Metamorphosis       

It started with my eyes.  I was fourteen, and one morning the whites of my eyes were yellow.  Not bright yellow, not like they would be later.  The whites of my eyes had a distinctly yellow tint.  My mother took me to the doctor, convinced I had jaundice.  I didn't.  My eyes got more yellow.  We tried every eye drop and antibiotic on the market.  The brown of my irises faded to yellow, until only my pupil remained.

I was in a constant state of panic and desperation.  I didn't go to school for two weeks.  We told the teachers I had mono.  I spent most of the day locked in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror.

"Go away go away go away."  I said it over and over again.  Imagining my eyes the way they used to be.  Willing them to be normal.  And then, one day—I don't remember if it was morning, afternoon, or night, I'd been in the bathroom for so long—while I stared at them, whispering, "go away go away go away," they changed from bright yellow and black to white and brown.  I blinked, sure I was imagining things again.  When I opened my eyes again, they were yellow. 

But this time, I couldn't dismiss it.  I didn't think this was a mind trick.  Shaken, I looked hard at myself in the mirror.  I had felt something.  Felt them shift.  I gripped the sink with both hands and leaned forward until my nose brushed the mirror.  Triangles of steam billowed out from my nostrils as I stared into my own eyes and willed them back to normal. 

They went.

I gasped, pulling back.  It hadn't been instantaneous, like flicking a switch; rather, the colors had sort of melted from one into the other.  I blinked again, and this time my eyes stayed brown.  I leaned into the mirror again, smiling, examining my old eyes as though they were brand new.  I laughed until I cried, then remembered that I should show my mother.  I looked at myself in the mirror one last time before going downstairs. 

My eyes were yellow.

I cried again, but not because I was laughing.  I beat on the wall until my hands went numb.  I screamed until I couldn't breathe.  I sobbed until my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't stand.

I'm not certain how long I lay on the tile floor, but eventually I calmed down enough to realize that if I'd been able to change them twice, I could change them again.

It was easier this time.  It only took a few seconds of concentrating before the yellow swirled and melted into white. 

And that's when I knew what I was.

A couple of days later, after I felt I had enough control over my eyes, I went back to school.  My mother was convinced the last batch of antibiotics had helped me beat the infection, and I didn't tell her any differently.

I had my usual brown eyes during the day, but at night, after my mom went to bed, I would sit at my desk with a hand mirror and practice.  Yellow eyes became blue, green, gray, pink, purple, and blood red.  I could make them completely white or completely black.  I could have the eyes of a cat or I could turn them into brilliantly decorated Easter eggs.  I got good enough that I could blink my eyes and flip through the colors of the rainbow.

I would sit up at night and smile at myself.  And after a few weeks, I could even smile at the unnatural yellow that for me had become natural.

There weren't many mutants in Elkskin, New Hampshire.  In fact, I'm fairly certain I was the only one.  And I wasn't about to advertise.  I was fourteen.  I just wanted a fair shot at making the cheerleading squad and the gymnastics team.

About a month after I'd come to terms with my eyes, my hair changed colors.  My roots started growing in red instead of black.  No, not red.  Bright reddish-orange.  Like a crayon. 

I went to the costume store and bought some hair dye.  It was a fairly easy color to match.  Popular amongst the punk-rock population.  My mother saw it as teenage rebellion and locked herself in her room for two hours.  When she came out her eyes were red and puffy, and she made me promise never to do drugs.  I promised.  She cooked dinner.

I didn't make the cheerleading squad.  They had a dress code.  I had orange hair.  The gymnastics team, however, was more interested in my tumbling skill than my hair color.  The coach almost hugged me after my tryout.  They must have been in need of fresh talent.

I'd always been athletic.  I'd been in gymnastics since I could walk.  I was good at track.  Sports came naturally.  But where I'd always been good, I became the best.  While everyone else was going through those awkward growth stages, I was breaking school records.  My mother was glad I'd found something to channel my rebellion (the hair, remember, stayed orange).  She was also pleased with my report cards, as I literally couldn't have been doing better in my classes.  They were so easy.

