Rogue returned to her apartment, her frustration at the day increasing,
dumping her load on the floor of spartanly furnished studio apartment, she
flipped on the stereo to drown out the sounds of the couple next door who
might be either fighting or fucking. Rogue grimanced at the thought and began
to strip first her silver jewelry and then her multible layers of clothing.
Her living space didn't have a bathroom persay, the toilet was placed in a
tiny alcove along with a sink and the shower was simply a stall set into the
wall with a glass door frosted with soap residue.
Rogue stepped into the stall leaning under the stream of hot water that
scolded her skin pink and created dark tear paths under her eyes from her
Under the sound of running water the voice of the Lizard King ,Jim Morrison,
droned out the tale of an LA Woman. She soaked like that for a long while
before she picked up the old fashioned single blade razor from the tiled
floor, and made a new slash across the wire network of scratch like scars
marring the otherwise perfect skin of her left arm. The blood tinged the
bathwater pink like the heat did her skin. Number 153.
153 days since she'd last seen Irene.
One cut for one day. Part punishment to her tretcherous skin, part conempt
for her soul.
Most had healed completely , but a few hadn't leaving pearly puckered scars.
Others only red lines across too pale skin.
One stuck out boldly against the rest. Angrey and white, jagged and straight
at the same time. a moment of madness and self contempt for her self. It
stood vertical to the vein close to her skin. So close she could see the
little pushing it's pulse made against the frail flesh. A testiment to the
time shortly after coming to New York, when she'd negelected to take her meds
and her own minds darkness clung to her like a spooked child to it's momma's
skirts. She'd taken the letter opener she owned with a grinning pewter faerie
pertched on it's top and stabbed herself in the wrist. Faintly remembering
that you should cut the vein vertically so it would bleed faster.
Since then she'd placed the letter opener in the same metal lunchbox as her
pills and other valubles. She hadn't forgotten her medication since, even
though it made her blood feel as thik as her accent and heavy as the world.
Nor had she forgotten to take any other kind of drug perscribed or not. She
also only cut her self horizantally now. Sometimes diagnal. Never verticle.
She was afraid of that now. Verticle meant end. End meant no hope. And at the
moment hope was everything she had. Hope that she'd figure out her mutation.
Hope that she'd be normal or at least some symbolance of.
Ms. Darkholme had promised her control, and had yet to pull through with that
one. But at least she wasn't homeless, but Darkholme also had yet to reveal
why she was haboring her.
The water ran cold, easing her burned skin back to it's natural pallor, but
she didn't notice the temperture change for several minutes when she realized
she was shivering crotched in the shower corner forehead pressing against the
tile walls of the stall.
The ice water trailed down the middle of her back along her spin. The skin of
her back pulled tight across her spinal column, the vertebre pertruding and
her ribs coming into veiw when she moved like the rungs of a ladder. And
dripping onto her well endowned breasts, luckily the only gift her
grandmother's genes granted her. She shuttered at the memory of the insane
Twisting the excess water from her hair, longer than when she first arrived
in New York, she stepped out of the stall. She was unwilling to go to a
barber for fear of touch, she supposed it would continue to grow. The shocks
of white nearly transparent when wet, matted together with dark auburn.
Forgetting her initial intent to bathe, she gropped for the towel she knew
was there, Drying off and reclading her self in clean clothing, Rogue sat
down at the vanity wipping away the dark smudges her makeup had left behind.
The vanity itself was made of a dark wood it's tapered legs split from years
of misuse, the bottem right corner of the mirror was cracked and hidden by a
picture of Irene she'd placed there.
Rogue reguarded the picture, with it's frayed edges and image of a woman with
white hair and smoked glasses.
A momentary stir of emotions rose, the sting of abandonment, the confusion of
isolation all laced with an undercurrent of longing for a woman who'd raised
her for 5 years.
Reaching for her lighter and selecting a stick of incense and inserting it
into the burner at the corner of the table top. The smell of honeysuckle
filled the air with lacey tendrils of smoke.
It was 7:35 on a Friday night
Time to get drunk.
Sorry it's been so damn long!!~ Cordelia
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