go back up. Or out, however you put it." He looked confused again. I sighed and sank to the ground in the fiery flowers.
"I don't know why or how, but I've been in here for weeks at a time." I looked sadly up at him. "Well, I suppose I know why. I never had a reason to come back to reality. Because of the simple fact that reality is so cruel." I sighed. "Before you leave, I want to show you something." I added.
"Okay?" Uncertain now. Why was I paying so much attention to how he felt, anyways?
"It might give an explanation of why I act the way I do. A summarized version of my life, you could say." I motioned for him to sit down, and he obediently did so.
"Without warning, we were tossed into a hospital room, with the grace of a garbage bag being thrown out the door. He grimaced slightly, and his eyes widened in shock. He had noticed Remy, a much younger version of course, but still him, in the corner. We were actually in the lounge area, and he was boredly pulling loose stings out of a chair.
"That can't be-"
"It is." I interrupted, "Or, at least, it was. Before New Orleans, he was in France." Then to the image of playing, running through hallways, inventing new games. Some involving rather unsafe explosions. But it was fun, and that's what counted. That's what counted then, anyways.
I only skipped over briefly on my mother dying. He didn't need to see the true brutality of that. I allowed him to get a glimpse of the diamond palace. Pyro was actually speechless at that part. Like I had been. Only difference, he wasn't a six-year-old girl. We went quickly through the funeral, and the plane ride.
Los Angeles. My dad getting a call from the school that I had somehow put a young boy, Glenn, in a vegetative state. I hadn't technically killed him, no, but he was as good as dead. I don't know if his parents pulled the plug or not, but I hope they did. No one deserves to live like that. As far as I was concerned, drooling and being fed through a tube wasn't living.
I skipped over much of my school life. Secretly, I didn't want him to see the fear. The way the other students repelled from me, like some disease. To them, I wasn't a person. When I got into my teens, I showed him the hospitals. The nausea, the fainting. Having to take the pills, the shots. Whatever my dad could afford. I purposely didn't show Pyro the times I overdosed on purpose. He didn't need to see that.
The turning point in my life, running away to Canada. Short, sweet Alexandrine. I loved that woman to tears. I still do.
The pleasant little restaurant in Quebec. Leaving Canada for New York, and then running into Colossus in the woods. I stopped there, and we were sitting across from each other in the fiery flowers.
"You know the rest." I said softly.
"Your life hasn't been a walk in the park, has it?" Pyro murmured a strange look on his face. I really hoped showing him that was the right thing to do.
He pulled me into a rather awkward side-hug, the best you can really do while sitting down. Suddenly all of the flame-colored flowers turned to a rosy pink. Chuckling, he pulled me up to my feet.
"Come on, let's get back." Smiling, I closed my eyes to concentrate.
--
"Whoa, head rush." I muttered, pressing my fingertips to my temples and waiting for the throbbing to subside. I didn't open my eyes though. I wasn't sure if I wanted to know where I was.
"Did he get the message?"
"Thanks for your concern, Monsieur Paperclip." I muttered sarcastically, "No, I don't think I'm fine right now."
"Just answer the question!" Magneto snapped. Somebody was certainly cranky today.
"Yeah, yeah, Monsieur Xavier Whatever got it. It wasn't very clear, though. You don't enunciate very well." I snipped. When I opened my eyes Magneto was uncomfortably close, a glare clear on his face.
"I heard about that little stunt you pulled." He said warningly.
"What'd I do? I pushed Pyro out of the way of the funky-eye dude, got knocked unconscious, kidnapped apparently (thanks for all the help on that, by the way), and woke up in a strange place with a bald guy trying to read my mind. If that's not enough, Goth chick just had to take things personally and tries to attack me, her fault she steals my powers. Not my problem, but I got convinced to help her, and conked out for a while. Somehow Hothead gets sucked under with me. What part of this is my fault, again?" I was upset enough because I probably hadn't eaten for days, and his interrogations weren't helping with my mood.
Left with nothing to complain over, he left the room. Good, I thought, I hope I smashed your ego to smithereens.
--
"Why d'you always mess with 'im?" Pyro asked curiously, a little bit later. I just shrugged.
"It's something to do. This place is rather boring. Y'all should bet a PS3." I smiled at the thought of Piotr trying to press the buttons with his huge fingers. Then again, somebody would probably get frustrated with it and smash/blow up/catch it on fire.
"Am I really that boring?" He asked with fake poutiness.
"Only when you're trying to be funny." It was late, and I gave him a kiss on the cheek instinctively before I left the room. In France and in Canada it was a way to say good-bye, but it wasn't until I left the room that I remembered the way Americans took it.
I slapped myself on the forehead. "Great."