Hello, All!
This is my newest fic, primarily from my imagination but also somewhat form real life...no I'm kidding. I made it up, ok? It's NOT REAL. So don't panic. Once again, I warn the readers of this fic that this IS RATED R FOR A SPECIFIC REASON (violence, scary-ness, and all kinds of good stuff) so don't read it unless...you...want...to...AHEM
Don't read it if you find yourself unable to handle certain elements such as violence and horror and/or kidnapping/etc...etc...etc...
I'm rambling on, if you can't tell.
Really, this fic shouldn't be any worse (in rating) then Runaway, if ya'll have read that. So just...hang in there, K? This is a work in progress!
Dedicated to:
Shadow Kat, because she's the first person I ever showed it to and she's a cool Kat. (
Prelude-
I remember Penny.
I remember her, from that movie.
What was it called?
The Rescuers.
I watched that movie when I was little.
I remember crying when that mean, ugly lady...Medusa, called Penny homely.
Mommy told me that meant 'ugly'.
I always that Penny was pretty, even with her missing teeth.
I cried because Penny started crying, and she was sad because no one would adopt her, and she didn't have any friends.
The mice saved her, though, and she got a family and kept her teddy bear.
I always liked Bianca, the girl mouse.
She had a purple hat and sweet perfume.
Bernard was chubby with a red shirt, but he could always make me laugh.
He was scared of everything.
But he still helped save Penny from Medusa and stupid old Snoops and their pet crocodiles.
That used to be my favorite movie, The Rescuers.
I haven't watched it since I was...how old?
Maybe ten.
Ten.
That was six years ago.
The old, worn colors of the movie box stare at me bleakly from the puddles of water, sadly begging me to watch, just one more time, as the mice band of heroes rescue little children and right all wrongs, making the world a better place.
God, how wonderful that would be, to see the world as fixed and organized and good!
How sweet to be able to slip back into the simplicity of childhood! To remember how it was to sit back in a comfortable couch, warm from the harsh bite of rain and wind, safe from the evils of reality, and simply laugh at a movie.
Why did I take that for granted?
Why did I let those innocent and safe years slip by like so many breaths?
Why didn't I stop and save a few for a time such as this?
I gasp in pain and inhale sharply, biting back a cry and whimpering pathetically.
"Hush," she hisses clasping me against her chest as we submerge into the shadows, "I told you, not a sound."
I swallow hard and blink, trying to regain serenity, forcing myself to ignore the hands twisting my arms behind my back.
"Where are they?" she asks softly, and I glance up, the rain pelting my bare arms with freezing cold pain.
I bite my lips, the familiar buzz of electric power coursing through my veins as I concentrate on the paths ahead of us, leading to the many jailhouses and guard stations.
My heart speeds up dramatically and I can feel my eyes begin to flicker with heat as my powers kick in, the sounds of whispers and footsteps growing exceedingly loud in my ears.
Suddenly, the hands on my wrists feel like melted metal on my bare skin, and I grit my teeth in agony, falling to my knees and pulling away from her, trying to keep my bare skin away from anything that could alert my senses.
Of course, she assumes I'm attempting escape and grabs a handful of my hair, jerking my head back and snapping me back to reality.
My arms feel as though someone has held an iron to them, and my ears still echo with the faintest of voices and sounds.
"What do you think you're trying to do?" she asks bluntly, pulling me to my feet and gripping my chin with her hand.
I can't look at her eyes.
They're the only thing about her that's real right now...and that's dangerous.
I avert my eyes and mumble, "They're in the second house. A few are in the third, but I think they're...they're dead."
I feel her fingers tighten on my hair in anger (at me, at the soldiers, at life, I don't know) and I wince, almost reaching up in desperation, but I've learned in my short time with her that it's best to simply let her have her way.
I kneel in the bitter rain and harsh wind in nothing but my sleeveless shirt and torn jeans, my jacket having been tossed long ago as something of a tease for my parents, letting them know I'm alive...but not well.
Finally, she lets my head fall and takes my hand almost like a mother might with her child, and wordlessly brings me with her to the jailhouses.
They say everyone has reason to their insanity.
They say even the most insane of people have motives, a basis, a purpose for their psychotic doings.
Even the most evil serial killer, the most well-hidden and caged person at the 'loony bin', the most wicked of war terrorists, has a cause for whatever they have done 'wrong' in the sight of their peers.
