X-Men Movieverse: Girl (Bluebell Remix). PG.
Title: Girl (Bluebell Remix)
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: The X-Men don't belong to me or anyone I know personally.
Rating: PG.
Original Story: Girl
Original Author: greenowl
Summary: She likes to think she's in control.
For aliaspiral's Remix challenge.
Girl (Bluebell Remix)
She has been tending to this house for so long that she sometimes forgets that anything happened before this. Sometimes she forgets that David is up in the bedroom because of something that happened a long time ago - forget, it's easier to forget, always forget - like she forgets why he can't leave. Sometimes she forgets why Logan is trapped in the garage, Eric in the dining room or Bobby in the kitchen. Sometimes she forgets why John is by himself in the living room, lighter in hand as if poised to strike.
And then she remembers, and the marks appear again.
John reminds her sometimes, and he's always sorry when he does. Still, it's good to talk to someone, even if it's through the window.
She doesn't like it inside the house, even if sometimes it's the only place to go and the only way to get away if she comes.
Marie doesn't like to think of what could have been, should have been, if she hadn't woken up when she did. She caused so many problems, stained the world around Marie with flawed ink. She likes to think she's separate, likes to lord it over everyone in the house that they can't leave her. She likes to think she's in control.
Marie knows better.
"Marie?"
Marie looks up from where she's repainting the siding. Someone has to take care of the house. Someone has to look after everyone in it. She certainly doesn't, for all her thoughts about superiority and keeping everyone together. She forgets about all the little details that make the house run smoothly. Marie is left looking after everyone, mothering them and mentoring them, making sure that everyone is comfortable and safe. She doesn't resent it most of the time, because it gives her something to do. Still, she would like it if she at least acknowledged the effort once in a while.
Marie smiles at John, hanging out of the window. "What are you doing? Wish you could come on out and burn it all up?"
"Nah. I like the view."
Marie laughs at his playful leer, just as she's sure it was intended to do. He's become a good friend in the house. There's always a little bit of guilt with David - I didn't mean to, it wasn't me, it was her - but with John there's none of that. And John doesn't mind being in the house. It's quiet and peaceful here, with all of Marie's efforts. It's a comforting place to him that he hadn't known in the mansion.
"She's coming, you know."
Marie's hand tightens on the paintbrush. "Is she, now? Finally checking up on the lowly tenants in her house?" She's surprised by the bitterness in her voice, the unchecked hatred flowing through her. She did this, but she's never owned up to it.
"You're sorry she ever came into your life, aren't you?" John asks, surprisingly perceptive.
She carefully puts down the brush and looks out over the lawn. The cherry trees are starting to blossom. She remembers calling them cheery trees as a young girl, before she knew what the future was or the pain it could bring. She remembers being innocent once, worthy of the white nightgown that she flits about in like a ghost.
"You can be honest with me," John presses, concern etched across his features. He's always liked Marie, maybe a little bit more than friends should.
"She didn't ask," Marie says in a soft voice. She looks up at John, willing back tears that threaten to fall. She doesn't bother to hide her bitterness and resentment. John knows her better than that by now anyway. "Maybe it would be different if she asked me what I wanted, if I wanted to share my house with everyone. Maybe if she wanted to get to know me first, then it might be okay. But she didn't. She barged in and took what she wanted and left me here to clean up her mess. How am I supposed to be okay with that?"
He nods. They keep dancing around the topic, but this is the first time Marie has voiced the pain aloud. "I wouldn't be, I know that."
"Was it different when the fire came?" Marie asks hesitantly. This didn't come up before, either.
John crosses his arms over the windowsill and drops his chin on top of them. "I think I wanted it to," he replies honestly. "I think I wanted to be special somehow, to be better than somebody. It's not easy being a nobody, or having nothing. Everyone looks at you and judges you, and it's awful if you know you can't compare. At least with the fire I can be Pyro. I can be somebody. I can do something and I can be special, you know?"
"You just have to figure out what to do with it."
