AUTHOR: Kate Bolin
SUMMARY: Rogue wants to feel again. *Incredibly* dark, and not for
the faint of heart.
RATING: Strong R, for violent situations
ARCHIVING: List archives, Kielle's if she wants it, otherwise ask.
DISCLAIMER: The characters and universe herein are the property of
20th Century Fox and the Marvel Entertainment Group. This piece of
fan-written fiction means no infringement upon any legal holdings.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a really depressing fic. Just so you are
perfectly aware of what you're getting into. It deals with
self-injury, something that affects *many* people today. If you
don't know about it, visit http://www.palace.net/~llama/psych/
Thank you to my beta readers, who attempted admirably to figure this out.
And I hate to say this, but consider this a moment of therapy for me.
I'm stressed out over packing, so instead of getting out the utility
knife, I make Rouge do it instead. I *really* hate that as a
fic-writing concept, it makes me cringe. So fair warning.
The cold slice, the sharp slash of fire, the rush of
adrenaline and endorphins, the almost sexual thrill of seeing the
blood seeping from her body.
Rogue had been experimenting with her healing abilities ever
since that cold vicious night in the Blackbird, squeezing her hands
into fists so tight that her nails cut her delicate skin of her palm
over and over and over again, the cuts healing with a slow soothing
pain before the quick vicious pain of her squeezing again.
As she sat there that night, her memories clashing with the
sight of the man she thought she was (or was she another man,
currently sitting in a plastic holding cell? Or was she a scared
teenage girl?), the quick flash of fluorescent light on metal caught
her eye, and she reached out for the scalpel before she realized what
she was doing, reaching out with her hand and pulling it towards her
by...oh God, by magnetism, and she didn't realize what she had done
until it sat, a cold deadly weight, in her hand.
It exhausted her to do that, nearly collapsing on the bed
next to Logan's, and Jean forced her to sleep, Scott carrying her up
to bed like a toddler, right down to being covered in a giant
blanket. She slept for most of the day, and when she awoke, she was
alone in the large room, all alone save her new friend the scalpel,
still glittering amid her rumpled clothing.
It glinted at her, a silver smile, and she picked it up in
gloveless hands, feeling its chill against her fingers. Picked it
up, then slowly slid it against the soft skin of her inner arm, the
blunt end trailing gently over her pale skin, slipping against the
thin outlines of veins. The coolness calmed her, the delicate tickle
of metal against skin causing her to shiver slightly. She set the
knife on edge, the point pressing into her skin sharply, but not
sharp enough to cut, and dragged it along the skin, leaving a red
The lines scared her and she put the scalpel down, tucking it
underneath her pillow, refusing to acknowledge the lure of steel.
She was a normal girl, a normal girl -- damn it. She wasn't a freak,
not among these people, she was just like everyone else. And that
gorgeous image of silver against pink skin, a liquid streak of red
appearing, that urge, that sweet sweet urge, that wasn't normal, not
even here. She was normal, she would NOT touch the delicious thin
But when she found herself cursing, words she thought she
never knew, much less would use, she ran up to her room, reaching
under her pillow for the blessed release.
She locked herself in the bathroom, yanking off her glove
and, with closed eyes, slid the edge along her arm.
Pain. Release. She gasped, and as the endorphins kicked in,
she let out a shuddering breath, like sobbing, like orgasm. She
opened her eyes...
And the wound healed in front of her. No scar, just a trace
of blood remaining.
She began to cry, and cut, slicing up her arms as she sobbed,
blood dripping onto the bathroom floor, but there were no scars,
nothing to remind her of what she had done. Nothing but the faint
echoes of pain and the blood streaking up and down her arms.
And after a few minutes, she coughed, startling herself
awake, staring at herself in the mirror. Her hands slid up to her
face, streaking blood on her cheeks, as she stared at herself, hollow
eyes and a bloodstreaked body, like a pagan sacrifice or a war-weary
soldier. She stared, and slid the knife over her arm one final time,
deep, painful, *real*.
And still the wounds healed.
"You know how I fear the power beam which emanates from my eyes--! I shudder
to think what would happen if it ever accidentally gets out of my control!"
Scott Summers' Mutant ManPain Extravanganza, "X-Men" #7
Kate Bolin | ICQ: 3326944 | firstname.lastname@example.org
Member of BTVS