So now you're sleeping peaceful
I lie awake and pray
You'll be strong
tomorrow
And will see another day
~ "Hold On" - Sarah McLachlan ~
{Rogue}
The alarm buzzes like a pesky insect next to my ear. I wake up and throw off the blankets. Just another day in paradise. If I could bring myself to care, I might wonder when I got so bitter.
Down to the bathroom to shower and get ready for class. After I finish getting dressed, I absently run a razorblade down the length of my bare forearm. I don't even wait for the wound to heal before pulling on my elbow-length black gloves. The dark fabric won't reveal any telltale stains.
I'm not sure why I still bother testing it every day. It's become a habit, I guess. Another routine in my standard operating procedure. A part of me wonders if I'm starting to like the pain involved a little more than is healthy. Right, like my mental health is any great shakes without an unnatural affinity for pain. Physical pain has a welcome side effect - For a little while, it lets me forget the other pain that lurks in my mind like a predator, waiting for a weak moment to strike.
Sometimes, I think I need this methodical cycle to keep me from going completely over the edge, assuming that I haven't already. Someone once said that the only people who are one hundred percent certain that they're sane are crazy people. If that's true, I guess I'm still partly in touch with reality.
History class. I wish I could be interested. "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it". Yeah, especially if you have an instructor like Orro Monroe. I've heard that more than one of her students had been "doomed to repeat" in summer school.
The lecture ends with an assignment to read the next chapter for class tomorrow. I close my notebook and start gathering my things. English next. I hope that Hank doesn't ask me my opinion on "The Metamorphosis". I'd read it as instructed, but the mood I was in didn't allow me to appreciate it in a normal way. I'd probably spout off something entirely inappropriate, like if being treated like a bug turned you into a bug, then maybe people treating you like you were broken would break you. They'd probably ship me off to the cracker factory before lunch.
"Rogue?"
I look up to see Storm standing in front of my desk. I suddenly realize that everyone else has already left the room. Great. Another episode of Rogue-has-gone-through-so-much-we-need-to-humor-her-and-be-understanding. I smile with what I hope is a convincing imitation of normalcy. "Sorry, Ms. Monroe. I'm a little out of it this morning."
She smiles serenely. I envy her that calmness she exudes like a personal scent. I can't remember the last time I was peaceful. "It's fine, Rogue. I just wanted to see how you're progressing with that essay on the Civil Rights Movement. I know you've had a lot of work to catch up, but I'd like to have it by the end of the week."
End of the week. Considering I hadn't even read the books yet... "Sure. I'll have it on your desk by Friday." Please let Kitty have time to help me with it.
She smiles again and gives me a satisfied nod. When her gaze drops from mine, her eyes widen with shock. "Rogue? Did you hurt yourself?"
I don't know what she's talking about. I follow the direction of her stare. There's a small pool of dark red liquid on my desk.
Blood on my desk... my blood.
I drop my books and race for the elevator. I hear her calling out after me, but I don't slow down. I slap my hand against the panel and jump into the waiting car. I tap my foot impatiently as the elevator descends. As it does, I pull down my glove.
The cut on my arm is bleeding profusely.
When the doors open, I run down the hall. I pull my glove up and put pressure on my forearm with my opposite hand. I'm running so fast that the med bay door sensor has only triggered it to open half way when I skid to a stop inside the entrance.
Jean is at Logan's bedside. She's intently studying something in her hands and doesn't notice me. I take a few steps closer. "What happened to Logan? Is he awake? Is he..." I can't finish that thought. He can't be gone. I would know it if he were. I would *feel* it.
Jean's eyes fly up, wide with surprise. "Rogue? How did you-"
"I'm bleeding," I reply, not bothering to explain further. "What about Logan?"
Jean walks over to me. She unclenches my hand from around my left forearm. She carefully peels off my glove and her breath catches when she sees the seeping gash underneath it. I'm rapidly losing my patience with her. "Jean, would you please stop fussing over my damned arm and tell me what happened to Logan."
Her eyes meet mine and she shakes her head as if to clear a fog from her vision. "Logan is fine, Rogue. I'm more worried about you right now. This wound is bleeding heavily. I need to examine it."
