The rain poured down in sheets, whipping through the trees and pelting the ground. They formed small pools on the soil and in the green grass. It was such a nice substance, water. It could give life and take it away, all in a heartbeat. We can't live with it, but we unfortunately can't live without it.
Tommy Johnson knew that all too well. He had been blind since birth, and yet he was unable to live without light. Tommy was a mutant. He had been ever since he was 10. When he first found out that he could feel light. And there were different kinds of light. There was normal light, which was yellow or white, and it made him warm all over. Black lights made him cold, no matter the
temperature of the room. There were plenty of other kinds, but he had yet to encounter them.
Tommy was sixty-four years old, and he was just now going to the wonderful school for mutants, Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He was no youngster, but he sure was gifted. He made his way by the cool moonlight, the silver rays washing over him like a stream, and having much the same affect.
The school was large, and there were children inside. That could be easily deciphered from the laughs and screams from inside the thick walls. He walked with a limp past the gates, which had slid open with a brush of air across his wrinkled face. He slowly came up to the doors, and knocked with a dark hand.
A woman answered the door, he gathered. It must have been a female, for he could hear the click of heels and the smell of perfume. She took his hand and said, "Come in, friend." Yup, female. With an African lilt to her voice as well.
"Uh, hello miss. My name's Tommy. Tommy Johnson."
"Hello Tommy. My name is Ororo. Ororo Munroe. You may call me Storm." She was kind, he decided. Her hands were smooth. And, if he smelled past her perfume, he thought he could smell a storm coming. The scent of wet earth and all that.
"Is a storm comin', young lady?"
"No sir, I believe that it is me that you smell. I just came from out back, from my garden."
She was leading him down a hall. He could smell thousands of other people in this building. They were mostly young, and mostly afraid. Of what, he couldn't say. She led him through a door, and then directed him to a chair. It was a soft chair, and well loved, by the smell of the old leather.
"Hello. My name is Charles Xavier. Welcome to my school for mutants, Tommy."
~~**~~
That had been a month ago. Now, Tommy sat in a chair. In his room. It was a nice room. Small, with everything well placed. He could maneuver with ease. The bed was soft and the closet large. He had plenty of clothes, enough socks for an army.
Tommy had taken a liking to Storm, and another young fellow by the name of Scott. Scott was a mutant, and so was Storm. Storm could manipulate the weather, and Scott shot laser beams out of his eyes. Storm always smelled of wet earth, and of a calmness that enveloped anyone who stopped to smell her. Scott smelled of worry and control. He also usually smelled of nutmeg, with
a hint of orange. Not even he knew why.
But now, Scott was coming for one of their little chats. They talked about small things, or sometimes just sat together and listened to the little radio that Tommy had on his window sill. But today, Tommy had something special in mind.
There was a knock on the door. "Tommy? Can I come in?" Scott's voice was slightly muffled by the heavy oak of the door.
"Sure, m'son, join me."
Scott pushed the heavy door open and came in with a brilliant smile that he knew Tommy couldn't see. "Son, stop smilin' that bright, it's ticklin' my arm."
Scott just chuckled. "We got a new student yesterday. Came in with a large man. From Canada. That's why I had to miss our little meeting. Sorry."
"S'k. What's the younun' like?"
"She's young. Brown hair and the saddest brown eyes you ever cast your eyes on." He just kept going, neither apologized for his mistakes. It was not needed. "She can't touch, but she does have nice skin. Almost pathetically skinny. Though you couldn't tell, all wrapped up in coats and shirts and scarves and gloves."
"I want you to do something for me."
"Shoot."
"What's your favorite color?"
Scott was slightly taken aback. "Why... oh, never mind." He never got good explanations at why the old man asked the questions that he did. "Green."
"Explain it to me." The old man opened his cataract-covered eyes and looked at the young man across from him in the wooden chair. Scott shivered. It was like looking into the eyes of a corpse. Or worse, the eyes of death.
"How do I explain green to you?"
"Just explain your favorite shade."
"How?"
"Tell me how looking at that shade made you feel."
Scott was silent for a minute. "When I was younger, before the glasses, my mother had a pin. It was quite pretty, with diamonds and rubies and such hanging off of it. But there was one gem on it, one gem that I could find myself staring at forever."