I was better than everyone.  Orange hair was a small price to pay.

A year after my eyes changed, everything else did.

I was fifteen, and on the lookout in case normal teenage changes brought any more surprises.  Otherwise I wouldn't have noticed them so early.  They started out as bumps on my feet and back.  Then there were bumps everywhere.  Fortunately, it was winter, so no one thought it odd that I always wore sweaters.

At lunch one day, my friends Lisa, Kari, and I were talking about our history class.  The teacher was this pathetic old man with incredibly thick glasses, suspenders, and a high, nasal voice.  It was his voice we usually made fun of.

"And then, when he yelled at Mark to be quiet, it sounded like someone had stepped on a baby pig!" Lisa shrieked, collapsing in giggles.

"'Be quiet, young man!'" Kari pinched her nose in imitation of Mr. Preston.

"Or when he started reciting the Gettysburg Address," I said through laughter.

"I'm sure Abe Lincoln sounded much cooler than ole Preston," Lisa said.

I cleared my throat and straightened, shushing them with my hands.  Lisa and Kari giggled and pretended rapt attention. 

"Four score and seven years ago…"  I stopped, my mouth hanging open.

Lisa and Kari stared at me, eyes wide.

What had come out of my mouth hadn't been an imitation of Mr. Preston's voice, but Mr. Preston's voice.  Exactly. 

I swallowed and tried to smile.

"Wow," Kari said.  "That was really good."  She looked uneasily at Lisa.

"Too good," Lisa said.  "That was creepy."

I blushed.  "I—I didn't know I could do that.  It just came out."

Kari brightened.  "You should do that for the talent show!"  She bounced in her seat.  "It'd be hysterical!  Can you do anyone else?"

"I—don't know."  I told them I needed to pee and fled to the bathroom, where I shifted my eye color a few times while I thought.

That night I turned my radio on and mimicked the voices I heard.  Perfectly.  Even the singing.  I could be anyone from Mariah Carey to Elvis, and to my own ears my voice was indistinguishable from theirs.  I sat in my room for a long time, until I heard my mother yell that dinner was ready.  I turned my eyes brown and went downstairs.

"Hello, dear.  Did you have a good day at school?" 

Mom always asked that.  I think it was the only way she knew to show me she was interested in my life.

"Yes, thanks."  I froze for the second time that day.  My voice hadn't just been mine.  I mean, mine was there, but so were half a dozen others.

Mom turned and frowned.  "Are you okay, honey?"

I cleared my throat, concentrated on my voice.  "Yeah."  Good.  "Just had some phlegm stuck in my throat."

"Oh."  She turned back to her pasta.  "You'd better suck on some lozenges tonight so that doesn't turn into a cough.  And drink some orange juice!  You're probably not getting enough vitamin C."

"Okay, Mom."

After dinner I retreated to my room and talked to myself for an hour or two.  It was like all the voices I'd mimicked were in my throat for good, speaking along with me.

I let my eyes go yellow and looked at myself in the mirror.  I pulled my shirt over my head and ran my fingers over the bumps on my shoulders.  I tucked my orange hair—by now the dye had completely grown out—behind my ears.

"My name is Raven Darkholme," I said, Elvis, Mariah, Mr. Preston, and several others speaking with me.  "And I am a mutant."

The bumps spread to my face, scattered along my forehead and cheekbones.  My mother sent me to a dermatologist.  He shrugged and gave me some cream.  I chucked it in the trashcan and invested in some make-up.

Mom went on her annual two-week visit to her sister's house in Chicago.  I was left on my own with instructions to call every night to let her know I was still alive.

Two days after she left, my skin turned blue.

I woke up one morning and looked like someone who had spent the night in a block of ice.  I used my mom's voice to call myself in sick.

After my shower the next morning, I was bluer.  I called the school and told them I could be out for a while, as the doctor said I had bronchitis.