Even I, a 'mutie', a 'freak', a complete and utter perfect example of 'the evil monstrosity that has beset our fair nation' am known to have reasoning behind my murderous and bloodthirsty attacks of late.
I smile slightly as the girl lets out a tear-choked sigh, her entire form shaking with a mixture of intense fear and extreme cold.
She's so afraid I can taste it, and I'm not the one with enhanced senses.
It's just then that she backs into me and ceases breathing, eyes widening slightly as she chokes, "Someone's coming."
Instantly, my muscles tense for combat, and my heart speeds, pumping aggression through my veins like some much-needed drug.
I allow my hand to slip from hers and mutter a quick order to "Stay here," before wander innocently around the corner, feeling my skin begin to melt over me in what I know will be an appealing form for the poor soul about to meet me...
The wall I lean against is cold, wet, and slick as I slide to a sitting position, my knees drawn to my chin, my heart trilling fearfully against my ribs as if it full-well intends to claw its way out of my chest.
It sounds like the drum roll that comes before someone is shot to death or hung.
I shudder at the thought, willing the chills scrabbling up my spine like spiders to go away, burying my face in my arms.
I can't believe how cold I am.
Really, the feeling has gone away—now the heavy raindrops and wind feel like pressure, since I've gone numb to most everything.
I can hear her laughing and I swallow back a sudden mouthful of sour bile, tears stinging my eyes; the soldier is guffawing right along with her, conversing like she's just some pretty lady...just walking right into her well-laid trap.
"Idiot," I croak sadly.
It's then that the scream rings out, loud and clear for a moment, and then it is curtailed harshly.
I imagine no one else gives it anymore thought.
How many screams must they hear in this place, a sort of concentration camp for mutants?
I hear more though, thanks to my 'powers'.
These abilities of mine: oftentimes a blessing; lately, a curse.
I hear him begging her through whatever she may have jammed in his mouth to silence him, pleading with her to spare him.
I hear her reply (in her normal voice—she must have morphed back to her normal form) that she'll consider it, if he'll do her a favor.
I cover my ears with my trembling hands and try to ignore the rest, but it's as if the words have been written across my mind:
"Yes...please...I'll do anything!"
She chuckles darkly, and I can almost visualize her standing off in some secluded corner where she must have taken him and knocked him down with his own gun. How surprised he must have been when he turned around and saw a mutant staring back at him!
As if I'm standing there now, a witness to the entire scene, I watch him lying pitifully at her feet, sprawled on his back, some piece of cloth in his mouth, his eyes wide with surprise as he stares down the barrel of his gun.
She smiles at him, "Oh good. I knew we'd see eye to eye."
"W-what do you want?"
"I want to know where I can find a few friends of mine..."
Despite the poor man's circumstance, my heart jumps with hope; if she gets what she needs from him, will she forget about me and let me go at last?
Immediately I feel guilty for thinking of myself when the guard is facing imminent death, but I still can't help but to save hope that she may get what she needs from him and just leave me alone.
Just let me go home.
Just stop hurting me.
"Get what you need," I pray softly, "Please..."
She doesn't.
"I-I...I don't really...I'm just a...I'm not at the l-level of knowing where the p-prisoners are kept...I-I only guard out...outside...but...but maybe...maybe I can still help...?"
Her laughter is shrill and harsh, a mockery to his begging statement, a derisive snicker at his feeble attempts.
There is a single muffled shot, heard only by us three: she and I, and of course him.
I pray it only took that one bullet, but she shoots him three more times.
Just to make sure.
I am trembling in terror, my face no longer hidden, but my eyes glued to the corner of space that I know will soon reveal her.
I'm gasping for breath, choking on the sobs threatening to spill from my lips, fighting back the waves of nausea that crash over me.
When she does finally appear, in disguise again, I can only stare at the ground in a fusion of alarm and horror, knowing for certain that I just can't look at her.
I know I could leave her alone.
I probably should let her calm down and just take her through the houses instead of around them.
But why waste such an opportunity?
She has too much innocence, anyway.
By the time I have her convinced I've dropped the gun (it was empty by the time I'd shot the guy anyway), it's stopped raining enough for her to tell how many mutants are in each of the jail rooms.
To show my appreciation, I half-drag her around the grounds to where I'd killed the stupid fool who'd followed me into the shadows mere moments before.
