Thanks Viral for reviewing! :)
it's not my first fan fic.. my first x men one though, but I'm still fairly
fresh in the fan fic world :)
Man I hated that last chapter.. but okay this one I am a little more proud of..
:)
5th
Things were slightly different.
Alright maybe not slightly, very. She liked this different, only that there was
still something in her that didn't all appreciate it, and was beginning to feel
afraid just a bit. She had the weather now, and it subserviently wafted in
between the fingers of her hands. It was much the same, yet so much more. Sage
had said she hadn't done anything to hike up her powers, just that her awareness
of it was now much clearer, a statement which proved itself when Ororo called
for a breeze and a hurricane came storming its way in through her window.
Things felt so unfamiliar, and she felt so unsure of herself. When she looked at
her hand she didn't know what to do with it, and she felt helpless while
infallible at the same time, like a giant too afraid to move in case it fell
over, like an artist holding a brush not sure whether to take the first stroke,
not sure if that stroke would fly or falter, not sure whether she would soar or stumble.
She felt afraid of herself now, guilty even, as Jean tried to keep a safe
distance from her, trying not to show it but further away all the same. Was she now
something better or something worse? Was she now something she more wanted or
something she more dreaded? Was she now something she would accept or something
that she would hate herself for everyday? Was this now a start or something she
would want to end? Was this what she truly needed or wanted or is what you feel
you least want really the only thing you actually need? Was she actually missing
the emptiness? Missing the lifelessness? Missing having nothing? Weren't people
strange? But she isn't people, for people don't fly and people die once. She had
died too many times, so maybe she had wished for the last time to stay that way.
Why so fickle? Why couldn't she be happy that she could fly again? Happy that
she could now fly even higher? Why lady with the wind, why do you fear after
all.
It's a fear of having something that maybe isn't mine.
When you've lost something, you lose it after all, no matter whether it comes
back to you or not. When you've lost something, and you get it back, you hold it
tenderly because you don't want to have it break again, and you don't want to
have it dissolve in front of you again like it did before. In fact you want it
less because you're reminded of how once before you couldn't keep it, but for
her now twice before, and it keeps reminding you that third times are likely,
even though something else tries to tell you Third time's a charm, you don't
believe it, and you don't want to lose this again.
Yet at the same time she felt complete, like a part of her had been awakened,
along with many other parts she never knew she had before. Fickle, picky and
indecisive, is that all we will ever be? Who can say they were ever truly
happy. Why such a pointless dispute? For now she could feel the wind through her
hair again, not only as it wove its way but she could hear its laughter as well.
She could hear it's softly spoken whispers as it clambered its way along, she
could hear its song before it even came close enough to touch her. She could
feel again the tender tingle of the storm on the edges of her fingertips, feel
once more that she had everything that she needed to have, and that she was
everything that she needed to be. Her muse had found its way back to its cavern
in her soul, and sat unassumingly as it inspired her to fly.
But what of the person she couldn't be anymore? What about the things she had to
stop saying, and the anger she had to keep to herself? What of the façade she
would have to begin to painfully rebuild again around herself? Sadly, slowly,
brick by aching brick. Condemned again to be shut off into herself, viewed as
the dispassionate indifferent woman, treated like a goddess because goddesses
are infallible and goddesses have no feelings, austere and unimpressionable on
their own. Fated to stand aside and smile while inside you try to yell but can't
because you're muffled by the wind, muffled by the rain that would not have you
speak. The people around you cannot hear your cries for compassion because there
are none, because you can't afford any, because you're too poor and deprived of
the privilege to express yourself and say something, at least something. Alone
again, with people only able to guess at what you feel, and no one ever guessing
quite close enough to comfort you where you need comforting, to touch you were
you need touching, to hold you were you need holding. Always a wrong answer, and
you can't even tell them they're wrong, can't tell them what's the right answer
because you yourself, you're not sure what's the right answer at all, because
you've never felt it, because your questions have never been answered. They've
only been buried, they've only festered, they've only spawned the spurning of
your sequestered rage. It's left you devoid of feelings you don't remember, and
it's stripped you of love because it's stripped you of hate. She's forgotten how
to feel.
She floated up through her skylight, and lingered above the rooftop for a while
before ascending to feel the gentle wet kiss of the clouds against her
cheek. She stretched out her arms so that the wind would flow around it, so that
the wind would find her, say hello, and accept her once again.
She called for a gentle drizzle, and let it trickle down her face, sting her
open eyes, and flow into her mouth and quench her wordless yearnings of what
mostly wasn't even thirst. She let it flow into her clothes, wrap around her
every crevice, and lodge itself beneath her eyelids and between her toes. She
smelt its strange ethereal scenting and let it fill her mind with its wistful
messages of blossoming fields, unbroken forests, brooks in woods that remained
untouched. She let it sing into her ears the placid monotonous chatter of
mundane and simple lyrics of the earth. She let her view of the world be
shielded by an emotionless cascade of lightly falling drops of water, coming in
the way of the sky around her and making amateur, fairy-like static, static
which is nothing but an endless deceiving reprimanding of how there is really
nothing to care about, it may seem like there's still something for you to see
or touch but really, everything's been taken away. There's nothing left anymore,
only the gently falling rain, nothing that she need care about.
And there was the answer that she never found, there was the treasure she had
been looking for, that she never found because it wasn't where she was looking,
because it was already there unperturbed and fulfilling what it needed to do.
She needed no counseling, no shoulder, no embrace to answer to her cravings and
her anger, her desire and her frustration. Because the rain, her rain, could wash it
all away. Her tender wind could blow it all away, and her warm and radiant
sunshine could kiss her where she hurt. The heavy clouds would yell her anger in
their thunder, the winds would hiss her pain in their seething through the
trees. The rain would cry the tears she never cried, and the sun would scorch
the hate she never spurned.
She had never cried out with never having a need to, and she never need again
because the wind, the rain, the lightning, the sun, the thunder would do her
bidding and her comforting, and be her shelter as she sheltered all the world.