"An emerald."
"You guessed it. It was a pretty little thing. Just a small pale emerald, not even of very good quality, right up near the corner. Mom loved that pin. She wore it everywhere. I remember sitting on her lap and playing with it..." His voice trailed off as he got lost in the memories.
"Scott? Son? Remember, right now you are my eyes to seeing green."
"Hmm? Oh, right. Anyway, when I left, because of my eyes, I snuck inside my house. I packed a few things, but I always knew where my mother kept that pin. Top of the nightstand, left hand corner. I tip-toed into my parents room, and then I felt around until I had it. Nobody else knows. Momma probably knows that I took it. She always knew that I loved that damned thing.
"But, at any rate, I ran, and I took that pin with me. Never lost it. But you wanted to hear about green, didn't you?"
Tommy nodded silently. "Yes, son, I did."
"Well then, green is a lovely color. I loved a particular shade myself. It was at a paint store. Deceiving Emerald. Loved that shade. It was like, well, comfort I guess. It was a soft shade, almost pastel, but not quite. Like my mother's emerald.
"It made me feel soft inside, like Mom was close to me. It was hard, I suppose, to even look at it. Deceiving Emerald was a wonderful shade of green. I felt, just like, well, me. When I looked at it, that is. But green is, well, like emotions, I suppose. It runs through you because you know that you can't live with it or without it.
"Green is safety, for me. It means that I can be slow, and look at things that I haven't in a while. But green is more than that sometimes. I can close my eyes and imagine it. It is almost the opposite of red, you know. But I think that you'll learn about red some other time.
"Deceiving Emerald is safety. It is warmth and heart and all those other colors that I can't see anymore."
"That was nice, m'son. I think that you can go now. I'll meet you later at supper."
"All right, Tommy."
~~~***~~~
Scott sat alone in his and Jean's room. There was a faded black and white picture in hands. The picture was of a beautiful young woman, her hair a light shade of gray, poufed out a little on the sides. She was smiling, reveling a row of pearly white teeth. Her eyes and head were turned off to the side, so that it looked like she didn't even know the camera was there. The old picture was all he had left. Besides the pin. And as Scott Summers sat there, a broken cry fell from his lips, reminiscent of the young boy that he no longer was. "Momma."
Tommy Johnson knew that all too well. He had been blind since birth, and yet he was unable to live without light. Tommy was a mutant. He had been ever since he was 10. When he first found out that he could feel light. And there were different kinds of light. There was normal light, which was yellow or white, and it made him warm all over. Black lights made him cold, no matter the
temperature of the room. There were plenty of other kinds, but he had yet to encounter them.
Tommy was sixty-four years old, and he was just now going to the wonderful school for mutants, Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. He was no youngster, but he sure was gifted. He made his way by the cool moonlight, the silver rays washing over him like a stream, and having much the same affect.
The school was large, and there were children inside. That could be easily deciphered from the laughs and screams from inside the thick walls. He walked with a limp past the gates, which had slid open with a brush of air across his wrinkled face. He slowly came up to the doors, and knocked with a dark hand.
A woman answered the door, he gathered. It must have been a female, for he could hear the click of heels and the smell of perfume. She took his hand and said, "Come in, friend." Yup, female. With an African lilt to her voice as well.
"Uh, hello miss. My name's Tommy. Tommy Johnson."
"Hello Tommy. My name is Ororo. Ororo Munroe. You may call me Storm." She was kind, he decided. Her hands were smooth. And, if he smelled past her perfume, he thought he could smell a storm coming. The scent of wet earth and all that.
"Is a storm comin', young lady?"
"No sir, I believe that it is me that you smell. I just came from out back, from my garden."
She was leading him down a hall. He could smell thousands of other people in this building. They were mostly young, and mostly afraid. Of what, he couldn't say. She led him through a door, and then directed him to a chair. It was a soft chair, and well loved, by the smell of the old leather.
"Hello. My name is Charles Xavier. Welcome to my school for mutants, Tommy."
~~**~~
That had been a month ago. Now, Tommy sat in a chair. In his room. It was a nice room. Small, with everything well placed. He could maneuver with ease. The bed was soft and the closet large. He had plenty of clothes, enough socks for an army.
