E-mail address for feedback: email@example.com
Author websites: http://www.purejesse.com
Disclaimers: The characters, story and universe of Mutant X belongs solely to Tribune Entertainment and Marvel Entertainment. I am using Jesse and Emma for means of creative release only, and I am not getting any money from this. I wish I own Jesse though.
Notes: A million thanks to Jessica for the beta. :)
Summary: She weaves stories with her touch…
"We do not touch but
We are two flames
Licking each other
Through the night..."
-Rock Dance, by Marra PL. Lanot
Stories usually begin with this: Emma, sitting near the water, concentrating on controlling her powers. Her eyebrows twitch at the barrage of images that slice through her mind like shards of broken glass. You, watching her from far away, confused on whether you want to continue watching her or hold her in your arms. Her mind, and everything about her, seem millions of miles away from your touch. You take her in fully, reveling in yesterday's dream of her feathery lips on your skin, christening them more golden than the stars above. Eyes, bluer than yours, pierce your own like a dozen meteor fragments.
She told you once, that as a child, she hated those stories the babysitter, Hannah, used to tell you. Sleeping Beauty kissed back to waking by the Prince. Or Cinderella and those blasted glass slippers. Snow White and how she lived with seven, suspicious old men. Beauty and the Beast. She mused, what do you need stories for when you know how it ends long before you've turned the first page?
Yet you loved these stories anyway. You loved them so much because they were better to think about than the story you're currently living in. In your story, she knows you are looking at her, and in the next chapter, you will hold her in your arms and you will live happily ever after.
Yet her eyes stay shut and she remains in a world of images she wished she could control.
She doesn't turn the page.
Like everyone else, you were a child once. But your childhood, although it held an impression of perfection, was hardly what it seemed to be. Mother was hardly home, Father was out of the country, and no one wanted to be your friend because you were too different, with your many toys and chauffeur to pick you up from school. And that crazy thing you do, running through everyone when you played basketball during gym.
Hannah waited for you after school everyday, and you would sit cuddled on the side of her arm, waiting breathlessly for her to pull out that book -- that huge book of dreams, stories and make-believe. She would read to you slowly, knowing that you relished in understanding everything first, then taking them apart in your mind then putting them back together again. It was that innate curiosity in you that attracted you to technology , all those your Father worked with whenever he came home once in a blue moon. It was that same curiosity that attracted you to stories.
But among those stories, there was one you liked to hear the most. It was a story Hannah made herself. One about the Dreamweaver. The Dreamweaver that comes into your life just once, who will wish all your sadness away and make everything seemingly better. Everyone has one of their own, Hannah said. Their own Dreamweaver, who arrives once after the rain, soaking from her journey yet reveling in a swirl of promises and hope.
How wary are you now of the rain, its scent, texture and smell; of the dreams you endure every night of pain and wishes unfulfilled. And how you wish to hear that story again.
Whenever Emma kept her back turned on you , whenever she refused to turn the page, you often find yourself swallowing hard, your throat burning from the way she seemed to exclude you from her life. So you decided to read your most favorite story of her so far. You have read it a million times, replayed it again and again in your mind, but it didn't really matter.
How does the story start? This ….you seeing her running in fear, her red dress echoing a possible future of bloodshed if you don't act quickly. Your muscles tensing, ready to spring into action when necessary. You running to her side, grabbing her arm. The sound of tires screeching in a distance closing in on you in a dangerous swirl of black metal and rubber. In that intimate moment between pushing her away and holding her close to your chest, you breathed her in.
She smells like rainwater.
He doesn't seem to hear you. You speak again, raising the pitch of your voice a little bit, peering at him.
Wide blue eyes meet your own, snatches of the darkness it had been immersed deeply into for the last few minutes dancing for a while, and eventually fading. He looks up at you, the startled look on his face a change from the usual stoic composure he always maintained.
He clears his throat. "Yeah?"
You lower your voice, trying to copy Shalimar's soothing tone that always seems to relax him. "You seem pre-occupied about something," you start. "Want to talk about it?"
It didn't work. The coldness returns to his sky blue eyes, and he pulls away from you. You didn't mean it, but with the use of your gifts, you catch vestiges of an unknown desiring hidden deep inside him, a desiring that penetrated you with so much force that you gasp for air.