The bumps which had lain dormant for three months suddenly began to grow and spread.  They became more distinct, took on a pattern, became hard.  Became scales.  Shoulders, back, breasts, arms, legs, feet, face.  The hair on my body started to fall out, including my eyebrows.  Some of the scales grew up, became ridges.  After every shower, as old layers were washed away, my skin became more blue.

I didn't leave the house for two weeks while I watched myself turn into a monster.

It wasn't until the day before my mom returned that I thought to see if my mimicking abilities extended to the rest of me.

I started with my eyes, moving them back and forth from yellow to brown.  Warming up.  I talked to myself in my old voice for a while.  Then I focused, visualizing what I had looked like a mere two weeks before.  I felt something give.  I caught my breath, but nothing in my appearance had changed.  I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth in concentration. 

And my skin rippled.  That's the only word I can think of to describe it. 

I opened my eyes and choked on a sob.

In the mirror was a black-haired, brown-eyed, 15-year-old girl.  My sobs deepened.  My skin rippled again.  A blue-skinned mutant stared back through yellow eyes.

I raced downstairs to greet my mom.

"Honey!  Your hair!" she gushed, stroking my black locks.

"Yeah, I decided I was sick of orange.  I dyed it back."

"It looks great."  She hugged me and then looked closely at my face.  My heart started pounding.  Had I messed up?

"Your…acne is all cleared up too!"  She beamed at me.  "I told you the dermatologist would help."

I smiled.

Later that night I stood in front of the mirror.  My skin rippled back to blue.  I closed my eyes.  Ripple.  I opened them and looked in the mirror.  My mother looked back at me.

"Cool," I said in her voice.

I went back to school the next Monday, my bronchitis finally gone.  I had no trouble making up assignments and tests, but I occasionally had to fake lingering coughing fits so I could race to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall and let the illusion go.  Holding an entire false shape all day was much harder than just eyes and voice.  I almost lost it a few times those first few weeks, but it gradually became easier, like I was building muscles.

I stopped wearing clothes early on. They were uncomfortable, as my scales and ridges kept catching.  And I could "wear" anything I wanted.  It saved me a lot of money, as all I had to do was see an outfit I liked and appear in it the next day.  My abilities were amazing.  Hair, clothes, even shoes and jewelry all came from my skin, but looked and felt just like the real thing.  The only catch was that I couldn't actually take anything off, as it was in essence a part of me.

At night I became anyone I wanted.  Teachers, friends, strangers passed on the street.   You would think that a 16-year-old girl—my birthday is in March—with the ability to look like anyone she wanted would get into mischief.  I certainly thought about it, but I suppose I was afraid I'd be found out.  The fear of discovery was ever-present, lurking in the back of my mind.  I was living a lie.  This pretty, intelligent cheerleader (with black hair, I was allowed on the squad) was in reality a blue-skinned freak.  I knew the people of my town, my friends and classmates would never accept me.  I knew I couldn't even tell my mom.  She'd just take me to some specialist, convinced the right pill would fix everything.

I started looking at colleges in New York, Washington D.C., Boston.  There had to be other people like me in the big cities.

At night I sat in front of the mirror and stared at myself—my real self—and slowly the self-hatred faded.

The summer months passed and my junior year began.  And with it came the end of one life and the start of another.

The bonfire before the first football game was the biggest pep rally of the year.  The cheerleading squad had been practicing our routine since July.  We were ready.

It went perfectly until the very end.

Jen and Rachel propelled me into the air for the final formation.  I caught hold of Kristen's arm and Jen and Rachel grabbed my calves to steady me as my feet found their shoulders.  Only Rachel missed.  My foot slipped off the back of her shoulder and I fell.  The lower half of my body landed on Rachel, but my head slammed into the ground.

I never fully lost consciousness, but for a few seconds the firelight swirled sickeningly around my eyes and I couldn't hear anything.

