Title: None of the Above
By: Satine16
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this belong to me, they are all property of Marvel Comics. I am doing this for fun and not money so please don't sue me.
Chapter 5: Stumble
"So you've completed all the enzymatic peptide hydrolysis reactions possible, and run the Mass Spec…and nothing?"
Carly sat hunched over a lab counter, her shiny locks tied back into a neat ponytail. Jean's lab coat fit surprisingly well over her black cotton turtleneck and stonewashed jeans. Staring at the page of reactions Hank had scribbled out in a shabby notebook, she tapped her shiny black boots against the metal stool on which she was perched.
"My dear, I do not believe I've overlooked anything. However, if you see something that you feel is a new gateway, I encourage you to share your wisdom," Hank bustled about the ceiling of the medical laboratory, hanging onto the stronger pipes with his feet. Occasionally, he would lift up a book, flip through a few pages, and then return it, looking a little sullen.
"Have you tried Edman?" Carly looked up into Hank's upside down face with anticipation, locking onto his eyes as he came opposite her at the counter.
Dropping himself from the ceiling with perfect elegance and a two-footed landing, Hank kept his gaze on those beautiful oceanic eyes of hers, "Edman Degradation is rather expensive. I don't think I can get the proper amount of phenylisothiocyanate to complete the reaction properly."
"I can get it for you," she said with a smirk.
"You can?"
"You won't have to pay a dime. I can get it from my sponsor at the university. I still know a few of the guys working there, and they'd be happy to help. What you want to do, Hank, it can save lives. Not just your friend, Betsy's life. She would be first, of course. But there are so many others that can benefit if this will work. You are undertaking enzymatic alterations through the reconstruction of the different amino acid components. It has so much potential," as she spoke she rose to her feet.
"I don't know if it will work yet, Carly," Hank said a little sheepishly. Strangely enough, he always took a great deal of pride in his work, and he most certainly enjoyed the fact that Carly supported his endeavors. It was just, well, he was glad whenever she would start to compliment him, that she couldn't see him blush.
Gathering her stuff, and removing the lab coat Carly added, "I'll pick up a bottle of dicyclohexylcarbodiimide for the synthesis, too. We know you'll need it."
"Thank you, Carly. I truly appreciate this," he said, placing his hand on top of the one she had rested on the counter.
"Hank," Carly spoke softly as walked around the counter to stand next to him, "I want to help you. I think you're brilliant."
He lowered his eyes to the floor as she said this, trying not to make eye contact, even though she stood mere inches from him, waiting for him to reconnect. Hank fidgeted a little bit while she waited for him, searching for his eyes.
Gently reaching out her slender, carefully manicured hand and placing it softly beneath his chin she lifted his eyes to meet hers again.
"I think you are a brilliant, kind, compassionate, sexy man. I'm falling for you, Hank McCoy," his deep blue eyes remained glued to hers and secretly he prayed she didn't notice the change in his breathing.
In one swift motion Carly leaned in and pressed her soft, pink lips to his. She let her knees go weak, knowing that Hank would wrap his arms around her to instinctually keep her from falling. It was the same trick she played on all her boyfriends. Trailing her fingers in his hair, she deepened the kiss as he held her tightly to him. The kiss only lasted a minute.
"I should run those errands," Carly smiled as she picked up her purse and turned to leave the lab.
For a few moments Hank stood motionless as he listened to the clicking of her boots exit the lab. Smirking to himself, he thought, "Well that was certainly a new one."
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Three sharp knocks rang out against the door of Charles' bedroom.
"Come in," a melodious voice called out from the other side.
With one eyebrow raised and squared shoulders, Emma entered the room. She was wearing a snowy white Egyptian cotton dress and a pair of kitten heels.
"Hello," the voice rang out again, only this time Emma was able to place the tone with an individual.
Sitting on the edge of Charles' bed, clasping the ankle straps of her shoes, sat a woman Emma had never seen before. She was very tall, and very thin. She had wide, dark eyes and a large, round mouth. Her waves of long, dark hair fell in messy cascades around her shoulders and down her back. The dress she was wearing was a simple black cocktail dress, although, when she turned to grab her purse, Emma noticed that there was no back to the dress. Instead there was a strap around the woman's neck and small v shaped peak, which began the skirt just above her butt.
"And you are…?" Emma asked in the coldest tone she could muster.
