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FIC: Prologue: Girl with the Broken Eyes [PG-13] (1/1)

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  • Diebin .
    TITLE: Prologue: Girl With the Broken Eyes AUTHOR: Diebin RATING: PG-13 SERIES: Broken Eyes - http://www.diebin.com/xmen/brokeneyes.html ARCHIVE: The Usual
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 28, 2000
      TITLE: Prologue: Girl With the Broken Eyes
      AUTHOR: Diebin
      RATING: PG-13
      SERIES: Broken Eyes - http://www.diebin.com/xmen/brokeneyes.html
      ARCHIVE: The Usual Suspects
      PAIRING: None yet, really, though I spose it's gonna be Logan/Rogue.
      SUMMERY: Intro to the 'Broken Eyes' series from the perspective of a
      homeless man who has been watching Rogue.
      DEDICATED TO: Donna, Nanciwan, Gowdie, Mistika, and Shaz, who have put up
      with waaay too much of me being temperamental over this gosh darn move. :)
      And a special thanks to my big sis and new roommate, Carita.


      There's a girl with broken eyes.

      I see her, sometimes. She likes to walk in the park on cool days, wrapped up
      in so many layers that I feel warm looking at her, which is strange because
      I never feel warm.

      She has very strange hair, and it's stranger because it is always changing.
      In the beginning it was brown, brown with white streaks that framed her face
      and reflected inside her broken eyes.

      She used to try and dye the white streaks, but it never lasted for long. One
      week it would be red, another week black--I think she hated the way her hair

      Last week I came to the park and she was sitting there, under her tree that
      all of the homeless people know to avoid. It's her tree, and hers alone, and
      I think we're all a little afraid of her because no matter how bad our lives
      are, our eyes aren't broken like hers.

      Last week was different, though. She had a knife, and we all stayed even
      farther away than usual. It was sharp, and the sun was just high enough in
      the west so that her knife caught the light, and we could see the flashing.
      The woman who sleeps at the bench next to mine thought she was going to kill
      herself, but I knew better. Her eyes were broken, but they weren't dead.

      She wears gloves, the girl with the broken eyes. She wears gloves and
      sometimes a scarf and hat, and maybe the reason we all think of her eyes is
      because that's the only part of her we really get to see.

      She wears gloves, and last week the gloved fingers were wrapped around the
      handle of the sharp, sharp knife that glinted in the sunlight. And as we
      watched, she wrapped her hand around her hair and started sawing it off.

      It fell in clumps, and the grass was still green enough that it looked
      strange, having long brown locks spread out against the ground. She didn't
      touch the white streaks though, and she looked strange with her hair uneven
      around her ears and two, long streaks of white falling around her chest.

      She sat there for a long time, the knife in her hand and her hair laying in
      clumps around her feet. She sat there and stared at the water, but anyone
      who dared get close enough could see that her eyes saw nothing.

      There's a man with a broken heart who follows her around sometimes, and even
      though I know she sees him, she never acknowledges that he is there.
      Sometimes he will clasp her hand and we watch how gentle he is with her as
      he leads her away.

      Even when she looks at him, she doesn't seem to know his name. I saw her
      once, asking him who he was. Her large broken eyes were confused, and his
      were almost dead as he tried to force a smile, running a rough hand over her
      hair and whispering words that none of us could hear.

      He was there last week, coming into the park just as the knife fell to her
      lap, and I saw his heart break. He dropped to his knees and his hands
      wrapped around her wrists and pulled the knife away.

      His fingers slid across her cheek, and she jerked away as she always did,
      and I saw his heart break a little more. The girl with the broken eyes did
      not like to be touched, but the man with the broken heart did it anyways.
      And last week I was close enough so that I finally heard the words he
      whispered as his hands ghosted over the ruins of her hair.

      "It's okay, Marie. You know you can't hurt me anymore. It's okay. It doesn't
      work, Marie. It doesn't work anymore and you know you can touch me. It's

      She smiled her vacant smile as his hands slid around her hair but her eyes
      grew frightened when his fingers touched her face and he sighed and stood
      up, and I thought I could hear his heart break a little more.

      He knelt again, rough hands gathering the hair she'd sliced away from
      herself, and I watched him tuck it away in his jacket, his bare fingers
      caressing the hair that was brown no matter how hard she tried to change it.

      "I'm tired, Charles. Tell me that they'll never hurt me again."

      His shoulders were stiff and his eyes were misty, but he reached forward and
      touched her hair softly. "They'll never hurt you again, Eric."

      I didn't think her name was Eric, but she smiled and nodded and leaned
      trustingly against the soft denim of the man's jacket, and her face looked
      peaceful. "I love you, Charles."

      "Logan," he whispered, and I don't think she heard him but I did. "I'm
      Logan, darling."

      She didn't act like she heard him, so the man with the broken heart pulled
      her slowly to her feet and started to lead her away. She paused, for a
      moment, and then she broke away and walked towards me.

      He looked at me, and he didn't look like a man with a broken heart. He
      looked angry, and dangerous, and suddenly I wished that I hadn't gotten so
      close in my curiosity over the girl with the broken eyes.

      "I want you to have this," she said when she got close enough to me, and she
      reached out. The knife was in her hand, the sharp knife that glinted softly
      in the sunlight, and I was too numb to refuse as she curled my fingers
      tightly around the handle.

      She smiled, and leaned forwards to kiss me softly on the lips, and I
      suddenly felt awkward and too large and too dirty for such a clean,
      beautiful young girl to touch.

      The man with the broken heart growled softly and gathered her up with one
      hand, but even though he glared at me, he didn't make any move to take the
      knife back.

      They left, the girl with the broken eyes and the man with the broken heart.
      The left the park and left me with a knife in my dirty, tired hands. A knife
      worth more than I'd seen in years, but I didn't want to sell it, because it
      belonged to her.

      Her name was not Eric, but Rogue. I found it on the handle, engraved so
      lightly that I missed it at first. I traced my fingers over the letters and
      wondered, wondered about a girl named Rogue who thought she was a man named
      Eric, and a man named Logan who sometimes pretended to be a man named

      Last week she stopped coming to the park, and I wonder sometimes--I wonder
      where she went.


      Okay, so I swore I'd move and then the first thing I'd do was finish Arts of
      War. I guess I musta lied. *pouts* sooooowwwy.

      Darth Diebin
      Don't climb on the Iguana.

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