[Reviews - 14]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story |
Printer Chapter or Story |
ePub eBook Chapter or Story |

Has been viewed 1280 times

- Text Size +




Westchester – After Alkali Lake

The color red taunted him like the memory of water to a dehydrated man, the want of heat to the bitterly cold. Today, the shades of red added detail to his eye whites, yet the sight of it burned his rods and cones.

Logan meditated on past visions and gradients of the hue while running his tongue roughly against the palate of his closed mouth.

The flushed cheeks to an off-color remark. The cosmetic stain of the bitten bottom lip during a suggestive silent pause. The rosy strands of hair he stroked so carefully - so clandestinely - when she wandered too close to his reach. The color of Red.

The pale garnet orb had made its way across the clear cloudless aquamarine, marking the passage of hours during this longest day, a week after the longest ride back to Westchester via Washington - after Alkali Lake. The blooms and breezes of a forthcoming spring seemed a bitter irony to the theme of that day: mourning a loss, a beautiful, intriguing woman, comrade fallen, maiden sacrificed, Jean.

Logan did not fail to recognize, as the sun hit the treetops over the western edge of the estate, the sky had exploded into a riot of purple pinks, oranges, and of course, as his eyes blinked hard, those accursed reds.

The subtle scarlet tint of her hair against pale skin. The blush of aroused lips after a stolen, passionate kiss. The crimson silk that slipped slightly down her shoulder in a shaft of light. The colors of Red.

Yet the heavens’ visual scream seemed appropriate. Set the sky afire.

There was no body. No coffin. So in the open glade between the mansion and the eastern forest, they buried the roots of the Quercus Alba, a tree, instead. It was Storm who picked the white oak for the tree dedicated to her best friend’s memory. Overhearing the kids’ translation for her logic, apart from its ghostly white bark, Jean’s tree would grow a strong, majestically straight trunk of few peer, an exceptional shade tree. There they can gather, remember, find comfort. But Logan knew trees. He wasn’t stupid. Come the fall, the foliage would morph into the most spectacular array of reds. Well after the maples have shed bare, that slender slight white oak would burn on.

Logan did not expect to see the autumn here at the living mausoleum called school Xavier built.

The beer he had been nursing was slightly bitter and always caused the faint furrow of the brow with its tartness. He poured part of the bottle's contents into his mouth and held, allowing the liquid to settle amongst the taste buds, savoring the barley. Slowly the flavor and its texture traveled to the back of his throat where he forced it down. That initial taste would be followed by more of the beer, downing with deep, well-practiced gulps. Watching the remaining liquid settle in the bottle, he waited for the buzz, his welcome companionship. But those feelings of warm clarity and dull thoughts were always too fleeting.

Once again, he cursed his mutant healing factor under his breath.

Empty bottles peopled amongst his feet, finding shelter under the bench he sat upon by the mansion’s back door outside the kitchen, evidence of this common coping ritual of his. His searching for any feeling other than those this place had been wallowing in for the past week. And it’s been a week, he kept reminding himself, since they returned… after Alkali Lake.

Logan’s lips thinned into a line as he released a torrent of air out his nostrils in frustration. How many beers would it take? Another six pack? A keg? Perhaps all the gallons that pounded into Jean’s body, bruising her skin, pouring into her lungs. His eyebrows furrowed at the thought. Perhaps THAT would be the amount that would dull the pain, haze the memories - blind him to the color of red.

Logan swallowed deep to prepare for another helping of beer. Eh, maybe after a few more of these beers he would gain some real clarity, he decided. An answer at least. Ever since that day above the Lake, the woven voices of a man’s screams, a mentor’s moans and the gentle warm whispers of a woman echoed in his head. A round robin of pleas, sobs and quiet murmurs, joined by his own voice uttering less a question and more a statement above all.

There had to be another way.

Logan wasn’t stupid. He did the calculations. Made the analysis. Within the three days since he had come back to this mansion these people were attacked, their precious children terrorized and kidnapped, their struggle for mutant inclusion jeopardized, their lives in constant danger. And, again, the entire human race was almost obliterated. His chest jumped in sardonic cough. Never good luck when he and Xavier’s mixed, he equated. Was it him or these people? He couldn’t tell anymore, but to him it all seemed fucked.

Three days. His mouth screwed into a tight lipped sneer. Just three fucking days.

By the third day, they lost one of their own. His discovery of Stryker and the Weapon X Project, after fifteen years of searching, now seemed incidental. That third day he lost whatever chance he may have had for happiness with a woman. He wet his lips in thought then kept them folded over each other. Perhaps his last chance for happiness ever.

Not hardly, he corrected as he gave himself another cynical snort. He felt he was close. Close to being part of something. Something good for once. A family. A goal. Acceptance. The love of a woman? He blinked in warmed reflection. Well, that would have made it perfect. He swirled the beer in the bottle as his smirk fell to a contemplative frown. Too perfect. His frown deepened and his head lowered further.

And so it goes.