A mechanical sound came from the bathroom as Charles wheeled his way back into the main bedroom.
"Sorry, ladies. I was brushing my teeth," Charles wore his garnet bathrobe and held a monogrammed towel in his lap. "Emma, this is my old friend, Lilandra. Lilandra, this is Emma Frost, one of my many accomplished teachers."
"It's nice to meet you, Emma," Lilandra extended a long, lean arm and firm hand. Emma took it half-heartedly and shook.
"You must go way back," Emma spoke, casting a glance at the unmade bed. "I don't remember ever hearing about you, though."
"Charles and I used to be very close," Lilandra spoke with a sweet smile, "however, our business has…temporarily separated us."
"I see," Emma said cocking her well-shaped eyebrow yet again.
"However, if I am ever in New York City, I always stop in. It's just such a pleasure."
The expression Emma wielded was the sad attempt of a smile on the face of a person, just forced to consume her own bile.
Paying no attention to her reaction, Lilandra turned her attentions back to Charles. "Goodbye, Charles. I need to get going, otherwise I might…miss my flight."
"We wouldn't want that to happen," Emma snapped from behind her. "Here, let me help!" Emma exclaimed, picking up Lilandra's purse and throwing it into the hall.
"Emma!" Charles gasped. "What are you doing?"
"No worries, Charles. I was headed that direction anyway," Lilandra cooed softly, kissed Charles slowly, and exited the room.
"Emma, was that entirely necessary?" he asked pointedly once his enchantment with Lilandra had entirely worn off.
"Yes. She was going to miss her flight."
"She would have made it just fine, I think. I have feeling they wouldn't leave without her."
"I wanted to help," she said indignantly, attempting to straighten her posture. "I was going to invite you to brunch, Charles, but seeing as you aren't dressed, I'll leave you be. And one more thing, there is no chance a plane would wait for her. She's not that special!" With that Emma exited the room, leaving Charles with a rather confused expression, and a small smile concerning Lilandra's relative importance.
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The cafeteria was a buzz with people all during the school day. On top of which, each student felt the dire need to sit with every one of their friends and speak at ridiculous volumes. The combination of which created something close to chaos.
Bobby Drake sat eating a roast beef sandwich in the corner with Kitty, Peter and Jubilee. Kitty was eating a wholesome meal of Tater Tots and coffee, Peter was pushing the crumbs around on his plate, and Jubilee was chatting away while her food got cold.
"I mean, what could possibly be worse than playing Ophelia? She's all 'I'm sad, love me.' Or, 'I'm crazy, love me.' Come ON!" Jubilee whined.
"How about this, Jubes? You finish my computer science honors project for Dr. McCoy, and I'll play Ophelia."
"Negatory, tech nerd. I need to not, ya know, kill myself or anything. And, hell-O, you PICKED CS, I did not pick the drippy girl. It was given to me by Ororo the Nazi Munroe."
"I actually don't think there were ever any black Nazis…Hey, Bob-o!" Lorna scooted onto the three-inch edge of the bench where Bobby was sitting.
"Who are you?" Jubilee asked pointedly.
"Name's Lorna. Bobby knows me," she said giving him a wink. "And just to let you know, Shakespeare's Ophelia is a tragic representation which grew to spawn a female archetype. You should feel honored. French fry?" she turned her attention from Jubes, back to Bobby.
"N-n-n-no thanks," he sputtered smiling.
"Ok, well I'm gonna take my orange and run! Put my tray back?"
"Sure," Bobby said confused.
"It's my first day of auto shop with Mr. Summers and I hear he likes punctuality, so I might as well make an effort," she said smiling as she stood up. "Hey, Bobby, I have a concert this week, wanna come?"
"Sure."
"Great. Gotta run. Class started three minutes ago."
Kitty and Peter exchanged confused glances and Jubilee just asked again, this time with a little more resentment, "Who is that?"
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"I made reservations for eight o'clock at Le Bernardin," Warren called out to Betsy from the bedroom. He moved about in his best navy blue suit pants and shirtless, his large ivory wings free flowing from his back.
"That sounds lovely," Betsy entered from the bathroom, her dark hair pulled up only half way, with a few loose strands falling about her face. She wore a pale pink, satin slip that stopped mere inches from where it had started. "I haven't been there in ages."
