Title: Dead and Dreaming
Email: catlinoconnor (at) yahoo (dot) com
Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Marvel and Fox
Summary: Jean's already drowning.
Notes: Jean POV, set pre-X2. Thanks to Caroline and
Helena for previewing.
Sometimes it hurts.
The blue of it blinds you and surrounds you, fills
your mouth and weighs down your lungs. It's like
drowning in density and sinking in fog. It's like
gasping for air and inhaling nitrogen. It's like the
tiniest of molecules freezing and turning your blood
to frost-bitten strawberries, pulpy and iced over.
It's a direct hit, a stab to the brain and a slice at
the heart. It's a scream that skitters along your soul
and holds you hostage in dreams that bleed. It's
waking up with the sheets wrapped around your body as
though they'd been painted on because your skin is so
damp they adhere and become transparent and sticky.
It's the realization that you could cut yourself open
and let your insides spill out and they wouldn't
notice a thing. It's the knowledge that everything
you see is invisible to them, because they don't want
to see it. Because they don't want to know that you
It's a tangle, really, a twist of emotions and a blue
so bright you lose focus, lose sight of everything
near to you. The center, your focal point, dissolves
like sugar in water, and when the sugar-silt lies at
the bottom, it begins to reassemble, and it re-forms
into something you'd never thought possible. Or maybe
you did, and it's merely that you'd been told it
wasn't supposed to be that way, that you could change
it, defend yourself against it. Maybe you'd known all
along, and managed to delude yourself that you were
It's losing beauty in slow, acid drops and not even
knowing there was anything to lose, because it'd
always been there and it wasn't something you thought
could actually *be* lost. And it's opening your eyes
and not feeling the slightest spark when you encounter
greys, white on black where there should've been...
And it's nothing. It's a grey so dark and vivid, so
painful that it feels like a hook hacking into your
chest, digging in and twisting things around so your
heart is in your stomach. It's knowing that the grey
had been something else before, something so awesome
it hurt to look at it.
It's forgetting what had come before and seeing only
the dark, only the slashes of black on the canvas.
It's that niggling feeling that something is wrong,
that there had been *something* once, something you'd
known and yet...
There's nothing. Just black on white and grey on
black. It's drab and stark, so stark it's almost,
But then you see an argument, a raised hand and a
wineglass, and shards of white that glitter dully on
the floor, and then there's a raised hand and a
wineglass, a tinkle as it falls and breaks and the
shards are white on the floor.
They gleam like polished plastic, and when you reach
down to pick up the pieces, you cut yourself and you
notice, as the others flutter and fold like wingless
butterflies, that you don't bleed.
Or maybe you do, and you don't see it, because you're
just so busy trying to save yourself.
~Mutual Admiration~ http://www.mutualadmiration.net
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