Like I said before, for every action there's a motive.
Mine is that I want to scare her.
I want to see the look of disgust and sheer terror cross her face.
I enjoy that.
Why?
Call me sick, but I like that sense of power that it gives me.
All my life, people pushing me around and forcing me to be powerless, and now I finally have someone who I myself can do the same to.
I can do whatever I want to her, and it isn't as if she can fight back.
She's tried that before.
She never tried again.
As we round the corner of the second jailhouse, the smell of gunpowder and burning metal greets us both, sending her wheeling back into me.
There's his body, lying exactly as I'd left it, with the gun tossed carelessly to the side.
The girl is breathing shakily, backing up hastily and insistently, sliding in the mud and falling against me consistently.
You'd think she'd learn.
This scene reminds me of back when I was a teenager, a few years younger than her, with the same expression of confusion and horror, the same desperate plight to escape.
~ They were shoving me into a black, pit-like room, calling after me reminders of what I was: "Freak!" "Monster!" "We don't what you, Creature!" "Get away from us, Mutie!"
I'd seen a lot of 'mutie' children disappear through that doorway; fall through that pit, screaming, only to land minutes later into the arms of some awful creature that tore them to pieces.
They came out again a few days later, pieced together but bloody and white- skinned, never speaking or eating; they always killed themselves later on.
Now they'd caught me, and I was being shoved towards that inevitable hell, where some awful torture chamber obviously waited.
Already, I could hear the shrieks of other unwanted children, and I gazed desperately back at my mother, screaming while tears streamed down my cheeks, "Momma! Please, Momma! Please save me, Momma! I'll be good! I promise, Momma! I'll try to change! Please, Momma! Please!"
Her eyes clouded over and she turned her head in disgust just as my feet slid over the lip of the hole...
~
I shake my head, banishing the unwanted memory, trying to forget that day, and focus instead on the situation at hand.
Here I stand now, much older than thirteen, with a helpless little child standing in that same place that I stood in those many years ago, with that same pleading look in her eyes, with her feet sliding ever nearer to the limp form of a man I myself slaughtered out of a rage bottled up for decades.
And for a moment, I see that she still holds the purity and innocence that I once grasped.
She still keeps a tight grip on sanity, never letting it slide between her fingers, like I did in her same situation.
Does that make her better than me?
Is that why HER parents want her still? Why they haven't shunned her or given up the search for her?
Is that why few hate her, despite her obvious 'genetic disfiguration'?
My blood boils with intense loathing, like I've never felt before, and one sentence, as if burned into my mind by an invisible cattle prod, is etched into my soul forever: "It's not fair."
Infantile? Yes.
Out of place? Perhaps.
But I hiss them none the less, dropping to my knees and bringing her, whimpering, down with me, blinking back the tears that I never allowed to come when I was so much younger...
I can almost swear I can smell the aroma of tears in the air.
They're not mine.
I know that.
I stop whimpering for a minute and concentrate, sniffling as muddy rainwater begins to soak through my already drenched jeans.
It's her.
She's crying.
For some reason, that makes me want to sob more.
Why is she crying?
I can't read emotions. Just because I have enhanced senses doesn't mean I'm a mind-reader.
Does she feel bad for killing this man?
Why would she? She's killed before, in front of me. Killed innocent children, without shedding a single tear.
She laughed, in fact.
Perhaps it's just all too much for her.
She's fighting her tears, I can tell.
Her grip on my arms is growing painful, her nails digging into my flesh; I wince and try to pull away.
That seems to snap her out of her out-of-character trance.
She jerks me roughly back to her and chuckles slightly, "What's the matter, Rachael?"
The sound of my name on her lips sends nausea into my mouth; I hate the way she says it; it slips slowly off of her tongue in a tone that is like honey- coated revulsion.
I don't answer though; I simply lower my head, closing my eyes as I let out a shaky sigh.
"Am I HURTING you? Holding you too TIGHTLY? So SORRY. Please FORGIVE me."
She's never sounded this sardonic before.
Something's going on here.
As she shoves me away from her she laughs slightly and straightens to her feet, "Can you ever forgive me?"
I slide forward in the filthy, odorous concoction of mud, blood, and rainwater and sit up quickly, spluttering and wiping the slime form my face.
She snickers derisively, shaking her head as she crouches before me, "You're pathetic."
I slide away from her until my back is against the wall and wipe new tears from my eyes, suddenly unable to keep from crying.