"Well, as a reminder, I don't think they'll seat you barefoot and wearing your slip," Warren sighed as he turned to face Betsy while she hovered around the room.
"For your information, Mr. Worthington," Betsy paused from sifting through her fresh laundry, "I have a new dress I am going to wear this evening." She smiled brightly at him as she spoke, but her smile soon faded as she caught a glimpse of his face. More than anything else, it destroyed Betsy that she was the reason Warren never genuinely smiled anymore.
"Warren, please don't look at me like that. I'm a big girl and Henry is gifted. We'll get through this just fine," as she spoke Warren's eyes grew wide and the expression on his face became fearful. "Warren, please! Stop that!" Betsy insisted.
"It's just…well your nose is bleeding."
Betsy raised her eyebrows in confusion and lifted a gentle hand to touch the trickle of blood on her upper lip. Staring at her crimson stained hand for a minute, Betsy's frightened eyes made a brief exchange with Warren's apprehensive gaze.
In a flash of an instant Betsy clasped her left hand over her nose and mouth and ran into the bathroom. She attempted to shut the door behind her, but she couldn't push hard enough and the heavy door, in its old frame, closed only enough to block her from his vision.
A heavy sadness came to rest on Warren's shoulders as he sat on the edge of the bed. Placing his head in his hands, he dug his fingers beneath his golden blonde hair and into his scalp. Swallowing the demon scream, which had been slithering up his throat, he stood from his glowering roost and padded soundlessly over to the bathroom door. Taking one last deep breath, he knocked lightly. No response.
"Elizabeth…I'm coming in. It's only a little nosebleed."
"Warren, please don't," she whimpered as the door creaked open.
The demon in Warren's throat turned to stone in that instant, and sank into his stomach. His pulse quickened and his eyes grew wide as he took in the image. It was not at all what he was expecting.
She was hunched over the perfectly white porcelain sink, her face as close to the bowl as possible. Both of her hands were cupped mere inches from her face and mouth, and in them there had collected a thick pool of dark blood. The river ran down both her forearms, stained her slip and had clearly splashed at least a few times over the clean counter and into the sink.
Ripping a fresh white bath towel from its hanger on the wall, Warren ran over to her and softly placed the fabric to her face. Dropping the pool into the sink, Betsy grasped the towel firmly in both hands. Warren tentatively turned the elegant gold nozzle and let the warm water flow from the tap. Keeping the towel pressed to her face Betsy turned to Warren, the fear in her eyes so overwhelming it was as if her soul had been pierced deep inside.
"I'll take you down to Hank," Warren began to speak, his voice steadier than he could have hoped.
She shook her head violently, still pressing the towel to her face.
"Elizabeth," he began again, the pleading undertones in his proper British accent becoming clearer.
Her eyes begged him to just stay put. Altering her grip a little bit, she began to reach out to him, yet as her blood stained hands came into view, she pulled back and once again clutched the towel. She stumbled back two steps and tripped into the wall behind her. Pressing her body weight firmly against the wall she sank to a seated position, her thighs pressed tightly against her torso. Her dark eyes fluttered closed as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
"No," Warren spoke softly. "Please don't cry, my love," he fell to his knees beside her, landing his Gucci pants in a pattern of smeared blood. Betsy lurched, as he fell, not wanting him to ruin his pants. "What? These old things? I can buy a new suit," his radiant white smile spread blindingly across his face as his tender fingers tucked her loose hairs, the ends bloody, behind her ears. Taking a seat next to her, Warren wrapped an arm around her and she rested her heavy head on his shoulder.
Two hours later her nose had finished bleeding, the bathroom was an utter mess and the bath towel had been completely soaked through with blood. Bracing herself against the wall Betsy attempted to stand, "I had better get cleaned up, or we'll miss…oh no, it's nine thirty, your reservations…"
"I can make new reservations."
"I just…" she said sadly as she again endeavored to stand, once more without success. "And now my legs won't even hold me up," she said trying not to cry.
"Not a problem," Warren stood and lifted her into his arms. Placing her carefully onto the edge of the bathtub, he pulled off her thin slip and tossed it aside with the bloody towel. Bracing her with his left arm, he leaned over to the bathtub taps, running the water until it reached a pleasurable temperature. He let the water level off, before lifting her up again, and placing her in. Gingerly draping his pants over the toilet seat Warren slipped into the tub behind her.
