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Fic: Perfect Ring of Scars 12: Submission

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  • Aericura
    Title/Part: PRS 12: Submission Series: Perfect Ring of Scars Author: Shana Nolan E-Mail: aericura@micron.net Genre: angst!! (J,L,S,R) Rating: strong R (implied
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 5, 2000
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      Title/Part: PRS 12: Submission
      Series: Perfect Ring of Scars
      Author: Shana Nolan
      E-Mail: aericura@...
      Genre: angst!! (J,L,S,R)
      Rating: strong R (implied sexual sitches, language, violence, drug usage)
      Archive: the usual suspects, and others will ask first
      Summary: to quote a line from a later part: "the year from hell"
      Disclaimers: Fox and Marvel Entertainment Group have the X-Men and their
      movie. Stan Lee, I worship at your feet. I don't own anyone and I don't
      intend to sell this. no money, no sue, no powers. but my CB handle was
      Phoenix (great, date yourself, why don't you).
      Comments: are welcome. Flames, however, are only accepted from a mutant
      named Pyro and even he knows better.

      *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

      PRS: Submission

      ~*~*~

      "slave screams he hears but doesn't want to listen, slave screams he's being
      beat into submission"

      ~*~*~

      In a perfect world, the melancholy that set over a person could be brought
      on by silence. Loneliness. The stillness of an empty room. The heavy air
      of a coffin and a six foot hole. The wordless pain of tears. The heart
      and mind, in that state, lingered in the fields of shadows when they
      realised that whatever had happened, whatever was lost, was worth ruminating
      over.

      She often wondered if the perfect world actually existed.

      What she did know, however, is that one day the melancholy would find her.
      Something had to happen. Somewhere, especially in the past year, something
      had to give. Break. Snap.

      Shatter to pieces at her feet.

      She should have known He would be involved somehow. When she washed His
      blood off her hands and arms, staring at her own crimson marred reflection,
      the shadows played with her and the strange melancholy desire sang.

      As far as she knew, He would survive. Doctor Marc Angelo, chief of staff
      and a level headed man brave enough to kick her out of her own territory,
      had driven her from the trauma room when she tried to help, relegating her
      to the abyss of anxious, unknowing contemplation.

      The abyss however, could not include the sea of anxious faces that stared at
      her. Her former comrades, her new friends and hospital coworkers, all in
      one group.

      It was too much.

      She was a doctor-- a professional trained to deal with these kind of
      things-- but watching Scott Summers bleed out on the floor of Saint
      Michael's was her breaking point. The point that stripped away her precious
      control. Marc Angelo saw that and exiled her. Remy LeBeau, though still
      very much a stranger, saw that and frowned a little.

      As if she still had feelings for Scott, and she was the only one who
      couldn't see it.

      Truth was, she always did and always would. Despite Logan, despite Nigel,
      she had only loved Him, her sentimental side otherwise cold and abused. He
      made her truly smile. He made her truly miserable. He ruled her heart, even
      now.

      And she felt His pain as if it were her own. She couldn't help it.

      Try not to die a little when you hear the telltale warning klaxon of a heart
      monitor hooked up to the person that owns a part of you.

      She shook her head. This was not the time... or was it? She had nothing
      else to do, all but ordered to stay put until further notice. The
      melancholy was practically sitting next to her, egging on her thoughts,
      abusing her telepathy to make her doubt everything that had happened.

      It was just a year. A year within a lifetime. A lifetime that she actually
      missed in that space of time.

      For a moment, she wondered how to get it all back. How to, while ignoring
      the blood stained clothes on the bench next to her, repair the damage done
      by the year from hell.

      How to forget the pain. How to make the others forget, or at least forgive.

      Certain faults were hers, she knew and admitted that. Yes, she had kicked
      them out of her apartment a few weeks ago. Yes, she had left Westchester.
      Yes, she hadn't told anyone where she was going and why she was doing it.

      Worst of all, she had fucked Logan. She had opened the door and let herself
      be used by his need to be closer to an untouchable girl. She had used him
      to exorcise her pain.

      That was when she learned to hate herself, if only for a moment. To hate
      Scott for blaming the dreams on her, to hate Logan for not leaving before it
      was too late.

      And to hate herself all over again for everything she could have prevented.

      No good memories came from those actions... but she would not apologise for
      them. She would not concede her mistakes to someone equally faulted.

      He was human, even if he was a mutant. Flawed and finite. Neither of them
      were perfect, and they-- she was a fool to ever think otherwise.

      What made her want to go back? What made her think, for even a moment, that
      she could? When she had told him she wouldn't come crawling back, she had
      meant it. She had moved on and found a new life.

      A life that was quickly shattering apart of its own volition.

      Absently, she wondered if she could return without crawling.

      Scott's actions haunted her. He called off the marriage for a set of erotic
      dreams. He took Rogue's virginity in a moment of intoxication and taught
      her the agony of losing a child in one breath.

      Well, maybe it wasn't that simple.

      Where was the line in the sand? If the dreams didn't damn her, would the
      dreams-come-to-life do the job? Scott had broken off the relationship--
      which was forgettable with time-- but one night of failed judgment on his
      behalf had gotten him run through on adamantium blades.

      Logan. His was the most clear and least damning role in the whole sick
      scenario. He was willing to release his grip when the guard fired the gun,
      but instinct and the pain of a bullet burying itself in his leg had driven
      his claws deeply into Scott's chest and lungs.

      The year from hell was living up to its title.

      Like the coward she considered herself at the moment, she was hiding in the
      employee locker room of the hospital trying to quell the mental demons.
      Rogue was in a private room, recovering and confused, her memory of how she
      arrived spotty. Logan was in a cell at the 52nd Precinct, soon to be bailed
      out by Ororo and Remy.

      And Scott was in the ICU, lucky to still be breathing.

      The year from hell officially ended with a day worse than any inquisitor's
      torture.


      *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

      finally, the end: Perfect Ring of Scars

      Shana,
      CyclopsGrrl
      ...with a serious Logan fetish

      aericura@...
      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
      "Why be afraid of the snakes in the garden when there are spiders under your
      bed?" Disturbing Behavior
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