Sparkling Fountain
By Bethy Bathory
Outside, the winter chill bit cruelly at the people rushing to and from their cars. Their coats held tightly to them, their heads buried into scarves. The comfort of warmth striped away from them, reaching an almost painful degree.
And as the human heart knows, loss of any kind is always painful.
But they didn't truly know the meaning of cold. They have not felt the complete absence of heat; the sub-zero temperature, the blast of arctic winds, the burning of exposed skin cells freezing, dying. Coldness so bitter, it snowed pure ice.
She knew cold. She still felt it in her chest and at her fingertips. The memory was forever ingrained into her skin...like everything else.
It was a few days after New Years. A brand new year. To start anew. To forget and begin again. Comparing the waistlines of the people around her, she knew she wasn't alone in finding such a task near impossible. The mall was crowded, filled with the procrastinators returning Christmas gifts.
Among the people rushing about was a group slightly more ridged. More weary. Looking at them, one would not automatically suspect mutants, but it was not difficult to notice the depth in their eyes, the youthful yet undoubtedly aged faces. Never broken, though. They still smiled and laughed, holding onto their redeeming and distinguishing personalities for dear life. They still held a love for life, even if that life did not love them back. These were the X-men. The superheros. The protectors of peace. The warriors fighting against prejudice. And they were currently steeling themselves against their newest foe. Retail.
God, she envied them. Their strength. She belonged with them, once. While fighting by their sides, she once believed in their dream. She still feels indebted to them, which is the only reason she continued to stick around. She owed them her life, and so much more.
She had told them she had gifts to return and had broken off from the group. She said not wait for her for she would fly home when she was finished. It was a lie; she had no gifts. She just wished to be alone. Her gloved hands resting loosely in her pockets, she slowly walked around the strip of shops. Costumers arguing, clerks looking frazzled, children running around screaming, teens looking around nervously while sneaking exchanges with friends. 'Tis the season.
After circuiting the mall a time or two, she strolled over to an intricate fountain which caught her eye. It was a large, black marble square only about two feet high, though stretching quite a few yards wide. Inside the border were rows of square glass platforms. Water spewed from the centre of each plate, creating alluring blankets of water traveling smoothly over the top and cascading down the sides. Between them were plastic tubes that poked discretely out of the pool, shooting short streams of water straight up in the air about ten feet at intervals. Like translucent worms jumping into the sky in an attempt to transform into birds. As they reached the peak of their flight, where momentum failed them, they shaped into perfect sparkling spheres and let gravity send them down again to plop back into the water. It was beautifully choreographed, she had to admit. Each row would spirt at a time, one following the next to make a wave. Then the centre would start, gradually flowing to the outer shell. Diagonal. Spiral. A series of patterns so precise and aesthetic, she could almost make out the soundless music the fountain danced to.
With a slight curving of her lips that did not reach her eyes, she gave into temptation and slid off one glove. Reaching over the edge, she snatched a falling globule of water. Her fingers closed around it and she felt the globe break on contact, spilling out of her hand. A few drops ran down her wrist, past the sleeve of her thick coat. She was surprised to find the water warm. Squeezing her fist still held out in front of her, she closed her eyes.
"I'm so sorry! So... so Sorry..".
"Don' worry 'bout it, chere."
"Please forgive me, Remy– "
" I say don' worry none! I's fine!" He turned and walked away from her.
Her eyelids snapped open wide and she looked to the ceiling in an attempt to restrain the moisture collecting there. She walked to a collection of plush, leather chairs a few metres away and collapsed into one. She stared into space for a few minutes until someone crossed her line of vision.
A man in a heavy grey fleece and khakis pushed a stroller past her, a young boy no older than four following behind him. They stopped in front of the fountain, the man sitting on the edge, positioning the stroller so the child strapped inside could look out at the liquid display. He had kind eyes behind black-rimmed gasses and a willing smile. He had gone almost completely bald, though he seemed far too young for such a fate. She looked down at his fingers as they were pulling a pile of change out of his pocket. No wedding ring. She unconsciously cradled her left hand in the bare palm of her right.
The boy leaned against the marble, his head barely poking up above the edge. His shockingly blue eyes sparkled like the pool before him. The man gave him a few pennies and briefly reached down to touch his son's blond locks as the boy turned to excitedly throw the change in. He looked back at his father, who promptly gave him a few more pennies.