Pulling her close to his chest he lifted the large sea sponge and dipped it into the warm water. Carefully he ran it over her arms and chest, watching carefully as her pale skin started to become clean. The ends of her dark hair floated on the surface of the water, bit by bit, becoming clean. Using the utmost care, Warren wiped away the dried blood from her face, caressing the subtle curves. Taking care to memorize her features. Gradually, the bath water seemed to absorb all the melancholy of the previous hours.
Once she was clean, Warren stood up and drained the tub, covering himself in a terry cloth robe. Pulling a second, fluffy, white robe from the linen closet Warren wrapped Betsy up tightly.
"Up we go," he said sweetly as he raised her, again, into his arms.
Carrying her into the other room, he placed her cautiously on the bed. He changed her out of the wet bathrobe and into a long, pale blue, silk nightgown. Laying her down on the bed, he went to change into a pair of flannel pajama pants.
Her damp hair rested around her shoulders and she simply watched him, her head resting on the pillow. He cleaned up in the bathroom, disposing of the towel, and the slip and anything he used to clean up the bloodstains. Washing his hands, he returned to the bedroom, smiling at her watching him.
"Do you feel better?" he asked with a soft, authentic smile. She nodded; a closed lipped smile on her face was all she could muster.
Climbing into the bed, he threw a heavy cotton blanket over both of them and pulled her to his chest.
Weakly, she buried herself in his neck and whispered, "Warren?"
"Yes, love?"
"I love you, too," she said softly as she closed her eyes against the warmth of his skin and the safety of his smell. Warren kissed her forehead and pulled her closer, smiling.
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The restaurant inside the hotel was beautiful. It was located on the top floor of the venue, and the walls of the room were large windows giving the illusion that one was floating in the midst of a starry night sky. Two large winding staircases stood at the back of the room, leading to a second level and the restrooms. All of the wood was mahogany and the linens were all spotless eggshell white. A traditional band played in the center of the room on the hardwood dance floor, and the couples dined around it.
The band started playing a rendition of Frank Sinatra's "The Way You Look Tonight" as Scott and Jean moved on the dance floor. He held her small frame to his with his left arm, and encompassed the whole of her left hand with his right. They moved in perfect time with the upbeat tempo of the music.
Scott wore a black Armani suit, which gave his usual kind, boyish charm an extra elegance. His white shirt was especially crisp, his shoes particularly shiny. Jean wore an emerald green, strapless pencil dress and four inch, Manolo Blahnik pumps of the same color. Her long red hair was tied back into a neat knot, completely swept away from her face, which she kept natural with some nude lip-gloss and natural earth tones.
"Dinner was wonderful, Scott. Thank you."
"Better than when we used to sit in my car and eat greasy pizza?"
"Maybe," she said with a giggle.
"Someday…when I'm awfully low, and the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you…and the way you look tonight," Scott whispered softly in her ear as they danced.
Jean couldn't help but smile as she went to rest her head on his chest, but to her surprise his posture stiffened and he pulled away.
"Are you alright, Scott?" she asked bewildered and concerned.
"Just fine, Jean. But…there's something I need to say."
"Alright…" she said her voice a little apprehensive. Taking a step back, she looked up, searching for the answer in his face.
"You're the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning, and the last thing I consider about before I fall asleep…"
"Scott…"
"Let me say this. I don't like thinking about the time in my life before I met you. You've been the best part of my life since I turned sixteen. I can't imagine a future without you. You are my future."
Scott slipped his hand into his jacket, the spot on his chest where Jean had just tried to lay her head, and removed the dainty burgundy box. Carefully, he opened the box and revealed the elegant diamond solitaire. Quickly, Scott said a silent prayer that she wouldn't notice his hands shaking.
"Will you marry me, Jean Grey?"
The smile on Jean's face was so wide, it hurt her cheeks, "Of course I will!"
A wave of relief rushed over Scott's being as his muscles relaxed and a bright smile crossed his face. Carefully, his rickety hands slipped the ring on her slender finger. She gazed at it sitting on her hand for a moment, before wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him.
Scott pulled her tightly to his body, wrapping both his arms around her tiny waist as he felt her bubble gum tongue slip into his mouth. The violins behind them began to sing familiar notes, and Jean looked at Scott, a little shocked.
"I paid a little extra," he said smiling.