That just gives her more fuel, but I just can't help it.
She cocks her head and pouts in mock sympathy, clicking her tongue, "Are you going to cry now? Has this all suddenly become far too much for you?"
In this past week (has it only been a week? It seems so much longer!) I've never let her see me cry. Never shed a tear in front of her.
And now I just can't stop the rivers of tears coursing down my cheeks and I start sobbing, abruptly realizing how scared I really feel. It's suddenly as if I see how close I am to dearth, as if I'm aware of what I've been through, and it's just too much to handle.
I try hard to stop as she pulls me to my feet and we force our way into the first of the jailhouses, but all I can do is follow helplessly along, my wails only quieting when she finally slaps a hand over my mouth and snaps at me to hush.
I can feel her tears trickling down her cheeks and over my hand and I pause in the doorway of one of the jail rooms, my eyes adjusting to the shadows, my ears straining to hear over the muffled sound of the child's cries.
I can't take much more of this.
It isn't just the sound that drives me to anger, but the fact that she is completely useless to me like this.
I may as well just kill her and be done with it.
However, I know that this is not Eric's plan, and so instead I try to compromise, something I wish I never had to even think of.
Turning so that she is backed into a corner and she is facing me, I cup her face in my hands and shush her again, thinking how very m,uch I sound like my own mother when I do.
"Stop that," I say forcefully, forcing her chin up so that I can see her eyes, "You're going to get us caught, and I swear that if so much as a simple JANITOR comes in because he heard you COUGHING, I will break every single bone in your body."
She knows I'm capable of it.
So do I.
That catches her attention enough to silence her wails, but the tears continue flowing, and her eyes hold the dull look of someone who's given up all life.
Remembering full-well what Eric told me in the first place, and feeling not even the slightest twinge of guilt, I finish by promising the one thing I know will get her to do what I want: "However, if you stay silent..." I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers and smile softly, "...I'll bring you home to your family."
Immediately, her eyes light up and she looks me full in the face for the first time tonight, her countenance a facade of anticipation and slight distrust, "Y-you're not lying? You mean it?"
"Of course. Why would I lie?"
She's still slightly skeptical.
She's a little brighter than I thought.
Well, if there's one thing I don't do, it's lie.
I won't lie to this girl.
I'll take her home to her family.
I know how demonic and cruel my grin is, but I can't help it; I let it slide gracefully onto my lips and nod innocently, "Yes. I promise to you that I will take you home to your parents—your entire family—IF you're silent and IF you finish helping these prisoners escape. If I don't keep my word to you, then it's a direct curse on my honor and on my heritage for years to come. I swear to you."
That gets her.
She eyes me for a second longer, and then averts her eyes, softly murmuring, "What do you want me to do now?"
This is too easy.
I remember Penny.
I see her on the box.
It's my movie box.
She's getting free on the box, riding Medusa's motorboat, riding to freedom, going back to the orphanage where her future parents wait for her.
A single tears slides down my cheek and lands in the rain puddle, along with the sheets of water falling from the sky.
I can't move.
Whether it's from the agonizing beating I just received, the numbing of my body, or the shock stealing through me, I'm as still and limp as a rag doll.
I really hate that acronym.
It's been used so many times.
But what else is limp, really, but a rag doll?
I glance weakly over to my hand which lies inches form my face, half submerged in the rubble of what used to be my house.
It doesn't look like my hand anymore.
It looks like someone else's.
I try to wiggle my fingers, to make sure it is my hand.
It isn't.
It's my little brother's.
I want to look away, but I can't.
Not until Mystique comes over and turns my face away with her hand, "I came to say goodbye, Rachael."
She still says my name in that way that I hate.
She's still smiling that way that makes me feel sick.
I can't look at her.
She kisses my cheek sardonically and whispers in my ear, "Give up, Rachael. Now's not the time to keep up your tenacity. You have nothing to live for. We made sure of it. Now just give it up."
Then she's gone.
I can hear the car revving up and pulling away, with her and Eric and the rest of the mutants I helped escape all leaving me alone to die.
I want to die.
I want to die so much.
I want to join my family under the remains of my house.
I want to just crawl under there and curl up and die.
I look up at the sky, watching as endless spears of rain are hurled down to hit me in the face.
Slowly I close my eyes.
"Let me die," I pray softly.
Then, it's all over.
