Disclaimer: I own Cyclops. He is my stupid baby. -purr-
After a huge-ass hiatus, yeah, I began typing it again. The funny thing is, I've had these chapters written for a while now. I just haven't had the opportunity to type it.
Anywho. Here. Read. Enjoy. Become entranced and hypnotized. FEEL THE POWER OF A DORKY, MORONIC FANFICTION WRITER!
Chapter Two.
"Rogue?" Something clenches my shoulder and forces me to turn around. Oh, shit. "Something the matter?" The gruff voice says. I bet you can guess who it is now. You can't? Too bad. Well, it's Logan. I'm screwed. If he realized that I just happen to enjoy mutilating my flesh for the hell of it, I'll be in deep shit. Maybe I already am: Maybe I just didn't realize it yet. Who knows. I don't.
"No," I say slowly, buying my time. I pull my scarred hands behind my back. "E-Everythin's fine out 'ere, Logan." Wow. Way to go, Rogue! You really fooled him. He'll believe you for sure. But, then again, technically, everything really is fine out here. I'm just having fun, watching my veins burst blood as I shove a sharp edge into them. So, I'm not lying. Nothing's wrong. Never was. Everything's fine. End of story.
"Really?" he asks me, staring at me like I'm some sort of fugitive. Before I can transfer my thoughts to my mouth, he grabs my wonderfully veiled arm and pulls it forward. The lovely blood-stained hand with a knife in it is held up in front of both our faces, and against my will. After a moment of analyzing, Logan nearly yells--if not for the realization that people are trying to sleep-- "What's this?!" What you see in my hand, here, Mr. Logan, is a knife. My knife. The select blade I use to scar my useless little body. To be frank, I use it to cut myself. Myself. Not you. Not. Your. Fucking. Problem.
With my wonderful luck, I can't seem to get those words out of my mouth. And so, this came out instead: "…" That's right. Nothing. I stand silent, hoping it'll go away.
He drops my arm, now seeing the other hand of mine, which has so cleverly popped out of it's hiding place behind my back. He bursts suddenly, "What were you thinking?!" I was thinking, Mr. Please Shut The Hell Up Logan, that I could get some nice old peace and quite outside. But I guess I was wrong. But now I'm right about my first theory: the only use for going outside is talking to squirrels, hoping they won't talk back. Cause that'd be fuckin' impossible.
"Why're -you- even out here anyway?" I yell back. He has no reason to be outside. My welfare my ass-- It's not. His. Problem.
"Just… get back inside," he huffs, heading for the screen door that leads into the kitchen. And… I guess that's it. Except for one problem.
Shouldn't he take my knife from me?
Whoopsies. Sucks for him. I pick up my wet and dirty gloves, and place the knife in between them. Well, Logan's right about something. I should get inside-- I'm drenched with rain, and starting to get pretty cold. So, I get inside, my boots squeaking and squishing like hell. I set my wet gloves at the rim of the sink, and grab the dish towel.
I start washing dirty dishes, dirty dishes that seem to appear out of nowhere. How happy and dandy I am, knowing I am helping to create a better tomorrow, even through the smallest acts of kindness… Anyone who just believed that can please go back to their lovely FCCLA and UNICEF foundations, or read Hallmark cards till the day they die.
So, truthfully, I take the towel and wipe the knife clean. Wait, no-- MY knife, remember? My knife. My best friend. And I turn the subject back to you again. What do you think now? Am I depressed? Am I psycho? Am I melodramatic? Am I boring you? Am I paranoid? Figure it out yourself.
But if you think I'm psycho-- please, spare us the time, go to hell. I might be psycho cause I don't believe I'm psycho. Though I might not, just because I say I am. Confused? Go to… y'know, let's not waste my time. I'm already too busy counting how many people I've sent to hell so far. So take a number and I'll pretend I care.
And now… Rogue has lost her train of thought… again… Oh, yeah. I was talking about my knife. But I won't take my time to bore you with my thoughts of sharp objects and the fun I have with them. And with how they're my little pointy friends.
I leave the kitchen to head upstairs to my room that is not my room. Ya see, the room is not my room because of two key words that fit in there: "Katherine" and "Pryde". Kitty Pryde. The girl who holds the record for how many "likes" you can put into a sentence. She should feel so fucking proud.
And the only thing separating her from the idea of having a knife lodged into her throat is the little bit of sanity I have left in the back of my head, poking at my brain. Ow. It's poking again.
The realization of it being easier to sneak out of room rather than back in comes back. Great. So.
I stare at the doorknob for a few minutes. Maybe sleeping outside the door couldn't hurt anyone. It doesn't matter if it's a soft bed and pillow. Pillows don't rest my head. At least not tonight. The wonderful sound of Logan's pissed voice echoes through my head incessantly. And I'm surprised I even knew the word "incessantly." Makes me wish that there was no such thing as a tomorrow.
But in truth, there's no absolute tomorrow. Hell, I don't want a tomorrow, I won't let myself have one.
Wh00t. All you readers get cookies!…but reviewers get pie… and nice little reviewers get cheesecake! -smiles maniacally, surrounded by pastry goods- I love my power.
Next chapter should be up soon. As I write this, I have about half of it done already.