He looks at her, nodding. "I haven't figured out what yet. I know I don't like being looked at like a little kid. I know I don't like being somebody's shadow." He catches her expression and winces a little. "I'm sorry, Marie. I didn't mean it like that."
Marie sighs. "I know."
"The other guys in here move around a bit, you know. You don't always have to avoid them."
"I don't, really," Marie replies, knowing that she's stretching the truth. She's the only girl in a house full of men, not all of whom even like each other. Sometimes she prefers to sit under the cherry tree and be by herself. Men don't always appreciate girly thoughts.
"She's not all bad, you know," John adds thoughtfully. "I understand what she did, now. I'm okay with it."
"I'm still learning."
John nods. "She never really had to look for you, did she? She just came and there you were."
She never asked, Marie thinks quietly, looking out over the lawn. The cherry tree blossoms are starting to fall. Maybe it would be different if only she had asked, if only she wanted to know me.
"Want me to talk to her for you?" John offers helpfully.
"And say what?" Marie laughs bitterly, looking up at him. "Say that I hate what she did? That I try to be her and I can't? I can't control the powers you have, and it takes all of me to keep all of you in check. Meanwhile, she goes prancing about with my face and my name and acts like it's all okay."
"Maybe she didn't mean to," John begins slowly.
"Oh, save it. She has everything she wanted," Marie spits, words tumbling from her lips almost unbidden. She moves out to the cherry tree, her back to John. She can't face him, can't see the pity that must be in his eyes. She's tired of this, tired of the games she has to play to make her happy and to try and save a semblance of herself. She's tired of having to learn her way around her own house, her own soul.
Marie knows when she arrives. How can she not? They're part of each other, yin and yang, symphony and harmony. Of course she knows when she arrives. Of course she knows where the other girl is in the house. She is always too acutely aware of who is where in the house, who needs help and who is fine on his own. Marie always knows, has never not known. She is always aware of others. It's how she knew David was in trouble, even when no one else believed her. It's how she knew he would never wake up after what she did to him, leaving him locked here in the bedroom.
He doesn't mind, though, Marie has to tell herself. He's forgiven her everything. They all have, haven't they? But then she also reminds herself that Eric wanted her to touch him, wanted to leave a piece of himself behind. Eric had thought he was chaining Marie to the statue, poor little Marie from way down south who was too far in over her head. He hadn't known he had chained up the fragile little her that she was becoming. He hadn't thought to ask, and didn't think to look farther than the surface.
Most people don't, Marie knows. It's how she's gone undetected for so long.
She's going through the house. She's finally meeting the denizens, every last one. She's trying to make her peace, maybe. Marie doesn't know, doesn't want to know. She wants to keep her back to the house for as long as possible, pretend that she's not here and that the house is all hers. It's not much, but it's all she's ever known. Marie almost resents having to take care of everyone else, to be everything to everyone else. At least under the cherry blossoms she can be her own girl, whoever that is. She can take care of herself for a change, look out over the horizon and take a moment to think.
But who else would I be? she thinks to herself sadly. Her? She doesn't think much of herself and she doesn't ask before she takes. Why would I want to be that? Why would I want a part of that?
If she is honest with herself, Marie knows exactly why she would want that. She can be whole again. She can be needed. She doesn't have to hide. She can control these abilities that run rampant through her if she doesn't concentrate hard enough.
But she doesn't want to face the other girl, the one with her face and a streak in her hair that she wears like a scar. Marie doesn't want to see the creature she would have to become, the other girl in the mirror. If she sees her, that would make it real.
The marks are coming, Marie can feel them, and the terror rises up in the back of her throat. It tastes like bile and regret.
I have to hide, Marie thinks. She's too close!
It's too difficult to go back into the house, locked up tight and safe. Marie can hear the locks coming undone, one by one by one. Blood is bubbling up her throat, and she can feel the slash marks opening on her chest. This is always how it starts, even if this isn't how it had actually started once upon a time.
If only she could be innocent again. If only she could be a little girl again.
Marie uses the discarded paint can to break open a basement window. She's hyperventilating now, worried about her. What could she possibly want with Marie? She's never asked for anything before, never wanted to speak with her.