"Jean! You know what this means, right? I haven't had so much as a bruise that lasted more than a few seconds since Logan... What happened? I need to know, please!"
"You let me dress this cut and I'll tell you everything you want to know, deal?" She turns and walks over to the sink in the rear of the infirmary. She removes her surgical gloves and replaces them with a fresh pair as I follow her. Jean is an expert at getting her own way. She knows I won't refuse if it means finding out about Logan's condition.
Jean really annoys the hell out of me sometimes.
She directs me to sit on a stool next to the sink and to hold my arm over the basin. She opens a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and liberally pours it over the cut. Little prickles of pain shoot through my arm, but I ignore them as she starts to speak. "Logan's vital signs changed this morning."
"How?" I ask anxiously as Jean softly dabs the excess peroxide off my arm with a gauze pad.
She picks up a bottle of pinkish-orange liquid and unscrews the top. There's a plastic applicator attached to the lid. "Logan's EEG shows increased frequencies of Alpha waves and a marked decrease in Delta waves. The histaminergic activity in his hypothalamus..."
I must look as confused as I feel. Jean stops speaking when she notices the expression on my face. "Jean, let's pretend for a minute that I know absolutely nothing about neurology. Does all that mumbo jumbo mean that he's waking up?"
She smiles slightly. "I can't promise you anything, Rogue. But it's looking that way, yes."
I close my eyes and let my breath out slowly. I hear Jean say, "Lucky for you, this cut is superficial. I don't think you'll need stitches. How did this happen anyway?"
Oh boy. The truth is not an option. I can just imagine Jean's reaction if I told her that, on top of everything else, I'd been cutting myself every day for nearly four months. "I think I caught it on the bathroom shelf this morning. I didn't notice it bleeding until Ms. Monroe pointed it out."
She stares at me for a minute. I have to wonder if she's considering probing me for the truth and whether the interrogation would be mental or verbal. She must have decided against it. She takes the bottle of strange looking liquid and says, "This may sting a little."
It does sting... a lot. It feels like a hornet's nest just swarmed over my arm. My breath hisses inward and I wince. Jean recaps the bottle (the label calls it methiolade - I'm assuming the main component is hydrochloric acid) and places some gauze pads on my cut. She applies some adhesive tape around the edges of the pads, then picks up a roll of gauze. She winds the long bandage around my arm and fastens it with some more tape. I feel like a mummy.
Jean pulls off her surgical gloves with a snap and says, "I'll want to look at that in a few days to make sure it's healing." She throws the soiled gloves into a trashcan under the sink and walks back over to Logan's bedside.
I pull my left glove back on (it's a tight fit with the thick bandage in the way) and follow her.
I stare at Logan's face, looking for a sign that he's waking up. Jean glances over at me with sympathy in her eyes. "Rogue, you should go back to class. There's no telling when he'll come out of this."
"No way am I leaving." I leave off the *there will be a blizzard in hell before you force me out of here* part. No point in tempting fate when you live in the same house as a weather goddess.
Jean looks like she understands, but also like she feels she has to insist. "Rogue-"
Jean stops when she hears the sound. I hear it too. We both look down. Logan is mumbling something we can't hear and the muscles around his eyes are twitching.
I'm trembling. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. After all this time... "Logan?" The trembling has transferred to my vocal cords. "Did you say something?"
I lean down closer to him. I hear his voice, rough and weak from lack of use. "What's with the damned spotlight?"
I bite down on my lower lip to prevent a laugh from escaping. Doesn't it figure that he'd wake up grumpy? I look up and feel tears fall from the corners of my eyes. "Jean, can you turn off the lamp?"
She nods and reaches for the switch. I can see relief and happiness in her eyes.
I turn back to Logan. Now that the light above his head is off, he's slowly opening his eyes. He's blinking rapidly at first. Then he keeps them open just a crack. "Hey, kid. Good to see ya."
I smile down at him, sure that my heart is in my eyes. I haven't felt this overwhelmed in a long time, and for once, the emotions washing through me are joyful ones. "Good to see you, too."
