Title: Up to Memory|
Fandom: X-Men (Movie)
Series: Compass Points #4 (First 3 can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/mistressdiebin/xmen.html) Disclaimer: All things belong to those who own them, one of which I am not.
Archive: Anyone who has the others!
I think he's gone now.
Part of me is gone too.
I know I'm going to have to tell someone soon. Even if I don't--they'll notice. I'm sleeping all the time now. I'm crabby and snippy. I know Bobby's trying to decide if he should tell Jean that there is something wrong with me.
I think he's just too scared that there really might be.
It's not fair. I only kissed Cody once. It was a long time ago now--but I can still feel it in my head. Cody was never as clear as he was--but at least Cody is still there.
Logan just--isn't. And it hurts me.
Sometimes I think I was reaching out towards him so hard that I chased him right back into his own head. Maybe I left some of me there. Maybe I'm the ghost of what I used to be . . .
. . . but what does that make him? Oh, it can't be true. It's too crazy to be true. I tell myself that at night--it's the only way I can get to sleep.
But then I wake up and think--what's so crazy about that? The Professor and Doctor Jean can be in other people's heads natural as breathing. And other people can be in mine. Who am I to say that I didn't do the impossible?
I wish I wasn't praying so hard for it to be true. Maybe if part of me is with him--maybe he won't forget me. Maybe he'll come back someday and make me whole again.
And maybe I'm just a foolish little girl.
Except . . . if I were really so foolish, the Professor wouldn't watch me like he does.
Oh, I'm not supposed to notice--but you don't have to have powers like his to see stuff. And I see how he watches me when I'm with the other kids. I know he's in my head, poking around, seeing what's there.
And he's probably seeing what's not there too.
I know this is some kind of test. He wants to know if I'll come talk to him. To know if I trust him. To know if I can be trusted.
Maybe he's just respecting my privacy.
A year and a half is a long time. A real long time to be suffering. I've suffered a year and a half, and now I'm in agony. My soul feels like it's split right down the middle--and some man who probably doesn't remember me has half of it tucked in the corner of his head.
I spend my time memorizing his face now. I'll sit for hours, staring at the wall, trying to recall everything that used to be as much a part of me as myself. I remember the funny way his hair sticks up, like he had always just rolled out of bed. I remember how hairy he is, how that beard always looked so scruffy when I stared at it. My dad had a beard, and I used to crawl in his lap and rub my cheek against it.
I remember the way he held me on the train, how strong his arms felt. How wonderful it was, wrapped up tightly next to someone who wanted to keep me safe. I've feared touch since I found out what I am--but he made me crave it again.
I remember waking up and seeing his eyes--so terrified and worried and then that flash of relief--
I remember him dropping to the ground, half dead, because he had tried to help me.
I remember his eyes.
It seems like a lot--but it's not. I used to remember it all. I used to know it all.
It seems funny--but I don't have a picture of him. The time we were together wasn't all that long--but you'd think someone might have taken a picture. That's what normal humans do. When they want to see someone, they don't have to try to make their minds remember.
I do. I spend far too much time in this room, sorting through memories that are only mine. Wishing they were someone else's as well. What I wouldn't give for a nightmare or the memory of whisky and cigars--or even a glimpse of Jean when she wasn't looking.
Instead all I can see are my own eyes as I stare in the mirror. Big, brown, and ancient. Too old.
I remember him . . .