Tommy had taken a liking to Storm, and another young fellow by the name of Scott. Scott was a mutant, and so was Storm. Storm could manipulate the weather, and Scott shot laser beams out of his eyes. Storm always smelled of wet earth, and of a calmness that enveloped anyone who stopped to smell her. Scott smelled of worry and control. He also usually smelled of nutmeg, with
a hint of orange. Not even he knew why.
But now, Scott was coming for one of their little chats. They talked about small things, or sometimes just sat together and listened to the little radio that Tommy had on his window sill. But today, Tommy had something special in mind.
There was a knock on the door. "Tommy? Can I come in?" Scott's voice was slightly muffled by the heavy oak of the door.
"Sure, m'son, join me."
Scott pushed the heavy door open and came in with a brilliant smile that he knew Tommy couldn't see. "Son, stop smilin' that bright, it's ticklin' my arm."
Scott just chuckled. "We got a new student yesterday. Came in with a large man. From Canada. That's why I had to miss our little meeting. Sorry."
"S'k. What's the younun' like?"
"She's young. Brown hair and the saddest brown eyes you ever cast your eyes on." He just kept going, neither apologized for his mistakes. It was not needed. "She can't touch, but she does have nice skin. Almost pathetically skinny. Though you couldn't tell, all wrapped up in coats and shirts and scarves and gloves."
"I want you to do something for me."
"Shoot."
"What's your favorite color?"
Scott was slightly taken aback. "Why... oh, never mind." He never got good explanations at why the old man asked the questions that he did. "Green."
"Explain it to me." The old man opened his cataract-covered eyes and looked at the young man across from him in the wooden chair. Scott shivered. It was like looking into the eyes of a corpse. Or worse, the eyes of death.
"How do I explain green to you?"
"Just explain your favorite shade."
"How?"
"Tell me how looking at that shade made you feel."
Scott was silent for a minute. "When I was younger, before the glasses, my mother had a pin. It was quite pretty, with diamonds and rubies and such hanging off of it. But there was one gem on it, one gem that I could find myself staring at forever."
"An emerald."
"You guessed it. It was a pretty little thing. Just a small pale emerald, not even of very good quality, right up near the corner. Mom loved that pin. She wore it everywhere. I remember sitting on her lap and playing with it..." His voice trailed off as he got lost in the memories.
"Scott? Son? Remember, right now you are my eyes to seeing green."
"Hmm? Oh, right. Anyway, when I left, because of my eyes, I snuck inside my house. I packed a few things, but I always knew where my mother kept that pin. Top of the nightstand, left hand corner. I tip-toed into my parents room, and then I felt around until I had it. Nobody else knows. Momma probably knows that I took it. She always knew that I loved that damned thing.
"But, at any rate, I ran, and I took that pin with me. Never lost it. But you wanted to hear about green, didn't you?"
Tommy nodded silently. "Yes, son, I did."
"Well then, green is a lovely color. I loved a particular shade myself. It was at a paint store. Deceiving Emerald. Loved that shade. It was like, well, comfort I guess. It was a soft shade, almost pastel, but not quite. Like my mother's emerald.
"It made me feel soft inside, like Mom was close to me. It was hard, I suppose, to even look at it. Deceiving Emerald was a wonderful shade of green. I felt, just like, well, me. When I looked at it, that is. But green is, well, like emotions, I suppose. It runs through you because you know that you can't live with it or without it.
"Green is safety, for me. It means that I can be slow, and look at things that I haven't in a while. But green is more than that sometimes. I can close my eyes and imagine it. It is almost the opposite of red, you know. But I think that you'll learn about red some other time.
"Deceiving Emerald is safety. It is warmth and heart and all those other colors that I can't see anymore."
"That was nice, m'son. I think that you can go now. I'll meet you later at supper."
"All right, Tommy."
~~~***~~~
Scott sat alone in his and Jean's room. There was a faded black and white picture in hands. The picture was of a beautiful young woman, her hair a light shade of gray, poufed out a little on the sides. She was smiling, reveling a row of pearly white teeth. Her eyes and head were turned off to the side, so that it looked like she didn't even know the camera was there. The old picture was all he had left. Besides the pin. And as Scott Summers sat there, a broken cry fell from his lips, reminiscent of the young boy that he no longer was. "Momma."