This is my newest fic, primarily from my imagination but also somewhat form real life...no I'm kidding. I made it up, ok? It's NOT REAL. So don't panic. Once again, I warn the readers of this fic that this IS RATED R FOR A SPECIFIC REASON (violence, scary-ness, and all kinds of good stuff) so don't read it unless...you...want...to...AHEM
Don't read it if you find yourself unable to handle certain elements such as violence and horror and/or kidnapping/etc...etc...etc...
I'm rambling on, if you can't tell.
Really, this fic shouldn't be any worse (in rating) then Runaway, if ya'll have read that. So just...hang in there, K? This is a work in progress!
Dedicated to:
Shadow Kat, because she's the first person I ever showed it to and she's a cool Kat. (
Prelude-
I remember Penny.
I remember her, from that movie.
What was it called?
The Rescuers.
I watched that movie when I was little.
I remember crying when that mean, ugly lady...Medusa, called Penny homely.
Mommy told me that meant 'ugly'.
I always that Penny was pretty, even with her missing teeth.
I cried because Penny started crying, and she was sad because no one would adopt her, and she didn't have any friends.
The mice saved her, though, and she got a family and kept her teddy bear.
I always liked Bianca, the girl mouse.
She had a purple hat and sweet perfume.
Bernard was chubby with a red shirt, but he could always make me laugh.
He was scared of everything.
But he still helped save Penny from Medusa and stupid old Snoops and their pet crocodiles.
That used to be my favorite movie, The Rescuers.
I haven't watched it since I was...how old?
Maybe ten.
Ten.
That was six years ago.
The old, worn colors of the movie box stare at me bleakly from the puddles of water, sadly begging me to watch, just one more time, as the mice band of heroes rescue little children and right all wrongs, making the world a better place.
God, how wonderful that would be, to see the world as fixed and organized and good!
How sweet to be able to slip back into the simplicity of childhood! To remember how it was to sit back in a comfortable couch, warm from the harsh bite of rain and wind, safe from the evils of reality, and simply laugh at a movie.
Why did I take that for granted?
Why did I let those innocent and safe years slip by like so many breaths?
Why didn't I stop and save a few for a time such as this?
I gasp in pain and inhale sharply, biting back a cry and whimpering pathetically.
"Hush," she hisses clasping me against her chest as we submerge into the shadows, "I told you, not a sound."
I swallow hard and blink, trying to regain serenity, forcing myself to ignore the hands twisting my arms behind my back.
"Where are they?" she asks softly, and I glance up, the rain pelting my bare arms with freezing cold pain.
I bite my lips, the familiar buzz of electric power coursing through my veins as I concentrate on the paths ahead of us, leading to the many jailhouses and guard stations.
My heart speeds up dramatically and I can feel my eyes begin to flicker with heat as my powers kick in, the sounds of whispers and footsteps growing exceedingly loud in my ears.
Suddenly, the hands on my wrists feel like melted metal on my bare skin, and I grit my teeth in agony, falling to my knees and pulling away from her, trying to keep my bare skin away from anything that could alert my senses.
Of course, she assumes I'm attempting escape and grabs a handful of my hair, jerking my head back and snapping me back to reality.
My arms feel as though someone has held an iron to them, and my ears still echo with the faintest of voices and sounds.
"What do you think you're trying to do?" she asks bluntly, pulling me to my feet and gripping my chin with her hand.
I can't look at her eyes.
They're the only thing about her that's real right now...and that's dangerous.
I avert my eyes and mumble, "They're in the second house. A few are in the third, but I think they're...they're dead."
I feel her fingers tighten on my hair in anger (at me, at the soldiers, at life, I don't know) and I wince, almost reaching up in desperation, but I've learned in my short time with her that it's best to simply let her have her way.
I kneel in the bitter rain and harsh wind in nothing but my sleeveless shirt and torn jeans, my jacket having been tossed long ago as something of a tease for my parents, letting them know I'm alive...but not well.
Finally, she lets my head fall and takes my hand almost like a mother might with her child, and wordlessly brings me with her to the jailhouses.
They say everyone has reason to their insanity.
They say even the most insane of people have motives, a basis, a purpose for their psychotic doings.
Even the most evil serial killer, the most well-hidden and caged person at the 'loony bin', the most wicked of war terrorists, has a cause for whatever they have done 'wrong' in the sight of their peers.