There's the crackle of fire at her fingertips, ice at her palms. The paint can explodes, metal twisting in on itself, keeping the paint from flying at her. Somehow, impossibly, she is able to keep the paint from spattering her from head to toe. While it's impossible, she knows it's the lead in the paint, the old-fashioned contents of the garage long since abandoned. She shouldn't have used it on the house, but now that lead is the only thing keeping her somewhat clean.
Marie crawls into a corner, nearly sobbing. She's bleeding, pain in her chest where the claws pierced her. She can't control the fire and she can't control the ice. She's burning up the crisp white nightgown, scorch marks clearly visible on the hem. Trying to put it out, Marie creates ice and freezes herself. The paint can is nothing a shard of twisted metal, and she holds it tightly in her grasp. She curls in on herself, shard like a shield, eyes watching. She is waiting for her, for the inevitable. This can't be good. She must want it all, must want to get rid of her for good and take over the house in its entirety.
Her eyes are blank as she comes into the basement, crawling in through the broken window. The streak in her mahogany hair is startling white, a disfigurement, a token of the misery that she had been through. She stands there, almost uncertain, looking at Marie as if she doesn't know what comes next.
I need you, don't you know that? Marie thinks, huddled in on herself. She doesn't know if she hears the words, but she hopes so. Why do they have to fight and dodge and weave about like enemies all the time? Marie is tired, and now she simply wants to rest.
She approaches, waiting for Marie to rebuff her. When it doesn't come, she kneels down. She reaches out, enfolding her arms around Marie.
Marie doesn't fight it. Now she doesn't want to. It's about time.
There's the audible crackle of energy, dilation of veins and arteries. Marie feels it all, and it is just like the first time with David. Some things you can never forget, especially not anything so memorable. It's swift, merciless and insatiable.
Marie stands up, white streak in her mahogany hair, twisted shard of metal in her palm. She carefully puts it down on the floor next to the puddle of blood and ash and melting water.
This is what it feels like to be whole. This is what it's like to be a real girl.
She likes it.
The End.
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: The X-Men don't belong to me or anyone I know personally.
Rating: PG.
Original Story: Girl
Original Author: greenowl
Summary: She likes to think she's in control.
For aliaspiral's Remix challenge.
Girl (Bluebell Remix)
She has been tending to this house for so long that she sometimes forgets that anything happened before this. Sometimes she forgets that David is up in the bedroom because of something that happened a long time ago - forget, it's easier to forget, always forget - like she forgets why he can't leave. Sometimes she forgets why Logan is trapped in the garage, Eric in the dining room or Bobby in the kitchen. Sometimes she forgets why John is by himself in the living room, lighter in hand as if poised to strike.
And then she remembers, and the marks appear again.
John reminds her sometimes, and he's always sorry when he does. Still, it's good to talk to someone, even if it's through the window.
She doesn't like it inside the house, even if sometimes it's the only place to go and the only way to get away if she comes.
Marie doesn't like to think of what could have been, should have been, if she hadn't woken up when she did. She caused so many problems, stained the world around Marie with flawed ink. She likes to think she's separate, likes to lord it over everyone in the house that they can't leave her. She likes to think she's in control.
Marie knows better.
"Marie?"
Marie looks up from where she's repainting the siding. Someone has to take care of the house. Someone has to look after everyone in it. She certainly doesn't, for all her thoughts about superiority and keeping everyone together. She forgets about all the little details that make the house run smoothly. Marie is left looking after everyone, mothering them and mentoring them, making sure that everyone is comfortable and safe. She doesn't resent it most of the time, because it gives her something to do. Still, she would like it if she at least acknowledged the effort once in a while.
Marie smiles at John, hanging out of the window. "What are you doing? Wish you could come on out and burn it all up?"
"Nah. I like the view."
Marie laughs at his playful leer, just as she's sure it was intended to do. He's become a good friend in the house. There's always a little bit of guilt with David - I didn't mean to, it wasn't me, it was her - but with John there's none of that. And John doesn't mind being in the house. It's quiet and peaceful here, with all of Marie's efforts. It's a comforting place to him that he hadn't known in the mansion.
