The One Left Behind - Post X2 [Scott POV 1/1]
The One Left Behind
Summary: Just another Post-X2 Scott wrap-up. I couldn't resist.
Disclaimer: I'm just playing in Marvel's sandbox. Please don't kick
the dirt in my face.
Dedications: Thanks to Tara and Rachel the Gang Everlasting for
just plain reading this and helping me out in various ways. I heart
you. Just a mention to an authoress named Minisinoo who I've followed
for years and I still can't get enough of a thank you that she'll
never read, but I'll post it anyway. Thanks for sticking to Scott
through all these stories I'll love it all to the end.
I used to dream in color.
Sometimes I long for sleep. Not just for the energy, but also for my
long-mourned colors. Only in my dreams do the colors come to me now,
though sometimes during terrible stress and pain, they leave me and
I'm left with the simple blacks and grays and whites of an old
television set (or the damnable red).
I wanted only to sleep when I finally stumbled to the ground level of
the mansion. It was a wreck like one of the students with a more
malevolent power had a temper tantrum. I stepped through the puddles
of melted water (Bobby?) and didn't even stop to care that it was
probably eating away at the thousands of dollars worth of wood
flooring beneath it. I suppose that's what the students had really
expected from me - to see the house in shambles and go into a rage.
Most of them didn't even know She was gone (the sound of water
turning on somewhere; it made me flinch). They tried to ask what
happened. I wouldn't have any of it. I walked down the hall and tried
not to notice that the leather of the uniform was tearing open the
patch of red on my neck (I'd have to get a bandage later no, I
don't want to go down there), dodging broken mirrors and overturned
plants, tracking dirt through centuries-old paneled rooms and
oriental rugs and came upon our door, broken down and hanging
dejectedly on its hinges.
I walked into the room slowly, toeing random, shattered objects with
my boot. The remnants of the nightstand, her make-up, the vase of
flowers that I'd bought her for our recent anniversary had been
thrown onto the floor and the baby's breath had turned an odd,
sickening color. The glass crunched underfoot (her reading glasses?)
and I almost sobbed, but I had no energy left to sustain the action,
so I just found a chair that was sturdy enough and collapsed.
I've only just now finished cleaning our room. Even in the soldiers'
hurried attempts at flushing the children out, they still managed to
do substantial damage to most of the rooms. When we returned from
Canada, I wanted nothing more than to slam the door and fall onto the
bed, no matter how stiff the uniform was, but I couldn't. I never
slept right when She was gone, and (don't)
I tried to take a shower. The hot water stung like a bastard on the
back of my neck where the acid was dripped, and my heart thrummed
faster against my ribs from the adrenaline the pain caused. At least
it was telling me I was alive. I scrubbed my bare face (showering
blind was an old routine) hard until my arms were sore from trying to
scrubs the memories away from my eyes (I will always hear her). The
water pelted harder during the late hours of the night with none of
the students vying over control of the water heaters. The water. It
rushed past my ears and pushed against me. All the water. I couldn't
breathe. I can't breathe (without her) the water was choking me and
I was dying if I didn't
I choked and realized that I had been holding my breath (I almost
opened my eyes wouldn't that have been a tragedy?) and quickly
snapped off the water, listening to it swirl noisily down the drain,
twirling and hissing. I still hate the water.
For the most part, they've let me be. They have their own mourning to
do. I can't remember if I've spoke to anyone since Alkali. I might've
told Storm that we were approaching Washington, but for the most I
sat and looked stoic, tried not to process the information; tried to
short-circuit my body from my brain somehow and not fully understand
the fact that I am now a very young widower. It certainly appeared as
though nothing had happened; only an empty seat on the `Bird the tell
tale evidence that something was painfully missing. Other than that,
nothing was noticeable; no tear tracks stained my cheeks (my beams
have long since obliterated the idea of actual tears, though they're
there in my mind) and a dark calm took over the team. I was already
blissfully dead inside by the time we approached the Oval Office and
too embarrassed among other things to start with the showing of
emotions once again. I haven't cracked since. I saw the look of
complete terror in Bobby's (and Rogue's? Ororo's?) eyes when I was
broken and sobbing on the Wolverine's shoulder (I'm not supposed to
I haven't done anything quite so filled with teenaged angst as listen
to depressing, mournful songs; I have yet to sing the lyrics with a
tight throat, though I know that She liked my voice (stop thinking).