And then I could hear screaming.  Not the sort of screaming you hear during accidents.  Panicked, horror-stricken screaming.  I tried to sit up, but the dizziness doubled and I fell back to the ground.  I put a hand to my head, and then slowly pulled it back, as my jarred brain slowly processed what I'd just seen.  My hand was blue.  I touched my forehead.  Scales.  I struggled to my feet and the screaming redoubled.  I could see blurry people running in all directions.  Two Rachels were crawling away from me, sobbing.

My vision finally cleared and I saw the principal and the cheerleading coach staring at me with wide, frightened eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said, my multiple voices ringing in my ears.

They gasped and back-pedalled.  The principal looked wildly around like he was searching for something.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth in an attempt to concentrate through the pounding in my skull.  It felt like it took ages, but my skin finally rippled and I knew I was Raven Darkholme again.

"I'm sorry," I repeated.  "I won't let it happen again."

Now that I looked like a normal teenage girl, the two adults found their voices.

"I think you'd better come see me in my office tomorrow morning," the principal said.  He walked off, nervously adjusting his tie and repeatedly looking over his shoulder.

Coach Davis stared at me for a while, then circled around me to help Rachel to her feet.  The girl gasped and clasped both hands over her ribs.

"I…I think you'd better quit the squad, Raven."

"No," I pleaded, taking a step forward.  Rachel whimpered.  "Please don't kick me off.  I promise it won't happen again."

Coach shook her head.  "It's too late, Raven.  The girls will be scared."  She bit her lip.  "I'm scared."

"I won't hurt anyone.  I'd never hurt anyone."

"I think it's better this way.  I'm sorry."  She helped Rachel limp off the field.

I stood alone, the bonfire roaring behind me.

Lisa was waiting for me in the parking lot.

"What are you?" she asked.

"Your friend," I said quietly.

"What are you?" she asked again as though she hadn't heard me.  She was shaking.

"A 16-year-old girl, just like you."

She hissed.  "I'm not like you!  What are you?"

"A person."

"No!" she shouted.  "You're one of them.  One of those mutants!"

"Lisa—" I reached for her arm.

"Don't touch me!  Get away from me!" she screamed.

I turned and ran, tears blinding me.  I fell twice, but the pain helped clear my head, and by the time I reached home I was reasonably calm.

The door flew open as I reached for the knob and my mother enveloped me in a hug.  I hugged her back as hard as I could, needing comfort, and knowing it could be the last time she would ever want to touch me.

"What on earth has happened?" she cried.  "I've had phone call after phone call.  Teachers, parents, even the police.  What's going on?"

I closed my eyes for a moment and pulled away.

"Kari's mom was screaming at me—screaming—that I had better keep my freak show of a daughter away from Kari."  She looked confused and near panic.  "What's happened?  Did you do something?"

"I fell," I mumbled.  "I lost control."  I pulled her to the couch and she sat, staring up at me.  I sat beside her.

"You fell?  During the routine?  Are you all right?"

"Yes."  I turned to face her more directly.  "Mom, remember a couple of years ago when my eyes turned yellow, and then last year when my skin had all those funny bumps?"

She frowned.  "Yes, but what do they have to do with anything?  They went away."

"No, they didn't.  I learned how to make them go away."

Her frown deepened.  "I don't understand."

"I'm…I'm a….  Watch."  I held her hands as I relaxed my hold on my eyes and felt them revert to yellow.

She gasped and pulled away, snatching her hands from mine.

I turned my eyes back to brown.  "I never meant for anyone to find out," I said, "but tonight I fell off the pyramid and hit my head and…and everyone saw what I really look like."

"But…your eyes…how could everyone see those?"

"It's not just my eyes.  It's everything."

"Everything?" she echoed, her voice oddly flat.

I nodded.  "Listen, I don't know what's going to happen, but I think it's going to get rough.  I'm supposed to go see the principal tomorrow.  I—I'm already not on the cheerleading squad anymore.  Everyone's afraid of me.  I…I need you not to be, Mom."

