Three Years After Capture
Rachel's Age: 11 Years Old
Those eyes. His deep, sapphire eyes are staring at me, wide, piercing through me. My godfather is just ten paces away, and he's holding his hand out to me. He's finally come to take me away. He's going to save me. From this house. From this life. From HIM.
So why can't I reach back?
I'm standing here, dumb-founded, wanting nothing more than to grab his hand and fly far, far away. But I can't even raise my arm. I'm screaming inside, but I can't make a single sound. He's holding his hand out to me. But I'm trapped inside my own body, silent and frozen and numb.
When I wake up, I'm covered in sweat. Why do I keep having this nightmare? I gave up on waiting for Logan to come to my rescue a long, long time ago. I know my godfather. He doesn't sit back and try to gather information and form a big, complex plan and wait for his back-up to show up. He follows his nose to the first minion. He gets information from them any way that he needs to. Then he goes to the next person and beats information out of them. He runs from one bread crumb to another until he reaches his destination. He kicks down the door, beats the crap out of the bad guy, and carries the damsel in distress off into the sunset. It's been three years. If Logan was coming, he'd have been here by now. No, he obviously thinks I'm dead. So why can't I get this picture out of my dreams?
Rubbing my forehead, I sit up and cross my arms over my knees. There's a soft gray light spilling onto the blanket from my one small window, so it must already be dawn. Damn, I never seem to get a full night's sleep anymore. Part of me wonders why I even care. Sleep just separates one bad day from another. It doesn't really bring refreshment any more. It hasn't in a long time.
I stand and pull on one of Creed's old tank tops. Yet when I step into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I spot myself in the mirror and groan. Two small pink nipples show through the white cotton. Boobs. I'm only eleven years old, and I'm already growing boobs. I rip the shirt off and throw on a black t-shirt that drowns my entire figure. Much better.
The second I open my door, I feel like I've walked right into a brick wall. Throughout the house, the air is stifling thick, thanks to him. Creed came home from a mission five days ago, broadcasting a rage unlike anything I've ever felt before. Even in his worst moods, the house would be a bit uncomfortable at first, but after a day or two, he'd calm down and everything would go back to normal. This is something different.
I've had to build a psychic barrier in my room, just to sleep. He'd freak if he ever found out, but I've been slowly exploring my powers in the past several months. And between my experimentation and his consistent broadcasting, I've come to learn a lot about the monster named Victor Creed.
The man is his own worst enemy. He hates himself just as much as everyone else in this world. He is angry all of the time. He was abused as a child, and he feels that this makes him weak. It's this "weakness" that drives his hatred for psychics; he's panicked at the mere thought that a telepath might some day discover his shame. His greatest fear is vulnerability. He has loved two women in his lifetime, and he lost them both because he would not open up to them. He's a slave to lust—both for flesh and for blood. His self-loathing has driven him to the brink of insanity more than once, and he has actually tried, unsuccessfully, to kill himself. And he doesn't admit to any this, even to himself. On the whole, it's really very sad.
Don't get me wrong, I still hate the bastard. He brutally murdered my parents. He killed my entire family. He has beaten me more times than I can count. Still, I can't help but notice that he has never touched me, which is surprising considering his constant craving for sex. And lately, he threatens violence far more often than he actually lashes out. We're not friends, not by a long shot. But I meet his demands without question, and most days, I go unpunished for it.
The longer I stand in the upstairs landing, the more his agony presses on me. It almost makes me pass out. I don't know how much longer I can go on living like this. It's like spending every waking hour of every living day in a sauna. I'm light-headed and slightly nauseous. I wish there were some way to just shut it all off. Suddenly, something occurs to me. No! I try to shove the thought out of my head as fast as it came in, but it's no use. I never want to step foot inside that dark place again. Still, some part of me knows this is the only solution.
I stop in front of his bedroom door. I take in a long, deep breath. And knock.
Goddamn, I have never been this angry. And I could write the book on angry. I have a child, a son. I know Raven and I've never been sweethearts, but, shit, we were in love once. Even two sick fucks like us can't deny that one. How could she jus' run off and have the kid and dump it and never even mention it to me?
Is this the real reason we ended? Did she think I wouldn't let her keep it? Well, come to think of it, I wouldn't of. And let's face it, despite her big tough act, Raven Darkholme don't have the stomach for abortion. So far, I know of two kids she's had, an' there may be even more I ain't heard 'bout yet.
Graydon Creed is 38 years old. What were Mystique and Sabretooth 39 years ago? Was that the time that we were lovers, livin' under the same roof, drivin' each other nuts during the day and fuckin' like animals at night? Or was that just one of our classic one-night-make-up's? I'm not sure. It's all a blur.
And why the hell do I even care if I've got a son? Is it about the kid? Is it about Raven? Or is it about me? Fuck, I don't even want to get into all that mess. I wish I could jus' shut my mind down for a while. Like when I almost killed myself. I was out for a few days, and when I woke up, I didn't hardly give a shit about anything.