"She's coming, you know."
Marie's hand tightens on the paintbrush. "Is she, now? Finally checking up on the lowly tenants in her house?" She's surprised by the bitterness in her voice, the unchecked hatred flowing through her. She did this, but she's never owned up to it.
"You're sorry she ever came into your life, aren't you?" John asks, surprisingly perceptive.
She carefully puts down the brush and looks out over the lawn. The cherry trees are starting to blossom. She remembers calling them cheery trees as a young girl, before she knew what the future was or the pain it could bring. She remembers being innocent once, worthy of the white nightgown that she flits about in like a ghost.
"You can be honest with me," John presses, concern etched across his features. He's always liked Marie, maybe a little bit more than friends should.
"She didn't ask," Marie says in a soft voice. She looks up at John, willing back tears that threaten to fall. She doesn't bother to hide her bitterness and resentment. John knows her better than that by now anyway. "Maybe it would be different if she asked me what I wanted, if I wanted to share my house with everyone. Maybe if she wanted to get to know me first, then it might be okay. But she didn't. She barged in and took what she wanted and left me here to clean up her mess. How am I supposed to be okay with that?"
He nods. They keep dancing around the topic, but this is the first time Marie has voiced the pain aloud. "I wouldn't be, I know that."
"Was it different when the fire came?" Marie asks hesitantly. This didn't come up before, either.
John crosses his arms over the windowsill and drops his chin on top of them. "I think I wanted it to," he replies honestly. "I think I wanted to be special somehow, to be better than somebody. It's not easy being a nobody, or having nothing. Everyone looks at you and judges you, and it's awful if you know you can't compare. At least with the fire I can be Pyro. I can be somebody. I can do something and I can be special, you know?"
"You just have to figure out what to do with it."
He looks at her, nodding. "I haven't figured out what yet. I know I don't like being looked at like a little kid. I know I don't like being somebody's shadow." He catches her expression and winces a little. "I'm sorry, Marie. I didn't mean it like that."
Marie sighs. "I know."
"The other guys in here move around a bit, you know. You don't always have to avoid them."
"I don't, really," Marie replies, knowing that she's stretching the truth. She's the only girl in a house full of men, not all of whom even like each other. Sometimes she prefers to sit under the cherry tree and be by herself. Men don't always appreciate girly thoughts.
"She's not all bad, you know," John adds thoughtfully. "I understand what she did, now. I'm okay with it."
"I'm still learning."
John nods. "She never really had to look for you, did she? She just came and there you were."
She never asked, Marie thinks quietly, looking out over the lawn. The cherry tree blossoms are starting to fall. Maybe it would be different if only she had asked, if only she wanted to know me.
"Want me to talk to her for you?" John offers helpfully.
"And say what?" Marie laughs bitterly, looking up at him. "Say that I hate what she did? That I try to be her and I can't? I can't control the powers you have, and it takes all of me to keep all of you in check. Meanwhile, she goes prancing about with my face and my name and acts like it's all okay."
"Maybe she didn't mean to," John begins slowly.
"Oh, save it. She has everything she wanted," Marie spits, words tumbling from her lips almost unbidden. She moves out to the cherry tree, her back to John. She can't face him, can't see the pity that must be in his eyes. She's tired of this, tired of the games she has to play to make her happy and to try and save a semblance of herself. She's tired of having to learn her way around her own house, her own soul.
Marie knows when she arrives. How can she not? They're part of each other, yin and yang, symphony and harmony. Of course she knows when she arrives. Of course she knows where the other girl is in the house. She is always too acutely aware of who is where in the house, who needs help and who is fine on his own. Marie always knows, has never not known. She is always aware of others. It's how she knew David was in trouble, even when no one else believed her. It's how she knew he would never wake up after what she did to him, leaving him locked here in the bedroom.