She was staring at her feet.

"Mom?"

She lifted her head, her eyes dull.  "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me what you really look like.  Why everyone is afraid of you."

"Mom, no.  Don't."

"Show me!"

"Mom—"

"Show me!" she screamed.  "I have to know what my daughter looks like!"

I stood and backed away, a little frightened.  My mom cried a lot.  She didn't scream.  I didn't know what I could say to prepare her, so I just morphed.  My skin rippled slowly from head to foot, as I somehow thought that would be less upsetting. 

She jumped to her feet and backed away, her hand covering her mouth.

"No no no no no," she said in a low monotone.

"Mom?" I said in my true voice.  "Please…"

She jerked at the voices coming from my mouth.

"Mom…"

With a sob she turned and ran to her bedroom.  I could hear her inside, wailing.  I sank down onto the couch, buried my blue face in my blue hands, and cried.

"Raven Darkholme," the principal said, then cleared his throat.  He adjusted the small name plaque on his desk and shot a glance at me.

"Yes, Mr. Skolowski?" I asked quietly, trying to be as unalarming as possible.

"Yes.  Well."  He cleared his throat again.  "I talked to the faculty this morning about your…situation.  They felt—and I agreed—that it would be best for you if you finished out the year at the alternative school."

I blinked.  "You're kicking me out?  But I haven't done anything!"

"You're not being expelled.  We just think it's in the best interest of all involved if you transferred to the alternative school for the remainder of your high school career.  I have to consider the safety of the students—"

"Safety?  I'm not going to hurt anyone!"

"I know you wouldn't mean to, of course," he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.  I had a crazy urge to laugh at the panic that flitted through his eyes.  "But you always hear in the news about people being hurt by…by…"

"Mutants?" I looked at him coldly.

"Uh, yes.  Mutants.  And you must remember that we don't know what you're capable of, and after the incident last night it would seem that you are not in complete control of your…self."

"But I am!" I protested.  "I've been in control for two years now, and the only reason I let things slip last night is because I was fighting to stay conscious."  I was moving from hurt to angry.  "And, as I recall, no one offered to get me any help, even though I may have had a concussion."

"Accidents happen, Miss Darkholme," he went on as though I hadn't spoken.  "And Miss Gates was injured during your lapse of control."

"My 'lapse of control' wouldn't have happened if Rachel Gates hadn't missed her grip."

He frowned.  "Don't shift the blame, Miss Darkholme.  It's immature and irresponsible."

I sputtered.  My friends were afraid of me.  My mother was locked in her room, having a nervous breakdown because of what I was.  And now this man was convinced that because I had looked strange for thirty seconds I was a danger to the entire school.  The anger settled in my stomach and seemed to solidify. 

"You said earlier that you didn't know what I was capable of," I said, icy calm.  "Why don't I show you?  Then you won't have anything to worry about."

I stood and he shrank back, expecting me to melt him where he sat.  I smiled wickedly and let my skin ripple into its natural form.  He gasped.

"This is what I am," I said with my voices.  "This is what I can do."

My skin rippled.  He turned ashen. 

"I'm not dangerous," I said to him in his own voice.  I glanced over to the small mirror he had hanging on the wall.  I smiled, and the perfect reflection of Mr. Skolowski smiled back.  "Not bad, eh?"

I morphed into the office secretary, followed by my English teacher, the choir director, and finally the football coach before shifting back into Raven Darkholme.  I retook my seat.

Mr. Skolowski gaped at me, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish.  I watched him gasp for a while before standing in disgust.

I opened the door partway before looking back at him.  "You're so worried about the safety of the student body," I said, "but did you ever worry about mine?"

I walked out, leaving him to gasp.

Outside the school, I was met by a group of football players coming back from their morning weightlifting class, the brilliant invention of the football coach.  His players received an easy 'A' so they would stay academically eligible and he got an extra hour to train them every day.

"Hey!  There's the freak!" Jake Matthews, the senior quarterback, yelled.