Jus' when I'm onto something, I smell the girl. She's right outside my room, and there's a tiny little rap on plywood. Did she jus' knock on my door? What are we, fuckin' roommates? Then I really get her scent. She's more uncomfortable'n fresh meat at the county jail, and every pore of her skin's sweatin'. I wait, not sure what to say or do. Then she knocks again, more forcefully. Alright, kid, if it's that important to ya…
"What?" I bark.
She hesitates, then opens the door slowly. "Uh, Mr. Creed?" she starts real timid-like. "I don't know how to go about this. You're probably gonna kick my ass just for suggesting it."
"Least ya know what yer in for," I say. But in my head I'm wonderin' when she started sayin' "ass". I mean, she's what? Twelve years old? In the time that I'm thinkin' 'bout her word choice, she's crossed the room and sittin' on the edge of my bed. What the hell is this?
"Um…" she trails off, and her hands are fidgetin' back and forth on the hem of my old t-shirt. "Look, I know you're miserable, and quite frankly, I'm miserable, so I just thought that I'd try to help."
Now I know what she's up to. I cut her off, rolling my eyes. "I don't have time for this, kid. Number one, you're not gonna get away by seducin' me. Number two, I ain't even into little girls. Number three, if I wanted ya, I'd have ya any time 'a the day or night. Got it?"
Her cheeks flush and she looks down at her still fiddlin' fingers. " Oh, no, that's not what I meant at all…"
"Then spit it out. I ain't in any kinda mood for games today."
"I just—" She stops, sucks in her breath in a huff, and starts over. "Alright, don't flip out, okay? I can feel how you feel right now. You're madder than you've been the whole time I've known you, maybe even madder than you've ever been in your life."
Normally, this is the part where I go insane an' tear her apart. But not today. Maybe 'cause I'm already so pissed, I don't feel any surge of fury. Instead, it's like I go cold inside. I spring up, grab her, throw her down on the mattress, and dig my knee into her chest. "You been sneakin' 'round my head?" I ask her,
"No!" she shouts. "Please, just once, listen to me. I didn't go into your mind. You've been broadcasting your thoughts all around you. I can't help but pick them up. And this time, it's worse than ever."
"'Broadcasting'?"
"Yes. It's stifling. I can barely get through the day." Her chest pushes against my knee weakly. "Please, you're crushing me."
I lean down to her face, adding more weight on her torso. "I'll crush you if I want to."
"I know, I know," she coughs. "But, please, I just want to help."
I shove off her sternum and fall back on the bed beside her. "You think you can help me?" I chuckle. "Nobody can help me."
"Can I at least try? If it doesn't work, I'll leave you alone and get on with my chores. You're still no worse off than you were before I came in." There's a short silence. "But I'd have to use my powers…"
Ah, ha. I wondered when she'd try to escape again. I don't even care. Let her go. My little plan to spite Wolverine don't seem worth the effort all of a sudden. I turn my head to face her. I never noticed before, but the greens of her eyes have lots of tiny gold flakes in them. Her scent is still nervous, but now there's a twinge of regret in there, too. She's probably calculatin' her chances of success. Do me a favor and jus' off me while you're in there, I think sarcastically. Her pupils dilate and I figure she must've heard that. Six days ago, I'd be really upset 'bout it. Now I just turn back and stare at the ceiling.
The second she's inside me, I feel her. It's kinda like when somebody comes up from behind you. Ya can't see their face, but you can feel their eyes borin' into the back of your neck. She goes through the hallways of my mind, slow at first, like she's just mappin' out the place for good measure. For a second, I worry that she's gonna dig into memories that ain't none of her business. But jus' as fast as the thought came up, it gets pushed right back down, and I'm petty sure it's her doin'.
Now she retraces her steps through my head. I feel the raw anger, like I just picked it up to examine it, you know, like at a museum. Then, it fades away. Next I look at the disappointment in my relationship with Raven. That also washes out into darkness. She repeats the process with a series of what-if's. Huh. Didn't even know those were there. Several rounds later, I'm emptied of all my chains. I feel strangely light, but I'm not sure if I like it.
But just when I think the girl's ready to leave my mind, she goes diggin' deeper. The hair on the back of my neck pricks up, but I find I can't do anything to stop her from goin' wherever she pleases, now that I've let her into this place. She pulls somethin' off an old, dusty shelf of my memories. It's almost like a drug high. But not. It's softer than that, and yet somehow bigger at the same time. I think it's joy. I scoff inside. Didn't know that was in there, either. But even as I'm laughin' it off, she makes it stretch and grow until it fills me up from head to toe. I feel pure and new—like I've been purged of some sort of poison.
My eyes blink four or five times before I realize they've got tears in them. Really? Tears? This kid better not think that I'm gonna turn into some kinda softie, just 'cause she tweaked my brain a lil'. I turn, ready to tell her to get the fuck out, but she's out cold. Bein' in my head must'a tuckered her out. Lookin' at her, there's a halo 'round her profile, red by her hair, black over the t-shirt, an' gold by her long legs. That's strange. I glance 'round the room and realize everything's gone a bit fuzzy. It's like some after-sex glow.
All of a sudden, I'm really tired. I let my head drop back onto my pillow, and just before I check out, she rolls in her sleep and cuddles up to my chest. Somehow, I don't care 'bout that, either.