Winter
Rain
She
died in my arms.
We
often talk about such things, privately to ourselves. We don't mention our
truths above a whisper, in case they come true. The obvious worries us. The
unknown worries us. We work in hazardous professions and each day brings with it
a new trouble, and sometimes we make the wrong decisions.
She
died because of me.
"
'Ro?"
The
voice behind my door is grumbly and rough, and I don't feel like talking, but he
knows I'm in here. I hear his body shift slightly, as if he's afraid to
approach, but I doubt he's ready to break down the door. I believe respects my
privacy too much to try a stunt like that but I am depressed, after all, and who
knows what I might do.
Out
of all of my teammates and friends, he's the only one who can sense how I feel.
I can never completely hide from him, which both irritates and intrigues me. He
can smell my heart shattering into sharp stones. My face is a mask, otherwise. A
cold, indifferent, leader-like mask.
"Not
now, Wolverine," I say quietly.
He
clears his throat. "You gotta eat sometime."
"I
will," I promise. I may not keep it. I haven't eaten in more than three
days, and I still don't feel hungry.
She
died. I killed her.
*
* *
"Any
luck, homme?"
Remy
knew the answer before Logan said anything. The older man took out a cigar and
moved the pool balls around the table with a weathered thumb. "Nope."
Gambit
picked up the cue ball and it glowed faintly from his anger and frustration.
"Stormy's stubborn."
"Jackass
stubborn. If she was a man, I'd tell 'er ta get drunk and hit somethin'. Just
let it out."
"She
ain't a man."
"I
know that, Gumbo."
Logan racked the pool balls and grabbed a light cue
stick. He hefted it in his hands, examining the weight, and chose another stick.
They all looked the same, but he could tell the difference. Some were crap, some
had just the right amount of weight for his thick hands. Truthfully, though, he
was on autopilot. They all were.
"Jean
and de Prof?"
"Same
thing," he muttered. He notched his stick with the blue chalk and Remy
grabbed another cue stick. "We've all tried it. You, four times. Me, three.
She ain't budgin.'"
Remy
carefully put the cue ball back on the table, and Logan placed it on the felt.
Remy cleared his throat but didn't look up from the table. "You t'ink she
gonna get t'rough dis one?"
Logan
exchanged a glance with the Cajun right before slamming his stick into the
8-ball. His look told Remy everything: He didn't know.
*
* *
I
can see her in my dreams, still. She's a ghost who speaks to me. I wonder, is
this what Logan sees in his dreams? Or Remy? Perhaps their dreams are worse. Or
perhaps they are better, if they cannot match faces to names. Her name was Trina
Young—she couldn't remember her middle name. Curse of her mutation, she said
with a small smile, but it had been a subtle lie between us. She couldn't bring
herself to tell the others her middle name. Her smile was beautiful when she
expressed it and reminded me of my own. She came to us as a criminal in the
beginning, on the run from the law. But which one of us doesn't run? Which one
of us, in the eyes of the world, is even considered human?
I
killed her.
She
reminded me of that television actress—I'm not sure which, as I rarely watch
television. Some situation comedy, I think, with a blonde-haired, blue-eyed
actress, someone who had a quiet sense of humor and a humility all her own. Was
it television? Perhaps it was a cinema star. I rarely go to the movies, either.
Trina
Young reminded me of so many children…some of Kitty, some of Illyana, some of
Rachel, some of Jubilee. And yet, she was different from all of them. Not brash,
not angry, not tortured, not with an attitude—just accepting. She had a
mutation, she accepted it, and she knew she needed training for it. She had gone
to visit Emma, but felt out of place around the youngsters. She was in her late
teens, and her power only recently came into its fullness. But her power…ah,
this was the problem.
I
wanted to save her. Instead, she touched my face and died in my arms.
*
* *