For whatever reason, I'd feel as though I were desecrating her memory
to act in such a petty, childish way; like one of the jilted students
who's just realized that there little crush is unrequited.
It doesn't mean that I don't think of the lyrics every now and then
and have a sudden spasm of pain around my chest, which has become
blessedly numb for the most part.
The earth has continued orbiting, even though I bitterly acknowledge
the fact. I resent the ease with which everyone seems to have
continued (I want them to feel the pain, too).
I cannot commit such dramatic acts as suicide; not in this house, and
not with the world that has been placed on my shoulders still
teetering; waiting for me to slip and have it roll down; crumble.
I also cannot live, but I cannot willingly go into that dark night,
and so I wander; a body only half-filled by a torn soul. The typical
listlessness of one of those left behind. I was strangely calmed by
the normalcy of my grieving while surrounded by the odd and bizarre.
Logan seems to hold the belief that all of his problems will drift
away if he just gets drunk enough and passes out in the right place.
He's actually asked me to join him, though it's rare, but only after
being sufficiently drunk enough to forget whom he was talking to.
He doesn't understand. He never will. He might have come back just
for Her; he may think that he was in love with Her; shit, he might've
even kissed her (I hope not, I still have male pride). But he'll
I was already drunk off of Her for years, and suddenly being deprived
of my drug has caused me to react as anyone who's been addicted
would. But I know what it's like to go cold off some cheap street
narcotic, and this is a thousand times worse than that ever was. I'm
three months off Her and I'm still dying; she's left me with a torn,
jagged ache in my head far worse than any hangover could ever do.
I wonder if she is like a drug. Will I wake up one morning, go about
my day, and only then realize that I haven't thought about Her for a
full three hours? Six hours? A day? Will this fire running through my
veins die down to a smolder one day (and do I want that)? I've
already become enraged at the knowledge that our room doesn't smell
like her anymore.
And so it goes (I don't want it to). I walk in a state that only one
who has suffered this malady can comprehend. The feeling of living
without living and walking through the house, looking through a haze
of (red) frosted glass. You go on half-heartedly seeking some way to
die honorably and without guilt. To martyr yourself like She did. Die
for a cause.
Everyone's so anxious to be the martyr but no one wants to be the one
left behind (why didn't she listen?).
I watch everyone else around the mansion. They're beginning to bloom
from their grief like roses under the snow. They've all begun to stop
their religious visitations to Her memorial; they've slowly begun to
forget their pain about a woman named Jean (it still hurts to say her
name why!) who I loved. Their memories of Her will fade one day
but mine will haunt me (the sound of water haunts me). And that's why
I know that while one day, they might realize that they haven't
thought of Her for three hours, six hours, days, weeks, months I'll
keep thinking of her every minute.
That's why I know that they're going to make it through this, but I
Because I used to dream in color. But now it is only dark.
- --- Rebekka <aidao_domos@...> wrote:
> =============What makes you think I wouldn't read it? LOL! And thank you. I'm
> The One Left Behind
> Just a mention to an authoress named Minisinoo who I've followed
> for years and I still can't get enough of � a thank you that she'll
> never read, but I'll post it anyway. Thanks for sticking to Scott
> through all these stories � I'll love it all to the end.
Also, I just wanted to say that I liked this a good deal. I think it
dealt fairly with the practical side of grief -- the day-to-day
affect -- as well as the long-term nature of it. There's no quick
way to get over it.
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