Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Marvel or the X-men.
A Cut of Cajun: Chapter Four
A.N.: If anyone was wondering, the chapter where Maria is put in "the wooden room" was inspired indirectly by The Last Samurai, starring Tom Cruise, in which he plays a soldier who, every day, uses "sake" or alcohol, to make the bad memories of his killings go away…anyway, that's what I was envisioning when I wrote that chapter.
I'm most grateful for reviews, as usual I wouldn't dream of writing such gory stuff, and it's nice to know that at least it sounds good. There's something so liberating of letting it all out…Anyway, if I still have your attention, I need to ask a mayor question… Powers or no powers?
On with the story.
The first thing she saw was a comfortable office decorated in dark stained wood with black edgings and what seemed to be authentic carvings spanned the ceiling. There were several tasteful pictures hung up on the wall, one of a dark-haired woman with very long hair, another was an enlarged photo of a group of people that had been framed in an expensive bronze mark.
Maria scanned the place briefly and disinterestedly. The thought flashed through her mind that these things would buy a lot of "merchandise" with her dealer. The thought vanished quickly, and she concentrated on the chair that had its back turned towards her. It was made out of some plush material, and looked comfortable.
She approached silently, but her expression was still empty, uncaring, as she swiveled it around. It was empty.
Tracing a hand over the top of the chair, she glanced at the desk. After so much time either on the streets, then in the synthetic, deprived atmosphere that she had been experiencing the office was a rich contrast.
Maria blinked. Her eyes were still slightly wet from where she had begun to cry while "Em Vic" held her. She sat down in the chair, sinking into it as one hand fingered the knobs on the drawers. Someone would probably appear suddenly, perhaps this time to cut her hands off. She held up the offending gadgets, studying the thin fingers that were responsible for clutching knives and running them over skin and vein….responsible for causing the flow of free, fresh blood to pour down…
She put her hands down, letting them pull the knobs of the drawers and open them, and then gently retrieve and caress the things she found inside, study the pictures, a lock of brown hair tied up with a ribbon, a bracelet made out of silver chain linked together with a dove in the center, its wings spread in flight. Then, there was a letter in the furthest corner of a drawer, it was badly torn and crumpled, as though someone had read it a thousand times.
The hands that had been responsible for so much of their own blood to escape now opened the envelope carefully, took out the page inside, and began to read—
"That's not yours."
The page fluttered from her hands, hands that then reached for the sharpest thing available. She clutched the letter-opener as a figure stepped out from behind a tapestry where he had blended in like a shadow.
"I'm not yours either," she said, her voice sounding scratchy and strange in the room that seemed so associated with beautiful things.
She scooped up the page and dropped the letter-opener, the paper now in a position that showed that she was about to tear it in half.
"An exchange. Let me go, and I…won't tear it to pieces."
He flinched, but only slightly, then continued towards her, his eyebrows raising slightly as he began to smile, then to laugh.
He laughed until she frowned, stepped forward and slapped him. That made him laugh harder.
It was some time later that she realized that he was being sarcastic.
"Y' can't tear dat apart…you can't tear her apart at all….someone beat y' to it."
A chill raced up her spine as he advanced, that demonic smile on his face—
He looked like the maniacal Joker in a pack of cards she had once owned.
What had she done with those cards? Yes, she had burnt them with her lighter, and held them in her hands until the flames touched her fingertips.
The Joker had been the last to go…his grin lasting until the very end, until all that was left was ashes and charred fingertips.
Unconsciously, she began balling the note up, crushing the paper—
She muffled a scream as someone wrenched the letter from her hands by twisting her wrists painfully. He had grabbed her from behind, in a movement so quick she hadn't known how to counteract it.
He pushed her, and she fell to the floor. Memories flooded her mind. Before she could think, she did what she had wanted to do for a long time…
She defended herself.
In a matter of seconds she had scooped up the letter-opener and plunged it into his shin with all her strength.
Whispers running through her head, of a figure approaching in the night, telling her to be quiet, and not to fight.
The hurt was over, and she wanted it away…so she cut herself, she still cuts herself to this day.
She didn't tell, she didn't yell,
She should have, but she never did.
She bid her innocence farewell,
And continued into her journey,
To Hell.
Maria read the letters, the words scrawled on a now-crumpled page.
She could relate to them. In fact, it was almost as though she had written them….
It felt cold and dark… she curled up into a ball.
She had gone from one Hell to another. And in this inferno, there was no knife…
Nothing to ease the pain.