Title: Eyes Wide Open (The Coffee Black Remix)
Author: Kari (meinterrupted@livejournal.com)
Summary: Marie trusted easily. Rogue finds it's a dangerous habit.
Rating: Adult General (PG-13)
Warnings: Mentions of attempted rape.
Spoilers: None, pre-X1
Word Count: 1403
Notes: Written for Remix Redux IV. Quotes from the movie are from the transcript on faans.com. Lyrics are "Colorblind" by Counting Crows. Thanks to cornfields@LJ for the encouragement and hand-holding. God knows I needed it. And yes, writing this story is what influenced my latest redesign. ^_^
Remixed Story: Trust, by K. Marie.
I am covered in skin
No one gets to come in
Pull me out from inside
I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding
I am
colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
Marie trusted easily. In Meridian, there weren't many people not to trust. She trusted her family, her teachers, her friends. She trusted David too, and loved him, up until the point where she nearly killed him. He was in the hospital for a week, surrounded by flowers and cards from well-wishers. She stayed home, hidden in her room, away from even her family, surrounded by sadness, anger, and hate.
She was locked inside her mind as much as she was locked inside her house. The fear of touching another person -- of hurting another person -- was like an ache that boiled just under her skin. Marie didn't eat, couldn't sleep, blamed herself for her curse. It isn't your fault, her mother murmured to her door. She didn't listen.
David didn't see it that way. He turned on her as quickly as he'd confessed his love for her, leading protests against mutants and their families -- against Marie and her family. His friends rioted outside her home, and police were the only thing that stopped them from burning it to the ground. But even Meridian's finest had their prejudices; when the riot was over, her father's car was wrecked beyond repair, and her mother's job was in jeopardy. Cries of "kill the freak" echoed throughout the city, David's voice chief among them.
It hurt her even more because a part of her mind -- the part that spoke with his voice, god would she never escape it? -- agreed with him.
Marie loved her family, and she couldn't sit and watch them lose everything because of her. Two weeks after David got out, she packed a bag, stole a hundred dollars from her mom's purse, and snuck out in the middle of the night. She walked to the local truck stop, hiding her face in her hood, and hitched a ride from the first man who offered. She didn't care where he was going, as long as it was somewhere not here. She wanted to trust that he could save her, that leaving this hate behind could save her.
Eddie was a big man, probably close to three hundred pounds, and he towered over her by nearly a foot. When she woke up that first night to him pressing his considerable weight against her body, Marie could do little to fight back. She slapped and screamed, but he only laughed and told her to keep on fighting; it got him all hot. She finally ripped her glove off in a fit of desperation, her skin rendering him unconscious, and shoved his limp body off of hers.
She fumbled with the door's handle, her hands shaking so hard she could barely turn it, finally tumbling from the truck, landing unceremoniously on the pavement. Her breath came in short gasps, and she struggled to suppress the trucker's personality. She leaned against the huge wheel, bathing in the heat from the running engine waft over her until she felt herself again. She stood and reached around Eddie's body, both relieved and angry -- was the relief even hers? -- that he was still breathing. Marie looked at his face, which just moments before had been leering at her, and slapped a hand over her mouth. She fought the urge to vomit but lost, remnants of her late dinner flooding the floor of his truck.
When she finally got to the next truck stop, two days of walking later, she sat for three days before she found a woman who was willing to take her north. Maggie was in her fifties, and said she had two kids and five grandkids in Kansas. Marie sat quietly, listening to the older woman chatter in her smoker's voice, slipping in and out of an exhausted sleep. Her empty stomach woke her often, grumbling loudly, until Maggie bought her breakfast. "Skinny girls like you oughtta eat; you'll waste away, you know that, Marie?" She smiled, her teeth crooked and yellowed. Marie nodded silently, shoveling pancakes and sausage into her mouth.
About halfway through Colorado, Marie stopped telling people her real name. She went by Anna for a while, then Jenny. She was riding with a skinny little man named Gary when she first told him her name was Rogue. "Rogue? What kinda name is that?"
Rogue looked up at him. "Kinda name hippy parents give their first daughters." She offered no further explanations, her face impassive.
Gary grinned and held out his hand to help her into the cab. "'Sat so? Well, I've had my fun times," he said, and launched into a long story about his old drug days. "Been clean for goin' on five years, now, but still, damn it was fun."
For the next twelve hours, she dozed and listened, mostly staring out the window and listening to his classic rock station. She fell fast asleep in the middle of "Stairway to Heaven," and woke to a hot breath on her neck. Instinctively she shoved hard, the residual strength from Eddie giving her enough muscle to force Gary off her without touching skin.
"Motherfucker!" she yelled, hitting him hard on the jaw before seizing her duffel and scrambling out of the truck. She ran through the rain into the rest stop bathroom, locking herself in a stall, dry-heaving and praying that he wouldn't follow her. He didn't.