"Emma?" You felt the vestiges vanish, and you find yourself reaching for them without really knowing why. He is now looking at you, his face now carrying the familiar look of concern that you were more often used to see from him. He places a hand on your shoulder and the heat of his touch was enough to make you gasp again. He repeats your name, his voice carrying more force this time, demanding an answer. "Are you all right?"
"I-I'm ok," you finally answered, chest heaving for a breath. He doesn't seem to believe you. You give him the most assured look you can muster, and nod your head. His eyes map your face, as if searching for traces of the truth in you, causing you to turn away. You keep your eyes on the water next to you, slowly losing yourself in the languid movement as it plays with the light, reminding you of his eyes.
When you turn back he is already gone, and the air seems strangely empty, and you felt yourself gasping for air again.
Green grass. Long vines. A forest buried so deep in itself that the strongest of sunlight cannot even muster a peek. You stand in its heart, alone and confused as to where you are and why you are here. A voice, deep and familiar, but seemingly far away, breathes into your ear. You turn and find yourself facing familiar blue eyes. You reach for the voice and as the voice pulls away, the sunlight slowly pierces through the vines and tears into your sight.
It burns. You wake with a start, your body pooling in sweat, your fists curling onto the sheets, your heart, seemingly constricting onto your breast. You stare into space, reflecting onto what just happened.
You once told Adam that your visions seemed to be a dream at first, and this philosophy made you see dreams in a different light from the norm. For you, dreams aren't wishes, what you want the future to be. It is what the future is, what the future will be. Dreams, you realized, are not mere fantasies. You learned long before through your visions not to underestimate the power of a dream and how real it can be.
Your fingers fly to your forehead, and your brow furrow as you try to remember the dream that attacked you with so much force that it disturbed you from your sleep. You know remembering would be easier if you use your gifts, and it didn't take much to convince you to use it.
Images pierces you with a speed and force of a barreling car, that you feel your stomach churn. A myriad of emotions; longing, wishful thinking, pain…everything you always thought dreams aren't meant to be. The images fly, and when they finally stop, it all swirls down into one familiar face. Eyes blue as the sky in summer. Hair kissed by sunlight, lips you've been wanting to touch so badly, that it didn't take you long to leave your bed and pull him from his dream.
Green grass. Long vines. A forest buried so deep in itself that the strongest of sunlight cannot even muster a peek. You stand in its heart the way you always do each time. You revel in its silence, reacquaint yourself with the feeling of being alone, the heavy air of solitude smothering you.
For a moment, you find yourself feeling someone else's presence in your private sanctuary. You turn around and walk slowly to the figure who seems unable to place exactly where she was. She? Yes, it was a she. A very familiar she. You press your lips to her ear and ask for her name. Eyes the color of the deepest part of the ocean look at you in confusion. You run away.
This is the point where the line breaks. The story pauses for a moment, asking you to turn the page. You hesitate, wondering what comes after, but what waits for you beckons for you to turn it anyway.
She appears at your side. You hesitate and take a step forward. She waits. She wills you to close your eyes, and with the tenderness of butterfly wings she gives you her dream. You gasp in surprise to see how real, how tangible it is. You feel yourself floating in a whirlwind of silk, its color, the fusion of burning wood and flickering flames. You revel in the fleetingness of her breath as cool as evening air in June.
She smells like rainwater.
You think, this has to be a dream. She smiles at you and tells you maybe it is. But when dreams like this sneak behind you in the dark and press its lips gently on the back of your neck, you wonder, really, if dreams are meant to be full of anguish, pain, sadness, wishes unfulfilled. The look on her face was enough to convince you that it wasn't. Fingers, soft yet firm, runs slowly on the side of your face, as if memorizing its features like second skin. You felt complete.
This is where the story really begins. You open your eyes and leave the dream willingly. For once, you didn't feel like the morning stole from you your last breath of air. You find yourself at the Sanctuary Garden in seconds, taking in the beauty of her smooth, ivory skin, her hair the color of a calming bonfire, her eyes; two deep pools wanting to drown you in its embrace. You watch Emma observe the water silently, reveling in the peace and calm she emanates. She keeps her back turned to you as you continue molding your eyes into the contours of her body, and for once, she didn't seem too far away.
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