Even I, a 'mutie', a 'freak', a complete and utter perfect example of 'the evil monstrosity that has beset our fair nation' am known to have reasoning behind my murderous and bloodthirsty attacks of late.
I smile slightly as the girl lets out a tear-choked sigh, her entire form shaking with a mixture of intense fear and extreme cold.
She's so afraid I can taste it, and I'm not the one with enhanced senses.
It's just then that she backs into me and ceases breathing, eyes widening slightly as she chokes, "Someone's coming."
Instantly, my muscles tense for combat, and my heart speeds, pumping aggression through my veins like some much-needed drug.
I allow my hand to slip from hers and mutter a quick order to "Stay here," before wander innocently around the corner, feeling my skin begin to melt over me in what I know will be an appealing form for the poor soul about to meet me...
The wall I lean against is cold, wet, and slick as I slide to a sitting position, my knees drawn to my chin, my heart trilling fearfully against my ribs as if it full-well intends to claw its way out of my chest.
It sounds like the drum roll that comes before someone is shot to death or hung.
I shudder at the thought, willing the chills scrabbling up my spine like spiders to go away, burying my face in my arms.
I can't believe how cold I am.
Really, the feeling has gone away—now the heavy raindrops and wind feel like pressure, since I've gone numb to most everything.
I can hear her laughing and I swallow back a sudden mouthful of sour bile, tears stinging my eyes; the soldier is guffawing right along with her, conversing like she's just some pretty lady...just walking right into her well-laid trap.
"Idiot," I croak sadly.
It's then that the scream rings out, loud and clear for a moment, and then it is curtailed harshly.
I imagine no one else gives it anymore thought.
How many screams must they hear in this place, a sort of concentration camp for mutants?
I hear more though, thanks to my 'powers'.
These abilities of mine: oftentimes a blessing; lately, a curse.
I hear him begging her through whatever she may have jammed in his mouth to silence him, pleading with her to spare him.
I hear her reply (in her normal voice—she must have morphed back to her normal form) that she'll consider it, if he'll do her a favor.
I cover my ears with my trembling hands and try to ignore the rest, but it's as if the words have been written across my mind:
"Yes...please...I'll do anything!"
She chuckles darkly, and I can almost visualize her standing off in some secluded corner where she must have taken him and knocked him down with his own gun. How surprised he must have been when he turned around and saw a mutant staring back at him!
As if I'm standing there now, a witness to the entire scene, I watch him lying pitifully at her feet, sprawled on his back, some piece of cloth in his mouth, his eyes wide with surprise as he stares down the barrel of his gun.
She smiles at him, "Oh good. I knew we'd see eye to eye."
"W-what do you want?"
"I want to know where I can find a few friends of mine..."
Despite the poor man's circumstance, my heart jumps with hope; if she gets what she needs from him, will she forget about me and let me go at last?
Immediately I feel guilty for thinking of myself when the guard is facing imminent death, but I still can't help but to save hope that she may get what she needs from him and just leave me alone.
Just let me go home.
Just stop hurting me.
"Get what you need," I pray softly, "Please..."
She doesn't.
"I-I...I don't really...I'm just a...I'm not at the l-level of knowing where the p-prisoners are kept...I-I only guard out...outside...but...but maybe...maybe I can still help...?"
Her laughter is shrill and harsh, a mockery to his begging statement, a derisive snicker at his feeble attempts.
There is a single muffled shot, heard only by us three: she and I, and of course him.
I pray it only took that one bullet, but she shoots him three more times.
Just to make sure.
I am trembling in terror, my face no longer hidden, but my eyes glued to the corner of space that I know will soon reveal her.
I'm gasping for breath, choking on the sobs threatening to spill from my lips, fighting back the waves of nausea that crash over me.
When she does finally appear, in disguise again, I can only stare at the ground in a fusion of alarm and horror, knowing for certain that I just can't look at her.
I know I could leave her alone.
I probably should let her calm down and just take her through the houses instead of around them.
But why waste such an opportunity?
She has too much innocence, anyway.
By the time I have her convinced I've dropped the gun (it was empty by the time I'd shot the guy anyway), it's stopped raining enough for her to tell how many mutants are in each of the jail rooms.
To show my appreciation, I half-drag her around the grounds to where I'd killed the stupid fool who'd followed me into the shadows mere moments before.
Like I said before, for every action there's a motive.