By this time, anouther group approached. A young couple – siblings or lovers, she could not tell – pushed an old woman in a wheelchair over to an empty set of chairs on the other side of the fountain. They settled, watching the boy trying fruitlessly to reach one of the glass plates. A middle-aged woman approached a moment later, handing them cups of coffee before perching on an arm of a chair, next to the old woman.
"We are a family as well as a team. The professor–we all – need to be confident that you two can still work together." The voice of Cyclops was cold, distant; a futile attempt to seem apathetic and impartial as a team leader should. Although one could not see his eyes, it was evident that he was concerned for them.
"Pas de Probleme. We be okay." The words were pushed. Harsh. A look into those hard crimson eyes told her that they were anything but. However, he was a professional, and there was little doubt that he would falter with her on the battle field. That brought her little comfort.
Cyclops looked at her. She swallowed and nodded. He looked at each of them for a minute, drawing out the silence. Then he bobbed his head curtly. "Alright," he said softly.
"No, no, no! Don't climb up there, you'll get hurt." The man leaned forward, but the boy obediently dropped down from the edge, continuing to lean on it and crane his neck to look at the dancing strips of water. The man gave him more change. Some nickels and dimes this time.
She looked across the fountain and saw the old woman and her family smiling at the boy's actions. The young man with them flicked his eyes to her. She couldn't help but smile back, a bit too widely, suddenly feeling, if a bit unwillingly, a part of the tranquil scene. They all shared a quiet, content moment together. Her mouth spread even more, into that expression one gets when trying to keep from breaking into sobs by stretching the muscles in the face as far as they would go. As if smiling like a retarded clown would erase the desire to blubber like a baby. It didn't work. Tears spilled over her cheeks. She managed to control the violent hitches in her breath and bit her lip to restrain a scream.
When in utter despair, one of the most painful things to bear is witnessing the true, glorious beauty that graces this life. Quite funny, actually. That you should pass by it everyday without a second glance to only notice it later, when drowning in pain.
Mistique had told her that. When still posing as her mother. It wasn't until much later that she realized her mentor was describing her preferred method of torture. It enraged her that the bitch had been more accurate than she ever thought.
The man wiped his hands on his pants and stood. "Time to go, Kiddo." He smiled down at the boy who stepped away from the fountain.
A second later, a blonde woman with a peacoat and jeans and a serious, business-like walk approached them. She was on her cellphone, but stopped to touch the top of the boy's head. She promptly snapped her phone closed and spoke to the man. "That was Patrick. He'll be in town tomorrow evening and wants to take us all out to dinner. I told him you were scheduled to work late, but he's going to stop by anyway."
"No, no, it's perfect. Work can wait. Ready to go?"
The woman leaned in and pecked him on the lips before taking the little boy's hand and leading them away.
She frowned. For whatever reason, the woman's existence upset her. Perhaps it was the illusion she had created for herself. The unity of man and child. The love of a father which could hold an entire family together. It was perfect as it was; there should be no more. She looked back down at her hands. Agitated, she stuffed them beneath her so she was sitting on them. She mentally grabbed at the slight pull of her muscles and restriction of blood to her fingers, holding onto the discomfort like a priest would a cross.
"Gambit, you are still shaking! Here, let me get you something warm to drink."
"Naw, Stormy, I's good. Ya get used to de pain after 'while. Ya come to expect it. Ta need it." His eyes flickered to her from across the kitchen table. He had returned to the Institute a week before, to everyone's astonishment. He was in horrible condition. Barely alive. He had been in the Med Lab with Beast thawing him out, not talking to anyone, not explaining or demanding justification for his abandonment. It was just as well, since they had none. This morning during breakfast was the first time the rest of the X-men had seen him since he collapsed on their doorstep.
His eyes were burning. He still shivered involuntarily and he had a sickly bluish tint to his skin, but his eyes were fervid enough to burn her heart to ash. She could not return the stare.
Later, when she approached him, his words left her frostbitten.
The family across the way was still sitting there, watching the water, when a huge, lumbering man appeared by the fountain His skin was almost dark enough to match his raven beard. With him was anouther child. A little girl with intricate braids in her hair and a red sports t-shirt which almost matched her dad's.
"Girl, I'm too tired to be chasin' you around anymore!" He had a voice like Barry White.