Where the tuxedo clad bandleader had once been standing, there was now a tall woman wearing a flowing red dress. Her skin was the color of smooth ebony, and her thick hair was tied in a knot on the side of her head, a large red flower balancing it out. A clear remembrance of the distant days of Billie Holiday.
"At last…My love has come along…" her voice as deep and rich and filled the room to very corners.
Sweeping her back into his arms, Scott swayed slowly to the music. Jean let her head come to rest on his broad chest, closing her eyes and just absorbing both the beauty of the music and the comfort of his smell.
"Do you remember the first time we danced to this song?"
"It was our first date. We got greasy pizza and sat in your beat up convertible on the top of Grainger's hill. I thought you were going to try something, and instead, this song came on the radio and you asked me to dance. And we did. We could barely see our feet it was so dark…" her voice was smiling.
"But you could see all the stars," Scott added grinning.
The vocalist spouted her final powerful notes, and he spun her around and dipped her slowly. The violins played their last familiar chords, and he lifted her back to his chest swaying to the fading music.
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With swift hands the key was placed into the lock and turned. The bolt slipped out of its slot almost soundlessly. Gingerly, Rogue turned the doorknob and crept inside the room. The glint of red flashing as she opened the door signaled that he was still awake.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath.
"Bonne nuit," he spoke, his voice a little raspy but smirking.
She let the door close with a loud bang, and with the flip of her fingers, switched on the light.
Remy sat in the large leather armchair, his feet resting on the end table. He was wearing his standard aged denim and black t-shirt, and Rogue couldn't help but notice that he looked damn good. His tousled auburn locks fell messily in his eyes and the muscles in his abs and arms ached to escape the old t-shirt. The occasional swish of air cut the silence as a deck of cards flipped between his left and right hands. Her desire to look him over was all that was saving her from slapping the smug smile off his face as she caught him looking her up and down.
Her dark indigo jeans were flared at the bottom and just tight enough over her generous curves to reveal a spark for imagination. She was wearing the tight, baby blue cashmere sweater he gave her for Christmas last year. Her long, thick locks fell freely down in waves around her face, which was highlighted with a small amount of vigilantly drawn eyeliner and some sparkling champagne eye shadow.
"Where ya been, ma chere?" he asked coyly.
"Nowhere," she said, throwing her keys on the dresser.
"Come on now…" he said with a hint of quiet laughter.
"Don' be givin' me sass now, Cajun," she sounded frustrated as she finished unzipping her boots and tossing them beside the bed.
Nimbly lifting his feet off the end table, Remy stood to his full height and walked over to her. In her bare feet, he towered six inches above her.
"What's goin' on witchou?" he asked starting to sound concerned.
"Nothin', Swamp Rat. There's nothin' goin' on with me," she said turning away from him.
"Stop," he grabbed her by the arm and she whipped to face him, the anger in her eyes flaming. "Please…" he added, pleading.
"Ah just don' wanna deal with yah if you're gonna give me a hard time tonight."
"Fine. Yah need to talk about somethin'?" he asked sounding a little bothered.
"No, Ah don't," she shook her head.
Placing his hands firmly on her waist Remy took two steps back, pulling her with him. He sat softly on the edge of the bed, slipping her standing frame between his legs. Placing her gloved hands in his thick hair, Remy rested his forehead on her abdomen. She trailed her hands in his hair for a few minutes before he tilted his head up to look her in the eye.
"Ah miss you when ya gone. That's all," his voice was quiet. Rogue smiled gently, and rested her arms over his shoulders.
"Ah'm gonna go wash mah face," she said, turning to enter the bathroom.
"Nah, wait a minute," he pulled her onto his lap. "Stay here wit me a second," his words were muffled as he buried his face in her sweet smelling hair. "Ah miss ya smell."
Attempting to sit still for a minute, she began to let herself melt into his solid frame. As her muscles began to relax and bond with the support he offered. Yet just as a wave of comfort ran over her body, she lifted herself from his lap.
"Ah'm gonna go wash mah face," she padded off into the bathroom and shut the door. Watching her walk away, Remy shook his head and fell back onto the squashy comforter.
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The night air smelled like sweet grass and fresh rain. Spring was potent throughout the gentle earth of the grounds.
"You never let me just kiss you, anymore," she sighed.