Mine is that I want to scare her.
I want to see the look of disgust and sheer terror cross her face.
I enjoy that.
Why?
Call me sick, but I like that sense of power that it gives me.
All my life, people pushing me around and forcing me to be powerless, and now I finally have someone who I myself can do the same to.
I can do whatever I want to her, and it isn't as if she can fight back.
She's tried that before.
She never tried again.
As we round the corner of the second jailhouse, the smell of gunpowder and burning metal greets us both, sending her wheeling back into me.
There's his body, lying exactly as I'd left it, with the gun tossed carelessly to the side.
The girl is breathing shakily, backing up hastily and insistently, sliding in the mud and falling against me consistently.
You'd think she'd learn.
This scene reminds me of back when I was a teenager, a few years younger than her, with the same expression of confusion and horror, the same desperate plight to escape.
~ They were shoving me into a black, pit-like room, calling after me reminders of what I was: "Freak!" "Monster!" "We don't what you, Creature!" "Get away from us, Mutie!"
I'd seen a lot of 'mutie' children disappear through that doorway; fall through that pit, screaming, only to land minutes later into the arms of some awful creature that tore them to pieces.
They came out again a few days later, pieced together but bloody and white- skinned, never speaking or eating; they always killed themselves later on.
Now they'd caught me, and I was being shoved towards that inevitable hell, where some awful torture chamber obviously waited.
Already, I could hear the shrieks of other unwanted children, and I gazed desperately back at my mother, screaming while tears streamed down my cheeks, "Momma! Please, Momma! Please save me, Momma! I'll be good! I promise, Momma! I'll try to change! Please, Momma! Please!"
Her eyes clouded over and she turned her head in disgust just as my feet slid over the lip of the hole...
~
I shake my head, banishing the unwanted memory, trying to forget that day, and focus instead on the situation at hand.
Here I stand now, much older than thirteen, with a helpless little child standing in that same place that I stood in those many years ago, with that same pleading look in her eyes, with her feet sliding ever nearer to the limp form of a man I myself slaughtered out of a rage bottled up for decades.
And for a moment, I see that she still holds the purity and innocence that I once grasped.
She still keeps a tight grip on sanity, never letting it slide between her fingers, like I did in her same situation.
Does that make her better than me?
Is that why HER parents want her still? Why they haven't shunned her or given up the search for her?
Is that why few hate her, despite her obvious 'genetic disfiguration'?
My blood boils with intense loathing, like I've never felt before, and one sentence, as if burned into my mind by an invisible cattle prod, is etched into my soul forever: "It's not fair."
Infantile? Yes.
Out of place? Perhaps.
But I hiss them none the less, dropping to my knees and bringing her, whimpering, down with me, blinking back the tears that I never allowed to come when I was so much younger...
I can almost swear I can smell the aroma of tears in the air.
They're not mine.
I know that.
I stop whimpering for a minute and concentrate, sniffling as muddy rainwater begins to soak through my already drenched jeans.
It's her.
She's crying.
For some reason, that makes me want to sob more.
Why is she crying?
I can't read emotions. Just because I have enhanced senses doesn't mean I'm a mind-reader.
Does she feel bad for killing this man?
Why would she? She's killed before, in front of me. Killed innocent children, without shedding a single tear.
She laughed, in fact.
Perhaps it's just all too much for her.
She's fighting her tears, I can tell.
Her grip on my arms is growing painful, her nails digging into my flesh; I wince and try to pull away.
That seems to snap her out of her out-of-character trance.
She jerks me roughly back to her and chuckles slightly, "What's the matter, Rachael?"
The sound of my name on her lips sends nausea into my mouth; I hate the way she says it; it slips slowly off of her tongue in a tone that is like honey- coated revulsion.
I don't answer though; I simply lower my head, closing my eyes as I let out a shaky sigh.
"Am I HURTING you? Holding you too TIGHTLY? So SORRY. Please FORGIVE me."
She's never sounded this sardonic before.
Something's going on here.
As she shoves me away from her she laughs slightly and straightens to her feet, "Can you ever forgive me?"
I slide forward in the filthy, odorous concoction of mud, blood, and rainwater and sit up quickly, spluttering and wiping the slime form my face.
She snickers derisively, shaking her head as she crouches before me, "You're pathetic."
I slide away from her until my back is against the wall and wipe new tears from my eyes, suddenly unable to keep from crying.
