Ch. 8

Sandy took a nice long soak in the bathtub. They had gotten in touch with Xavier, he had practically welcomed them into his home. Rena was resistant of that, understandable really, she had freedom here, why would she want to give that up?

Sandy had successfully kept from talking about her past. She had gotten Rena to open up, to finally heal an old festering wound, but what about her? Sandy noticed her fingers were beginning to prune, with a sigh she got a towel and retreated to the "master bedroom". What would happen now? Would Rena give up on the idea of the Elite? No, Sandy seriously doubted that. She dressed and looked in the mirror. Rena had wrought more damage on her than she had thought. She could feel a bruise beneath her blouse forming on her stomach.

She had distracted Rena with her own memories. Rena hadn't asked Sandy about her past, about her father. Her secret was still safe. She hoped it stayed that way. Sighing, Sandy fell backwards onto the bed. Closing her eyes she griped the bed as the memories came flooding back with a vengeance.

~"You damn mutie! How dare you kill my dog!" Sandy watched as a tall muscular man just beginning to gray belted a small teenage girl.

"Daddy, I didn't mean to!"

"Don't you call me that MUTIE! You ain't my daughter!" he began to belt her harder and with more frequency.

"Daddy, please!"

"Go . . . to . . . Hell!" His words punctuated by lashes.

The girl was crying, lying limp upon the floor. She hadn't meant to kill Boris, their mutt of six years. He had come up on her and nuzzled her palm. That's when it happened, electricity passed from her skin to the dog's nose. Boris gave a surprised yelp and fell down to the floor. He never arose. That was her crime.

The girl bit her lip to keep from crying out. If she survived this, she would run away. Far, far way, to another place, if she could move that is.

She could feel it. That power, the power marking her as a freak, a mutant. She had nothing against them, no one can help what their genes are. Still, she had never wanted to be a mutant. Daddy had made it perfectly clear that being a mutant was evil. The girl arched her back as electricity coursed up her spine. This was not good.

With a gasp of pain, the beating stopped. The girl opened her dark blue eyes and stared down at her father as the light faded from his eyes. What had she done? "I'm sorry Daddy. I'm so sorry." She kept whispering as she burst into a fresh batch of tears.~

Sandy opened her eyes and gazed up at her hands. She was a killer, this power she had was deadly. But it was an accident. Said a little voice inside, you didn't mean to. Besides, he said it himself, you're not his daughter. That small voice, which sounded remarkably like Sam, kept her from letting go. If it hadn't been for Sam . . .

~As Sandy knelt there, holding herself and crying Sam had come in. He saw her there crying, saw Daddy's corpse and didn't hate her. Daddy hadn't exactly been nice to him through the years either. Wordlessly, he walked towards her.

"No! Don't come near me!" She didn't want to hurt him, but this time Sam didn't listen. He kept walking until he was right in front of her. He put his arms around her and just held her. This time nothing happened, her power didn't hurt him at all, it didn't even manifest. Sam stroked her hair. "It's alright," he said, "We can take care of each other."~

Sam had been only seven, but had acted so mature. She had been seventeen, fresh out of high school, how could she hope to support the two of them? Yet, she had managed. Somehow, she had kept custody of Sam. He had stayed fed and in school but maybe it would have been better if he had been put in an orphanage. No way! Came that small voice, What if he had become a mutant? Then, there would be no chance of adoption or of love, not from bigots like their father. But, he didn't become one, did he? There's still a chance.

Sandy screwed up her eyes. What is done, is done, no point wondering what might have been.

From outside she could hear a key in the rusty old lock. Sandy stretched and sat up. Sam was home, had to put on a good face for him. He usually kept the memories away . . . usually.