Ororo sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, her long hair pouring around her shoulders and down her chest. The sweat stained, white sheets curled around her legs and hips, the moonlight making the tender dark skin of her naked torso glow.
Logan took a long sip from the Jack Daniels bottle he had resting on the end table and handed it to her. She accepted it kindly, and took a small swig. Carefully, she studied him as his naked form wandered over to the large window and stared out. He stood there for a few minutes before turning back to look at her again.
She was young. Her wide blue eyes seemed to drip with hope and her toffee skin was flawless in the open, silver, night air. His eyes trailed over her long legs and lean hips, up her flat abdomen to her small, firm breasts. Soundlessly, he padded over to the bed, never breaking eye contact.
In one swift movement he was on the bed, and she was under him and in his arms. While their legs tangled themselves together, their tongues explored each other's mouths frantically. As their combined body heat began to rise, they found themselves tumbling into the mess of sheets, tangling their frames further.
Expertly, Logan shifted his weight beneath her and grasped her hips, pulling her onto his lap. She ran her fingers deep into his hair, scratching his scalp a little with her short nails, as he trailed small bites and warm kisses down her neck and chest. She arched her back as he took her breast into his mouth.
Placing her left hand on his chest, she lifted her hips and lowered herself onto him, this time more carefully. Once again his mouth found the smooth, supple skin in the dark as her hips began to make small rocking motions. His strong, calloused hands began to explore the vast area of her back and thighs, sending shivers down her spine.
Bracing her hands against his strong shoulders, she arched backwards as her breath quickened and her heart pounded. Releasing a guttural moan, she heard him groan and felt his muscles tense and his hold on her tighten.
At the same time their muscles released, and she lifted herself from his frame. Laying down in the mess of sheets, she curled up on her side. Logan remained still for a moment, barely even breathing. Casting his eyes on her slender body, he ran an index finger slowly up her spine, a placed the back of his hand against her cheek as she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Hours later he was still awake, keeping watch in the chair beside the bed. She lay sleeping, her cascade of white hair spread around her like a halo. Logan just stared at her, the white light from the fading moon highlighting her slender form, and adding to her natural glow. Biting his lips and tongue he sat fixated on the pleasant beauty of her slumber.
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"Oh, no!" Kitty thought to herself as she paced back and forth in the bathroom. It had only been a few weeks since she and Peter had gotten back together. She hadn't had the chance to go to Jean and ask yet. "Fate wouldn't be that cruel. Could it?"
She had locked the main door of the dormitory bathroom, to no avail of the last six people who attempted to use it, and took long strides beside the row of pink stalls.
Frantically biting her nails and pacing, Kitty occasionally shot angry, nervous glances at the overly pleasant yellow daisies in the wallpaper. Her plaid pajama shorts rode low and loose on her thin, narrow hips and a black, Xavier's Science t-shirt overwhelmed her petite upper body. Her usually composed beanstalk frame shook timidly with each step taken as the sound of her bare feet sticking to the cold tile kept rhythm with the tick tock of the clock.
The piercing ring of the timer's bell interrupted the overwrought silence of the air. Feeling her heart drop into her stomach, Kitty slowly turned around and faced the mirror. It was her retribution.
Two large, flat mirrors made up the one wall of the bathroom, and finding her hollowed eyes in the reflective pool, Kitty swallowed hard. Her thin body seemed especially frail, her freckles strangely prominent against her exaggeratedly pale skin. Her eyes were watery, glazed and wide with fear.
As she lifted the glorified Popsicle stick from the liquid, she held her breath. Closing her eyes tightly against the truth for a moment, Kitty felt all the blood in her body rush to her feet. Carefully opening her eyes, the room began to spin.
It was positive.
Her eyes returned to meet her reflection for a brief moment, before her knees gave out. A sad attempt at catching herself on the bathroom counter failed as she phased straight through and landed on the floor. The small pink box fell out of her left hand, the small ivory stick from her right. Kitty hit the cold floor with a muted thump.
Pulling her knees up to her chest Kitty began to cry. Her body shook with rage and fear as the tears poured heavily onto her old science club t-shirt. Kitty opened her mouth, desperate to scream at the top of her lungs, but all that came out were hushed, wet sobs.
Placing her head onto the cold, pink tile floor Kitty curled into the fetal position and closed her eyes. Her moans were so noiseless not even the cheery, yellow daisies in the wallpaper could hear her.