He doesn't mind, though, Marie has to tell herself. He's forgiven her everything. They all have, haven't they? But then she also reminds herself that Eric wanted her to touch him, wanted to leave a piece of himself behind. Eric had thought he was chaining Marie to the statue, poor little Marie from way down south who was too far in over her head. He hadn't known he had chained up the fragile little her that she was becoming. He hadn't thought to ask, and didn't think to look farther than the surface.
Most people don't, Marie knows. It's how she's gone undetected for so long.
She's going through the house. She's finally meeting the denizens, every last one. She's trying to make her peace, maybe. Marie doesn't know, doesn't want to know. She wants to keep her back to the house for as long as possible, pretend that she's not here and that the house is all hers. It's not much, but it's all she's ever known. Marie almost resents having to take care of everyone else, to be everything to everyone else. At least under the cherry blossoms she can be her own girl, whoever that is. She can take care of herself for a change, look out over the horizon and take a moment to think.
But who else would I be? she thinks to herself sadly. Her? She doesn't think much of herself and she doesn't ask before she takes. Why would I want to be that? Why would I want a part of that?
If she is honest with herself, Marie knows exactly why she would want that. She can be whole again. She can be needed. She doesn't have to hide. She can control these abilities that run rampant through her if she doesn't concentrate hard enough.
But she doesn't want to face the other girl, the one with her face and a streak in her hair that she wears like a scar. Marie doesn't want to see the creature she would have to become, the other girl in the mirror. If she sees her, that would make it real.
The marks are coming, Marie can feel them, and the terror rises up in the back of her throat. It tastes like bile and regret.
I have to hide, Marie thinks. She's too close!
It's too difficult to go back into the house, locked up tight and safe. Marie can hear the locks coming undone, one by one by one. Blood is bubbling up her throat, and she can feel the slash marks opening on her chest. This is always how it starts, even if this isn't how it had actually started once upon a time.
If only she could be innocent again. If only she could be a little girl again.
Marie uses the discarded paint can to break open a basement window. She's hyperventilating now, worried about her. What could she possibly want with Marie? She's never asked for anything before, never wanted to speak with her.
There's the crackle of fire at her fingertips, ice at her palms. The paint can explodes, metal twisting in on itself, keeping the paint from flying at her. Somehow, impossibly, she is able to keep the paint from spattering her from head to toe. While it's impossible, she knows it's the lead in the paint, the old-fashioned contents of the garage long since abandoned. She shouldn't have used it on the house, but now that lead is the only thing keeping her somewhat clean.
Marie crawls into a corner, nearly sobbing. She's bleeding, pain in her chest where the claws pierced her. She can't control the fire and she can't control the ice. She's burning up the crisp white nightgown, scorch marks clearly visible on the hem. Trying to put it out, Marie creates ice and freezes herself. The paint can is nothing a shard of twisted metal, and she holds it tightly in her grasp. She curls in on herself, shard like a shield, eyes watching. She is waiting for her, for the inevitable. This can't be good. She must want it all, must want to get rid of her for good and take over the house in its entirety.
Her eyes are blank as she comes into the basement, crawling in through the broken window. The streak in her mahogany hair is startling white, a disfigurement, a token of the misery that she had been through. She stands there, almost uncertain, looking at Marie as if she doesn't know what comes next.
I need you, don't you know that? Marie thinks, huddled in on herself. She doesn't know if she hears the words, but she hopes so. Why do they have to fight and dodge and weave about like enemies all the time? Marie is tired, and now she simply wants to rest.
She approaches, waiting for Marie to rebuff her. When it doesn't come, she kneels down. She reaches out, enfolding her arms around Marie.
Marie doesn't fight it. Now she doesn't want to. It's about time.
There's the audible crackle of energy, dilation of veins and arteries. Marie feels it all, and it is just like the first time with David. Some things you can never forget, especially not anything so memorable. It's swift, merciless and insatiable.
Marie stands up, white streak in her mahogany hair, twisted shard of metal in her palm. She carefully puts it down on the floor next to the puddle of blood and ash and melting water.
This is what it feels like to be whole. This is what it's like to be a real girl.
She likes it.
The End.