When her stomach growled that morning, David mockingly reminded her she'd left a half-eaten sandwich -- her only food -- with Gary.
Two weeks later she was in Alberta, still starving, and used to telling people her name was Rogue. She didn't trust anyone now, sleeping only in stolen moments in truck stop restrooms, away from the drivers, and keeping alert on the road. She realized quickly that most truck stop waitresses would give her free coffee if she stared longingly enough at the carafe, and she shamelessly preyed on their generosity. She knew there had to be black circles under her eyes, and she hadn't showered in days; she looked pitiful. It worked to her advantage with the women.
With the men, it was a liability. She looked weak, and weak beings were prey. But when the prey knew it was on the menu, it was more likely to stay alive. Reading drivers had become her occupation and her obsession. Rogue eavesdropped on conversations, and watched them over old newspapers. She'd even gone so far as to brush her skin against potential drivers to see if they had any ulterior motives for picking her up. Most did. The images of what they wanted to do to her burned behind her eyes, making it even harder for her to sleep.
The driver that offered to take Rogue to Lotham City reminded her of her next-door neighbor back home. His name was Henry, and he didn't say much, but let her pick the radio station. She was grateful for that, though the selection this far north wasn't exactly to her taste.
She'd almost dozed off when the truck slowed, and woke when she heard Henry putting it in park. He left it running and stepped down, walking around to let her out. "This is it," he said, looking at her as she dropped down to the snow-covered ground.
"Where are we? I thought you said you'd take me as far as Lotham City." Her voice was higher than normal, and she felt panicked. The town was dingy, and she didn't know where she was. Her eyes felt gritty, as if the snow that swirled around them was dirt clouding them. She wobbled on hunger-weakened knees, her duffel feeling heavier than it had when she first climbed into Henry's truck.
"This is Lotham City," he muttered, not unkindly. He left her standing there, headed to the bar for food and a beer. Rogue watched him walk away for a moment. Something about this place felt like the end of the road, out of the way, the absolute limit. Shrugging off her newfound cynicism, she steeled her nerves, shouldered her bag and walked toward the building.
She was just looking for another ride. She didn't need anyone but herself. Trust was a dangerous game, and she'd been burned one too many times. It was just a ride, like any other. It didn't mean anything.
As her shoes crunched over the snow, Rogue couldn't silence the tiny part of her heart that cried for Marie.
Author: Kari (meinterrupted@livejournal.com)
Summary: Marie trusted easily. Rogue finds it's a dangerous habit.
Rating: Adult General (PG-13)
Warnings: Mentions of attempted rape.
Spoilers: None, pre-X1
Word Count: 1403
Notes: Written for Remix Redux IV. Quotes from the movie are from the transcript on faans.com. Lyrics are "Colorblind" by Counting Crows. Thanks to cornfields@LJ for the encouragement and hand-holding. God knows I needed it. And yes, writing this story is what influenced my latest redesign. ^_^
Remixed Story: Trust, by K. Marie.
I am covered in skin
No one gets to come in
Pull me out from inside
I am folded, and unfolded, and unfolding
I am
colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside
I am ready
Marie trusted easily. In Meridian, there weren't many people not to trust. She trusted her family, her teachers, her friends. She trusted David too, and loved him, up until the point where she nearly killed him. He was in the hospital for a week, surrounded by flowers and cards from well-wishers. She stayed home, hidden in her room, away from even her family, surrounded by sadness, anger, and hate.
She was locked inside her mind as much as she was locked inside her house. The fear of touching another person -- of hurting another person -- was like an ache that boiled just under her skin. Marie didn't eat, couldn't sleep, blamed herself for her curse. It isn't your fault, her mother murmured to her door. She didn't listen.
David didn't see it that way. He turned on her as quickly as he'd confessed his love for her, leading protests against mutants and their families -- against Marie and her family. His friends rioted outside her home, and police were the only thing that stopped them from burning it to the ground. But even Meridian's finest had their prejudices; when the riot was over, her father's car was wrecked beyond repair, and her mother's job was in jeopardy. Cries of "kill the freak" echoed throughout the city, David's voice chief among them.
It hurt her even more because a part of her mind -- the part that spoke with his voice, god would she never escape it? -- agreed with him.
Marie loved her family, and she couldn't sit and watch them lose everything because of her. Two weeks after David got out, she packed a bag, stole a hundred dollars from her mom's purse, and snuck out in the middle of the night. She walked to the local truck stop, hiding her face in her hood, and hitched a ride from the first man who offered. She didn't care where he was going, as long as it was somewhere not here. She wanted to trust that he could save her, that leaving this hate behind could save her.