As he collapsed heavily into the chair across from her, they both watched the girl step up to the fountain. Taller than the last kid, she was able to reach over and pat her hands in the water. Splat splat. SPLASH! Her hand came down too hard, and water flew everywhere. When the droplets hit her face, she grinned widely – she was missing a front tooth – and giggled. The adults around her smiled, enjoying the spectacle.
After a while, the girl tired of the water and began running around and around the fountain, her little feet pattering on the linoleum. She screamed in excitement for a few seconds, then continued with soft laughter. In any other setting, this display would be annoying as hell, but somehow, in the peaceful tranquility of the moment, it managed to be endearing. They all watched the child exude her youthful energy, everyone feeling a piece of her innocent joy.
The tingling in her hands grew nearly intolerable, so she snaked them out from under her and cracked her knuckles. It was a bad habit. One that half of society cringed when witnessing it. Perhaps that was why she did it so often.
A young woman stepped up to the fountain. She was rail thin, with sallow eyes that held a great deal of sorrow. She wore a purple dress that draped over her swollen belly. With one hand placed protectively on her stomach, she reached into a pocket and pulled out a quarter, flipping it into the water. It hit a stream of water that had shot up unexpectedly and clunked gracelessly into the water. The woman stared at the fountain with her longing eyes a bit, then walked on, swallowing herself into the crowd.
The man had risen and gently pulled on the child's arm. "C'mon, honey, it's time to go."
"No! I wanna stay!" she pushed away roughly. "Noooo!"
The father kept trying to calm the child who continued to scream and cry. Eventually he was forced to pick her up and carry her away.
"Please, Remy! For God's sake, PLEASE give me anouther chance! Ah was crazy. Irrational. Ah didn't know how to handle the situation. Ah was overwhelmed! It was wrong of meh, Ah know. Ah was wrong! Ya don't have ta forgive meh; Ah wouldn't forgive meh! Just don't give up on us! Don't let meh go!"
He turned back around, his eyes flashing in the moonlight that streamed from the window. "You gave up on me, chere! It was you who said de words. It was you who left. Your decision to break dis. Ya come back now, sayin' ya changed your mind, mais it can' be taken back! De fact dat it could ever enter your mind – dat it could be true fo' only a moment – says dat it ain't meant to be. Ya killed us, amante."
The tingling had subsided completely. As, it seems, had the mood. It was as if the child's wails had broken the strange halo of peace that had fallen over the people at the fountain. Like a bubble bursting, the vicarious din of outside life came crashing in. So loud! So loud!
The old woman and her family left soon after, leaving her alone once more to watch the water jump into the air again and again.
..."Ya killed us, amante."...
"No, Ah'm okay, Professor. Ah just need a little time to adjust to the new team. ...Could Ah possibly get a few more blankets for mah room, though? It's startin' to get awfully cold..."
She raised from her position in the chair and walked back over to the edge of the fountain. Slowly, she slid off her remaining glove. On her finger, a diamond glistened, trapping the light beautifully, just as the giant beads of water that rose to meet her did. Silently, she slipped the ring off and cradled it in her fist for a moment. A tear rolled down her cheek as she opened her hand and tossed it into the fountain. The ring – which had represented years of happiness and patience, years of suffering and tears, years of molding two souls into one – hit a passing globe of water, and disappeared into the sparkling water.
This story was based off of my own experience at the mall a couple days ago. Sitting in a chair, depressed as hell, I watched as people came up to the fountain. Later, I realized the entire affair was amazingly similar to what I think Rogue must have felt after Antarctica. There were only a few differences from the actual scene: the pregnant woman did not exist, both children were boys...and perhaps the whole flying home bit. I didn't throw an engagement ring into the fountain, though if I had had one on me, I probably would have.
A strange occurrence was tied to the event. You see, during Christmas, I was given a pen by my uncle. An enlightened, kind Buddhist, prone to premonitions that actually follow through, he normally gives me a few books of self-enlightenment or the Native American culture. I did receive anouther book, but he had no reason to give me a pen. It was a gaudy little thing, large and red with rough sequins covering it entirely. So left field. I stuffed it into my purse and promptly forgot about it. At the fountain, while witnessing the scene before me and the strange serenity that surrounded us, I had the most powerful desire to write it all down. There was a discarded newspaper next to me, but I had no pen. Then it hit me. I had one in my purse! With that ugly writing utensil, I jotted down what I saw. The result of all this: Sparkling Fountain. Fate, man.