A few words before we jump into the story.
DISCLAIMER::: No, I don't own the x-men. They're a nifty idea, and gee I wish I thought of them, but I don't claim to own or make a profit off of any of them. I DO however own Clan Flannigan, and feel the need to make as much use of them as I possibly can.
Also, I find it necessary to switch from first to third person, for reasons that will become clear as the story progresses. It was either that, or make myself sound schizophrenic, which I really didn't want to do. Heh.
I hope you enjoy this story as much as I'm sure I'm going to enjoy writing it, and as much as I enjoyed the last one.
Thank you all so much!
-Gialia Spiritdancer.
Morgan reached for the tea kettle whistling on the stove and cursed, snatching her hand back from the exposed metal on the broken handle. At some point, the enamel that had kept the handle cool had broken and cracked, and she'd forgotten about it. Hissing, she ran for the sink and turned on the faucet, shoving her hand under the ice cold water. Stupid, she thought, hot objects require handling with care!
"Morgan? Are you okay?" Margaret's voice came from the living room.
"I'm fine Mom." Morgan yelled back. "I just burned my hand, that's all." She ran the water over it until it stopped stinging and the rest of her hand was frozen, and then turned it off just as her mother came into the room.
"Let me see it." Margaret demanded, grabbing a towel off the counter and pulling Morgan's hand into it. An angry red line stood out in sharp contrast against her snow white skin, bridging the gaps between her fingers and running between her second and third knuckles. "Oh, nice one." Margaret murmured. "You should be more careful Morgan."
Morgan shrugged. "I had my mind on other things." She said softly.
"Like certain blue, fuzzy mutants?" Margaret prodded, and Morgan rolled her eyes. Why did her mother keep bringing him up?
"Mom, seriously, I'm not ready to talk about that yet." Morgan said.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I just think that maybe you're being too hasty-"
"Dammit mom!" Morgan pulled her hand back from her mother's tender grip, and sighed. "It's my life, it's my decision. I'm going to do what I think is right, and that's the end of it." With another great sigh, she stalked out of the kitchen and snatched up her keys from the table next to the front door. "I need to get some air."
She slammed the front door a bit harder than she meant to upon exiting the house, wincing and casting a backward glance as she trotted down the stairs of the front porch and down the sidewalk. Her blue 2004 Pontiac Aztec-brand new and shiny- booped gently at her when she pressed the button on her key chain. The driver's seat was cool against her as she slid into it, and for a moment she simply sat in the drivers seat, enjoying the silence afforded her.
Then, she heard her mother calling her name.
It took less than thirty seconds for her to start the truck and drive away. The guilt at leaving like that took at least a few minutes more. Why did she always have to bring him up? It had been two months since she'd last seen Kurt, and still she hadn't come any closer to figuring out how she felt about him. If anything, she was more confused than ever.
It didn't help that he'd been distant and uncertain over the phone with her. Oh, he was friendly enough-he was always friendly- but when she brought up the issue of what had happened between them, he avoided it altogether. Kurt had never struck her as the type to avoid a subject, and the whole thing had frustrated and hurt her. Of course, she couldn't tell him that, because he avoided that as well. He kept the conversation strictly on her family, and how the city was handling the aftermath of serial killing spree. Oh, and he would update her on how things were going at the mansion, and how her siblings Deena and Riley were doing in the first year at Xavier's. Other than that, she might as well be talking to her Aunt Ruth.
Frustrated, Morgan began cycling through the CDs she had in the car stereo currently. One lovely thing about the Aztec, was that it had an amazing sound system, with stereo controls right on the steering wheel. It made music lovers like her have an easier time trying to find something to listen too.
At the first discordant strains of the song, she stopped fiddling with the search options and instead cranked the volume. The masculine yells of Otep clashed with the violent guitar, as the singer's voice swelled from a deep screaming bass to her true soprano, her voice light and flirty, moving over to a deep, agonizing lament before plunging back down into her opening scream. The first time Morgan had heard her, it had been impossible to conceive that the singer was really a woman, until she'd heard it for herself.
The music alone wasn't enough to calm her down. She reached into a cubby in the dash, and retrieved her cigarettes and lighter. A few moments later, and she felt the distant buzz of the nicotine as it slid into her system. It helped sooth at least some of her tension, but did nothing to alleviate the problem.
Her left hand gripped the steering wheel. Her right hand, holding the cigarette between fore finger and middle, came to rest lightly on her stomach.
One thing was for damn sure. There was no way she was ready to be a mother.
Otep does exist. For those of you who like industrial-oh-my-god-it's-making- my-ears-bleed music, I highly suggest you check her out.