That just gives her more fuel, but I just can't help it.
She cocks her head and pouts in mock sympathy, clicking her tongue, "Are you going to cry now? Has this all suddenly become far too much for you?"
In this past week (has it only been a week? It seems so much longer!) I've never let her see me cry. Never shed a tear in front of her.
And now I just can't stop the rivers of tears coursing down my cheeks and I start sobbing, abruptly realizing how scared I really feel. It's suddenly as if I see how close I am to dearth, as if I'm aware of what I've been through, and it's just too much to handle.
I try hard to stop as she pulls me to my feet and we force our way into the first of the jailhouses, but all I can do is follow helplessly along, my wails only quieting when she finally slaps a hand over my mouth and snaps at me to hush.
I can feel her tears trickling down her cheeks and over my hand and I pause in the doorway of one of the jail rooms, my eyes adjusting to the shadows, my ears straining to hear over the muffled sound of the child's cries.
I can't take much more of this.
It isn't just the sound that drives me to anger, but the fact that she is completely useless to me like this.
I may as well just kill her and be done with it.
However, I know that this is not Eric's plan, and so instead I try to compromise, something I wish I never had to even think of.
Turning so that she is backed into a corner and she is facing me, I cup her face in my hands and shush her again, thinking how very m,uch I sound like my own mother when I do.
"Stop that," I say forcefully, forcing her chin up so that I can see her eyes, "You're going to get us caught, and I swear that if so much as a simple JANITOR comes in because he heard you COUGHING, I will break every single bone in your body."
She knows I'm capable of it.
So do I.
That catches her attention enough to silence her wails, but the tears continue flowing, and her eyes hold the dull look of someone who's given up all life.
Remembering full-well what Eric told me in the first place, and feeling not even the slightest twinge of guilt, I finish by promising the one thing I know will get her to do what I want: "However, if you stay silent..." I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers and smile softly, "...I'll bring you home to your family."
Immediately, her eyes light up and she looks me full in the face for the first time tonight, her countenance a facade of anticipation and slight distrust, "Y-you're not lying? You mean it?"
"Of course. Why would I lie?"
She's still slightly skeptical.
She's a little brighter than I thought.
Well, if there's one thing I don't do, it's lie.
I won't lie to this girl.
I'll take her home to her family.
I know how demonic and cruel my grin is, but I can't help it; I let it slide gracefully onto my lips and nod innocently, "Yes. I promise to you that I will take you home to your parents—your entire family—IF you're silent and IF you finish helping these prisoners escape. If I don't keep my word to you, then it's a direct curse on my honor and on my heritage for years to come. I swear to you."
That gets her.
She eyes me for a second longer, and then averts her eyes, softly murmuring, "What do you want me to do now?"
This is too easy.
I remember Penny.
I see her on the box.
It's my movie box.
She's getting free on the box, riding Medusa's motorboat, riding to freedom, going back to the orphanage where her future parents wait for her.
A single tears slides down my cheek and lands in the rain puddle, along with the sheets of water falling from the sky.
I can't move.
Whether it's from the agonizing beating I just received, the numbing of my body, or the shock stealing through me, I'm as still and limp as a rag doll.
I really hate that acronym.
It's been used so many times.
But what else is limp, really, but a rag doll?
I glance weakly over to my hand which lies inches form my face, half submerged in the rubble of what used to be my house.
It doesn't look like my hand anymore.
It looks like someone else's.
I try to wiggle my fingers, to make sure it is my hand.
It isn't.
It's my little brother's.
I want to look away, but I can't.
Not until Mystique comes over and turns my face away with her hand, "I came to say goodbye, Rachael."
She still says my name in that way that I hate.
She's still smiling that way that makes me feel sick.
I can't look at her.
She kisses my cheek sardonically and whispers in my ear, "Give up, Rachael. Now's not the time to keep up your tenacity. You have nothing to live for. We made sure of it. Now just give it up."
Then she's gone.
I can hear the car revving up and pulling away, with her and Eric and the rest of the mutants I helped escape all leaving me alone to die.
I want to die.
I want to die so much.
I want to join my family under the remains of my house.
I want to just crawl under there and curl up and die.
I look up at the sky, watching as endless spears of rain are hurled down to hit me in the face.
Slowly I close my eyes.
"Let me die," I pray softly.
Then, it's all over.