Nearby, a sparrow chirped. It flitted about between sprouting carpet and blooming canopy. From roots to branch. Picking up twigs, swiftly rising to deposit, boldly dropping, coasting to land and then picking up again. Nesting. Instincts. Its nature. Time to start over again. Beneath the low hanging branches of the companionable tree, bustling with life and activity, rooted beside the mansion’s back door, Logan sat motionless, only his slow eye-blinking marking the movements of his mind. His chest rose against the weight of his thoughts.

He didn’t know if it was him or these people…

He exhaled a sigh.

It all seemed ridiculous now, but for a moment he was happy here. Here he dared even to hope, he realized, raising his eyes to the heavens and treetops. So close. Perhaps the closest he had ever been in his long life of roads, side stops, one night stands, by passes, bar fights, dead ends. Pretty pathetic, he remarked to himself, narrowing his eyes. Yep, he was so close: gave nothing, got nothing, lost everything.

Another snort into another bitter smirk.

And so it continues.

Without thought, Logan allowed the bottle of backwash to roll out of his hand which rested on his knee and watched it sloppily land on the other bottles strewn along the grass of the yard and the stone tiles that lined the underneath of the wrought iron bench.

The clink of the bottles, the thud, the silence. He watched the collection of brown glass in their various positions. The way the light distorted through the curvatures of the cylinders. He blinked steadily, dispassionately. The breeze blew, running over his moistened lips, his slightly disheveled hair. The leaves above him rustled in movement. The gentle wind rushed past his ears adding intonation to the silence. His head again lowered with even heavier thoughts, closing his eyes while his face continually contorted with the memories of the day.

Others came. With their “so sorries” and “what a lovely person she was” niceties, pleasantries, background noise. Of those who were former students and fellow mutants - and there were only a few - they stood around and sat about with blank looks on their faces. There would be a quiet word shared with Scott, a respectful nod to the Professor, a long hug with Storm, wistful yet concerned looks to the next generation. Mostly hands wrung through hair, deep swigs of colored liquors, long stares into tree lines and one tree in particular. Looking bewildered, tired, weary. The day being a harsh reminder of the life they were genetically predisposed to be mindful of. Reminder of the doctrine they left behind when they “graduated”. Reminder of why they left. And why did they leave? Well, the answer seemed pretty simple to Logan as he furrowed his brows in thought. Perhaps they didn’t want to be part of this glade destined to be a forest populated by memorials of those who fought and fell. An outdoor dormitory of the dead. He slightly shook his head in part disbelief and part annoyance. Right now, the reason why they kept fighting escaped him, cause what went down with Jean… THAT certainly wasn’t the only solution.

The question unanswered bothered Logan, the feeling of uncertainty itching at his knuckles. There had to be an answer to why Jean died.

There HAD to have been another way.

Logan didn’t hear the approach being so deep in his thoughts of that day - the day of the memorial. He couldn’t identify by smell, his breath being so drenched with several hours’ worth of beer. Logan’s senses were as useless now as he had been feeling all week.

It was the harsh scuff of Scott’s shoes on the stone outside the kitchen door that announced his presence to Logan. Still in his suit with tie undone and the top few buttons freed, Scott paused and leaned against the door frame. He took a deep breath of outside air and glanced with the side of his eye at Logan who grew slightly uneasy with the additional company. Self conscious, Logan unnecessarily repositioned himself upright on the bench. Scott was also a little caught off guard and was expecting some peace after all the guests they had to deal with the past few days. Logan gave him a quick nod of acknowledgment which was met by a sincere smile. No words, no talk necessary. Both were glad for that. The two men settled into an easy silence, raising their eyes to review the scenery in companionable solace.

The sun had almost completed its slow descent behind the trees. Only the tip of the sinking bright arc was visible before it, too, relented to the elevated green horizon. Gone, but its remaining rays blazed over the ragged treetops. Logan stole a glance at his companion and wondered if behind an artificially red tinted perspective, could Scott truly appreciate the sight. Nevertheless, a slight contemplative smile crept to Scott’s lips and Logan’s eyes dropped to the ground as the sky exploded into a brilliant array of reds and oranges, dancing in their fight against the dark night to come.

Set the sky afire. Blaze until that final wisp. Stubborn, persistent embers struggling for last licks in the ashes.

Logan swore he could even hear the sky’s dying scream.

Logan’s intentionally idle attentions were suddenly interrupted as Scott slowly positioned himself by him, pushing aside glass cylinder obstacles with his feet absentmindedly, setting himself roughly alongside on the bench. Logan continued to watch in his periphery as Scott rested his right arm on the backrest between the two of them, knees apart, finding whatever comfortable position his weary, emotion-spent body could find. Warm salty saliva started to coat Logan’s teeth causing him to swallow hard. Logan didn’t need his senses to know that for Scott today was really hard. Too hard for Logan to begin to understand.

Logan missed the woman with the fire-licked hair and groin-stirring smile. He was regretting the absence of the uncomfortable yet invigorated down-turned glance at his prurient attentions, spurring him on to more uninvited advances. Logan missed the anomaly he labeled as Red.