Eddie was a big man, probably close to three hundred pounds, and he towered over her by nearly a foot. When she woke up that first night to him pressing his considerable weight against her body, Marie could do little to fight back. She slapped and screamed, but he only laughed and told her to keep on fighting; it got him all hot. She finally ripped her glove off in a fit of desperation, her skin rendering him unconscious, and shoved his limp body off of hers.
She fumbled with the door's handle, her hands shaking so hard she could barely turn it, finally tumbling from the truck, landing unceremoniously on the pavement. Her breath came in short gasps, and she struggled to suppress the trucker's personality. She leaned against the huge wheel, bathing in the heat from the running engine waft over her until she felt herself again. She stood and reached around Eddie's body, both relieved and angry -- was the relief even hers? -- that he was still breathing. Marie looked at his face, which just moments before had been leering at her, and slapped a hand over her mouth. She fought the urge to vomit but lost, remnants of her late dinner flooding the floor of his truck.
When she finally got to the next truck stop, two days of walking later, she sat for three days before she found a woman who was willing to take her north. Maggie was in her fifties, and said she had two kids and five grandkids in Kansas. Marie sat quietly, listening to the older woman chatter in her smoker's voice, slipping in and out of an exhausted sleep. Her empty stomach woke her often, grumbling loudly, until Maggie bought her breakfast. "Skinny girls like you oughtta eat; you'll waste away, you know that, Marie?" She smiled, her teeth crooked and yellowed. Marie nodded silently, shoveling pancakes and sausage into her mouth.
About halfway through Colorado, Marie stopped telling people her real name. She went by Anna for a while, then Jenny. She was riding with a skinny little man named Gary when she first told him her name was Rogue. "Rogue? What kinda name is that?"
Rogue looked up at him. "Kinda name hippy parents give their first daughters." She offered no further explanations, her face impassive.
Gary grinned and held out his hand to help her into the cab. "'Sat so? Well, I've had my fun times," he said, and launched into a long story about his old drug days. "Been clean for goin' on five years, now, but still, damn it was fun."
For the next twelve hours, she dozed and listened, mostly staring out the window and listening to his classic rock station. She fell fast asleep in the middle of "Stairway to Heaven," and woke to a hot breath on her neck. Instinctively she shoved hard, the residual strength from Eddie giving her enough muscle to force Gary off her without touching skin.
"Motherfucker!" she yelled, hitting him hard on the jaw before seizing her duffel and scrambling out of the truck. She ran through the rain into the rest stop bathroom, locking herself in a stall, dry-heaving and praying that he wouldn't follow her. He didn't.
When her stomach growled that morning, David mockingly reminded her she'd left a half-eaten sandwich -- her only food -- with Gary.
Two weeks later she was in Alberta, still starving, and used to telling people her name was Rogue. She didn't trust anyone now, sleeping only in stolen moments in truck stop restrooms, away from the drivers, and keeping alert on the road. She realized quickly that most truck stop waitresses would give her free coffee if she stared longingly enough at the carafe, and she shamelessly preyed on their generosity. She knew there had to be black circles under her eyes, and she hadn't showered in days; she looked pitiful. It worked to her advantage with the women.
With the men, it was a liability. She looked weak, and weak beings were prey. But when the prey knew it was on the menu, it was more likely to stay alive. Reading drivers had become her occupation and her obsession. Rogue eavesdropped on conversations, and watched them over old newspapers. She'd even gone so far as to brush her skin against potential drivers to see if they had any ulterior motives for picking her up. Most did. The images of what they wanted to do to her burned behind her eyes, making it even harder for her to sleep.
The driver that offered to take Rogue to Lotham City reminded her of her next-door neighbor back home. His name was Henry, and he didn't say much, but let her pick the radio station. She was grateful for that, though the selection this far north wasn't exactly to her taste.
She'd almost dozed off when the truck slowed, and woke when she heard Henry putting it in park. He left it running and stepped down, walking around to let her out. "This is it," he said, looking at her as she dropped down to the snow-covered ground.
"Where are we? I thought you said you'd take me as far as Lotham City." Her voice was higher than normal, and she felt panicked. The town was dingy, and she didn't know where she was. Her eyes felt gritty, as if the snow that swirled around them was dirt clouding them. She wobbled on hunger-weakened knees, her duffel feeling heavier than it had when she first climbed into Henry's truck.
"This is Lotham City," he muttered, not unkindly. He left her standing there, headed to the bar for food and a beer. Rogue watched him walk away for a moment. Something about this place felt like the end of the road, out of the way, the absolute limit. Shrugging off her newfound cynicism, she steeled her nerves, shouldered her bag and walked toward the building.
She was just looking for another ride. She didn't need anyone but herself. Trust was a dangerous game, and she'd been burned one too many times. It was just a ride, like any other. It didn't mean anything.
As her shoes crunched over the snow, Rogue couldn't silence the tiny part of her heart that cried for Marie.
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