Jean walks over to the other side of Logan's bed with a cup of ice chips and a plastic spoon. I hadn't even noticed her leaving to get them. She holds the spoon out to Logan, saying, "You probably want water, but it's safer to go slowly. These should help ease the dryness in your throat."
Logan takes an ice chip into his mouth and sucks on it a minute before crunching it up and swallowing it. Then he glances around the med bay. "Where's the Professor?"
"He's in class," Jean replies. "Do you want me to ask him to come down here?"
Logan's brow furrows. "In class? I just figured he'd still be here. I guess I've been out longer than I thought. What's it been, a week?"
A week... How can he possibly think it's only been a week? Jean shoots a glance at me, then looks back at Logan. "It's been almost four months."
The shocked look on his face makes my heart pound painfully. *Oh, God...*
"Four months? Damn..." Logan looks over at me. I'm sure I must be white as a sheet. As usual, he tries to make me feel better, not realizing that it isn't possible. "You pack one hell of a wallop, kid."
When Logan sees that his teasing has no affect on me, he starts looking worried. I should say something. I can't. All I can hear is a voice repeating in my head... *He doesn't remember... He doesn't remember... He doesn't remember...*
I have to get out of here. I have to get away. I stand up and start to walk out. Logan catches my gloved hand before I can leave. I look back and hope he can't see that I'm losing it.
"Look... kid... I'm just glad it worked. No regrets, ok?"
*No regrets.* I wish I could say the same. I force a smile and pray that my bitterness doesn't show too much. "I'm glad it worked, too."
It shouldn't matter that he doesn't know what I mean.
It does matter.
I can't bear it anymore. That friendly, unknowing look in his eyes is tearing me apart. I pull my hand away and walk to the door. Over my shoulder, I say to Jean, "Thanks for fixing my arm. I have to get back to class."
I can hear the tapping of Jean's heels on the floor. She catches me near the door. She talks under her breath. "Rogue... I know this must hurt... If you need-"
I can feel the tears welling up again. I have to go before they start, so I interrupt her. "Just... take care of him."
{Logan}
I can hear the swish of the door opening and closing as the kid leaves. Jean walks back over to me and picks up a blood pressure cuff. She's avoiding looking me in the eyes. Somethin' strange is goin' on. "You don't need that, Red. I'm feelin' better every minute."
She gives me a strained smile and wraps the stupid thing around my arm anyway. "Humor me. It's a doctor thing."
Ok. I guess I can humor her. But I am wondering why everything got so damned tense in here a minute ago. I wasn't expecting a fucking tickertape parade, but the atmosphere turned downright gloomy when I realized how long I'd been out of it. I guess the kid feels guilty that I took so long to wake up after I touched her. She shouldn't blame herself. I made the choice and I would make the same one again, no question. "Is she all right?"
Jean doesn't answer me immediately. She removes the cuff from my arm and makes a note on a chart. "I don't know how to answer that, Logan. I hope so."
I feel a strange tightening in my chest. That is *not* an acceptable answer. A voice inside me insists that she *has* to be all right. "What's that supposed to mean? Is she ok or not?"
Jean studies me for a minute. I get the feeling she's about to say something, but she stops herself. "Logan... Rogue went through... she went through a lot while you were in a coma. I think she's a bit overwhelmed right now. But I also know that she's strong. I think she'll be ok."
Jean *thinks* she'll be ok? Well I think that Jean is editing herself before she talks, and it pisses me off royally. Who the hell is she trying to protect? If she's trying to protect the kid from me, she should know better. I would never do anything to hurt Marie...
Marie? When did I start thinking of her as Marie?
"Can you... Just keep an eye on her until I'm back on my feet, ok?"
Why does Jean keep looking at me like that? Like I'm a damned specimen on a slab that she's trying to dissect with her eyes instead of a knife. This place got even weirder while I was asleep. "You don't have to ask, Logan. We're all making sure that Rogue is ok."
That makes me feel better and worse at the same time. It's good that someone is looking out for her, but it's my job and no one else should do it.