Before I'd taken four steps I was surrounded by large, sweaty boys.

"Oh goodie.  The hyenas are feeling brave this morning in their nice, big pack," I muttered.

"What did you call us?" Tyler Buckland asked, getting in my face and breathing on me.

The cold anger in my stomach flared.  "Hyenas.  You know, those funny-looking doglike things that live in Africa.  They look real tough, but in reality they're cowardly scavengers with girly laughs."

"Oh yeah?" Tyler snapped.  "Well, what are you?"

I was getting tired of that question.  "A person."

"We've got some better names for you: freak!"

"Mutant!"

"Creature from the Black Lagoon!"  That one got some laughs.

"I'm really not in the mood for this boys.  Get out of my way."

"Or what?" Jake asked.  "You'll zap us with your mutant powers?"  They all snickered.

"Lay a hand on me and you'll find out," I replied evenly.  He backed up a bit, looking uneasy.  I laughed and tried to push my way out of the circle.  Multiple hands pushed me back into the center.

"You don't leave until we're done with you," Jake said.  "And we've got some things to say first."

"This should be good," I muttered.

"One thing, really.  Get out of town and never come back."

"Where am I supposed to go?  I'm sixteen!"  I was shouting now.

"You'll think of something," Tyler said.  "Go join a circus.  Find all your freak friends."

"Tyler, the freakiest of mutants would still be more normal than you, you great, hulking Neanderthal."  My hands were in fists.

"What, you think you're better than us?" Jake asked, giving me a little shove. 

"Yes, actually," I gritted out between my teeth.

"Yeah, well, you're not!" Tyler shouted.  "You're not even human!" 

I realized I was quivering and forced myself to relax.  I looked around the circle, watching them fidget as my eye touched them.  As I turned back to face Tyler, I morphed into him.  He screamed and stumbled backward, throwing his hands up to protect himself.

"If being human means I have to look like you," I said in his voice, looking down in disgust at my body as Tyler's, "then I'd rather be a mutant."  I morphed into my true form. 

There was a lot of noise as they all yelled and tried to get as far away from me as possible.  I found I suddenly had air to breathe, and they were all standing a dozen feet away from me in a shivering bunch.

"What's the matter?" I asked, watching them flinch at my voices.  "You were all so brave a minute ago.  What will your daddies say when you admit to being afraid of a girl?"

They ran.

I sighed as I watched them stumble over each other in their run for the safety of the gymnasium, not knowing whether I wanted to laugh or cry.  I turned to make my way home and saw a stick of a freshman boy standing next to a tree, his books clutched to his chest.  I remembered that I was naked—and blue—and morphed back into Raven.

"Wow," he whispered.

"Go to class," I said.

He didn't move.

I shifted my weight and snapped, "What do you want?"

He started and blushed.  "You're beautiful."

I smiled sardonically.  "Because I make myself look this way."

He shook his head.  "No.  The other you."

I blinked in surprise.

He turned and ran towards the school.

"Wait!" I called.

He didn't hear me.

That night the main story on the news was "Blue mutant attacks high school football team."  Camera crews set up in our front yard.  They interviewed Principal Skolowski, who related my morphing abilities.  He concluded by looking wildly around and saying, "She could be anyone!"  Rocks broke our back windows.

That night I picked out a name for my real self: Mystique.  Raven Darkholme was just another form I could take.

The next morning the front of our house was covered in red spray paint.

Leave or die, Mutant.

I knocked on my mother's door.  She didn't answer.

"Mom?  Are you all right?"

I tried the handle.  It was locked.

"Mom?  I'm…I'm leaving.  Before things get worse.  I'm going to New York, Boston, maybe D.C.  One of the big cities."

No answer.

"I'll…call you as soon as I can."

No answer.

"Mom?  Please come out."

Nothing.

"I love you."

I left, walking into the night.

I never went back.

----

Disclaimer:  Mystique is owned by Marvel comics and not me.