The fucked-up little Dead Necromancer,
Banshee of Death
After a huge-ass hiatus, yeah, I began typing it again. The funny thing is, I've had these chapters written for a while now. I just haven't had the opportunity to type it.
Anywho. Here. Read. Enjoy. Become entranced and hypnotized. FEEL THE POWER OF A DORKY, MORONIC FANFICTION WRITER!
Chapter Two.
"Rogue?" Something clenches my shoulder and forces me to turn around. Oh, shit. "Something the matter?" The gruff voice says. I bet you can guess who it is now. You can't? Too bad. Well, it's Logan. I'm screwed. If he realized that I just happen to enjoy mutilating my flesh for the hell of it, I'll be in deep shit. Maybe I already am: Maybe I just didn't realize it yet. Who knows. I don't.
"No," I say slowly, buying my time. I pull my scarred hands behind my back. "E-Everythin's fine out 'ere, Logan." Wow. Way to go, Rogue! You really fooled him. He'll believe you for sure. But, then again, technically, everything really is fine out here. I'm just having fun, watching my veins burst blood as I shove a sharp edge into them. So, I'm not lying. Nothing's wrong. Never was. Everything's fine. End of story.
"Really?" he asks me, staring at me like I'm some sort of fugitive. Before I can transfer my thoughts to my mouth, he grabs my wonderfully veiled arm and pulls it forward. The lovely blood-stained hand with a knife in it is held up in front of both our faces, and against my will. After a moment of analyzing, Logan nearly yells--if not for the realization that people are trying to sleep-- "What's this?!" What you see in my hand, here, Mr. Logan, is a knife. My knife. The select blade I use to scar my useless little body. To be frank, I use it to cut myself. Myself. Not you. Not. Your. Fucking. Problem.
With my wonderful luck, I can't seem to get those words out of my mouth. And so, this came out instead: "…" That's right. Nothing. I stand silent, hoping it'll go away.
He drops my arm, now seeing the other hand of mine, which has so cleverly popped out of it's hiding place behind my back. He bursts suddenly, "What were you thinking?!" I was thinking, Mr. Please Shut The Hell Up Logan, that I could get some nice old peace and quite outside. But I guess I was wrong. But now I'm right about my first theory: the only use for going outside is talking to squirrels, hoping they won't talk back. Cause that'd be fuckin' impossible.
"Why're -you- even out here anyway?" I yell back. He has no reason to be outside. My welfare my ass-- It's not. His. Problem.
"Just… get back inside," he huffs, heading for the screen door that leads into the kitchen. And… I guess that's it. Except for one problem.
Shouldn't he take my knife from me?
Whoopsies. Sucks for him. I pick up my wet and dirty gloves, and place the knife in between them. Well, Logan's right about something. I should get inside-- I'm drenched with rain, and starting to get pretty cold. So, I get inside, my boots squeaking and squishing like hell. I set my wet gloves at the rim of the sink, and grab the dish towel.
I start washing dirty dishes, dirty dishes that seem to appear out of nowhere. How happy and dandy I am, knowing I am helping to create a better tomorrow, even through the smallest acts of kindness… Anyone who just believed that can please go back to their lovely FCCLA and UNICEF foundations, or read Hallmark cards till the day they die.
So, truthfully, I take the towel and wipe the knife clean. Wait, no-- MY knife, remember? My knife. My best friend. And I turn the subject back to you again. What do you think now? Am I depressed? Am I psycho? Am I melodramatic? Am I boring you? Am I paranoid? Figure it out yourself.
But if you think I'm psycho-- please, spare us the time, go to hell. I might be psycho cause I don't believe I'm psycho. Though I might not, just because I say I am. Confused? Go to… y'know, let's not waste my time. I'm already too busy counting how many people I've sent to hell so far. So take a number and I'll pretend I care.
And now… Rogue has lost her train of thought… again… Oh, yeah. I was talking about my knife. But I won't take my time to bore you with my thoughts of sharp objects and the fun I have with them. And with how they're my little pointy friends.
I leave the kitchen to head upstairs to my room that is not my room. Ya see, the room is not my room because of two key words that fit in there: "Katherine" and "Pryde". Kitty Pryde. The girl who holds the record for how many "likes" you can put into a sentence. She should feel so fucking proud.
And the only thing separating her from the idea of having a knife lodged into her throat is the little bit of sanity I have left in the back of my head, poking at my brain. Ow. It's poking again.
The realization of it being easier to sneak out of room rather than back in comes back. Great. So.
I stare at the doorknob for a few minutes. Maybe sleeping outside the door couldn't hurt anyone. It doesn't matter if it's a soft bed and pillow. Pillows don't rest my head. At least not tonight. The wonderful sound of Logan's pissed voice echoes through my head incessantly. And I'm surprised I even knew the word "incessantly." Makes me wish that there was no such thing as a tomorrow.
But in truth, there's no absolute tomorrow. Hell, I don't want a tomorrow, I won't let myself have one.
Wh00t. All you readers get cookies!…but reviewers get pie… and nice little reviewers get cheesecake! -smiles maniacally, surrounded by pastry goods- I love my power.
Next chapter should be up soon. As I write this, I have about half of it done already.
The fucked-up little Dead Necromancer,
Banshee of Death