I promised her before that I'd protect her, but it's different now. It's more than concern, more than honoring a promise. I feel a sudden rush of rage that I'm not the one taking care of her. I feel territorial and possessive... Where the fuck did *that* come from? It must be that thing about being responsible for a life you've saved.
What else could it be?
Jean walks away from me toward one of the wall cabinets. I watch the sway of her hips with an appreciative smile... until it hits me.
Guilt. Right smack in the forehead, a great big wave of guilt. For the love of... Why am I feeling *guilty*? I know it has nothing to do with Jean being taken. I was able to enjoy the view before without a problem. Hell, I even got the added bonus of ticking off Scooter when I stared at her.
I can't take it anymore. I look away from her ass. I try watching her chest instead. Her breasts are shown off nicely by the blue sweater she's wearing as she reaches for something in a cabinet...
I feel like a depraved, worthless human being. I have no idea why, but something in me says that it's fundamentally *wrong* for me to be ogling Jean this way.
All right, this has gotten out of hand. I'll be damned if I'll let my sex drive disappear. There's a reason for all this weirdness. I don't care if it's been four months or four years. A man doesn't just wake up from a coma transformed into someone else...
Well that has to be one of the dumbest fucking thoughts I've ever had. For Christ's sake genius, this isn't the first time you've woken up to find the world has tilted off center. Fear curls its fist around my gut. The nightmares of pain and water and champagne flutes rear their leering, metallic faces. I shove them back down into the pit they rose from, snarling inwardly at them. It isn't the same this time.
Something is definitely off, but I feel in my bones that it's not sinister. It's not just the small amount of trust I've reluctantly given to the people at this school that convinces me. It's the feeling that I've forgotten something important... No. More than important, I've forgotten something *essential *. I poke around in my head looking for it. Nothing comes to me except a sense of loss, like I'd somehow found the key to my cage and then lost it before I had a chance to open the lock...
What the...? I must have lost my mind to be thinking like this. I'm no art lovin', tree huggin', poetry spoutin' pansy! What the hell did they do to me while I was out? Did they have One-eye give me sensitivity training, or did they just put Oprah on the VCR in a repeat loop? At this rate, I'll be wearin' a damned dress by the time I walk out of here.
No way. This is not happening to me. I don't care how long it takes or how much soul searching (dammit, stop that!) I have to do to make sense of this mess. I want my life back. *My* life, not some watered down, sissified version of the real thing. I refuse to be a pantywaist like that do-gooder, Summers. I may not be the smartest guy in the place (hell, I *know* I'm not), but I'm stubborn, and these instincts of mine are good for more than sniffing out trouble.
I'll figure this out if it kills me.
{Rogue}
I'm walking. Slow, measured steps take me closer to the elevator. I want to run, but my knees are too shaky. I'd just collapse in a heap if I tried to move faster. One step at a time. Don't think, don't feel, just walk. Just keep moving. Just keep breathing.
I finally reach the elevator. I need to go back to class... I need to go... I need...
I lean my back against the smooth wall next to the elevator and slide down it. I bring my knees up in front of me protectively and wrap my arms around them. I pull my scarf from my neck and wad it up to hold in front of my mouth. It muffles the uncontrollable sounds I'm making.
I give myself over to the tears and tell myself that these are the last ones I'll shed. After this, I will never cry over him again. I will be Rogue - The good student, the unassuming friend, the untouchable girl who isn't bothered too much by her isolation. I will forget Marie. Marie is the one who dies today. She actually died in the med bay weeks ago when Logan broke away from her. I just didn't realize it before now. But she is gone, as surely as Logan's memory of her is.
I let them both go. Logan and Marie are nothing more than fantasies of things that can never be. But the death of a dream has to be mourned like any other loss, so I cry for them. I cry for who they could have been and what they might have had if things were different. I let the tears take the pain of shattered illusions with them.
I need this time to say goodbye, but then I'll be strong. I'll be Rogue. Rogue is a survivor. Rogue can paint a smile on her face and make them all believe she's ok. Rogue can hide in plain sight the way Marie never could.
No one will ever know that Rogue is broken inside.
Hold on, Hold on to yourself
For this is gonna hurt like hell