Scott Summers missed Jean Grey.

Indeed, Scott also knew the seasonal hues of her coloring and the various dimensions of her smiles. But he also knew far more of the woman than Logan could possibly imagine. More of what Logan probably couldn’t even fathom. The order in which she ate the portions of her dinner. The subtle facial cues signaling either distress, confusion, amusement, arousal. Her favorite movie. Her worst memory. The exhilarated look when she used her power. Her ever present hesitation when deciding to do so. Her ability to say the right things when confronted before a hostile audience about the state of mutant affairs. The nasty things she would say when she felt slighted, eventually backing down yet never admitting she was wrong. The whole package.

In the end, Scott had what Logan had wanted. And in that way, Scott will always have that on Logan. The love a woman, that smart, beautiful, intriguing woman. Scott had Jean Grey. Had her, kept her happy, and Hells Yeah he scowled in anger when Logan was putting the shine on her. A small smirk barely ghosted Logan’s lips as he realized all that posturing and one-upping the two of them shared was pretty empty. Scott was protecting something that in the end Logan didn’t want. Logan wanted the passion and the ache. Scott wanted to protect the life, the reality, his world with one woman.

For a moment, a odd thought crossed Logan's mind. So what loss was Logan mourning then? But that thought disturbed him. It seemed dishonorable. Inappropriate. He shut his eyes firmly as he chastised himself. It's not that easy to push aside and catalog this, he told himself. Deep down, he knew this wasn't as black and white as that. And besides, this was Red.

But it is all moot now. Soon, this will all be in the past. Filed in that rusty cavity he calls a chest under a coulda been and a that time when. Drink a beer, pour out a little, finish the malt, move on. It's all undoable now. All water under the-

And he sighed. It wasn't going to be so easy to push it all away this time. He knew that.

The sound of rustling preceded the arrival. The breeze blew through the trees beyond the glade. As if the shaky exhalation of a long held breath. The sensations and sounds relaxed Logan’s thoughts, the change spurred on by the gentle nudges of nature. The branches, more so than leaves in this hint of spring, whispered and swayed in response to the breezes. They seem to titter in their own language that soothes the ears of men with too many thoughts in weary minds. The musical chatter hummed in his ear like another spoken language, female, not understood, that with warm, sweet breath was the catalyst for the theft of a hand.

Perhaps also inspired, Scott left his reverie over the tree line and turned his attentions to the bottles below. They chimed softly with another light nudge of his foot. Logan reached down his right to his end of the bench and deftly pulled up two more bottles. He pointed one towards Scott with raised eyebrows of suggestion. Scott looked at the offering for a moment then accepted with a smirk. After opening, he downed it in a sophomoric gulp. He was already warmed by the few social fraternal toasts with his now departed former classmates. The ever present responsible voice in his head weighted the consequences of mixing brandy and beer, but at this moment, chemistry and gastroenterology didn’t have much purchase with him. His post-swig grimace caused Logan to smirk at him with a slight grunt of amusement. Scott returned the facial gesture, however sheepishly, with a companionable nod in gratitude. Then with deep exhalations and relaxed arms, they both returned to their own respective deep thoughts masked by their supposed review of the scenery before them.

Logan supposed that at this point, people talk. They say something to each other. You sit together alone, watching the sunset, drink in hand – and alcohol certainly releases the tongue. It was a heavy day, he was there. But what else was there to say? What wasn’t already beat to death by the others? So sorry… What a nice person she was… Time will heal all… All bullshit. Stupid things people say to fill in dead air. To make themselves feel better. Logan didn’t feel like playing that game. Besides, he was there.

He opened his beer and took another long series of swigs. When the bottle left his lips, it was almost emptied. He released a long satisfied sigh, waiting, wait for it. Yes… that’s better.

During this time, Scott’s attention was focused on his own brown cylinder of promise. His brows were furrowed and his mouth slightly agape, as if he had his own words to say. He, too, also felt there was a space needed to be filled. Air held then exhaled, his stopping and starting, never saying. And then it came.

“You know,” his voice cut through the quiet, startling Logan who quickly turned his attention to him, brows raised. “I never HAD a Plan B. She was it.”

The concentration in Logan's face was evident as he digested the information, considered the concept. Then it became clear to him. The tension in Logan's body eased somewhat then. Scott's confession had the odd effect of absolving Logan of a personal crisis of his own. 'No Plan B?' Logan’s face softened. His mouth screwed into a frown of conclusion.

Perhaps then, that was the danger.

The thing with amnesiacs, there are no childhood dreams. No lessons learned in youth to build upon. No legacies from the past to uphold. Therefore, no future. No long term plans. You don't know where you come from so you don't know where you're going. No roots, just roads. You don't stay in one place long enough to be stuck without any options. So there are no substantial plans, much less secondary ones. You follow your gut and your instincts. Thinking reminds you of what you don't have. So you take what you can get and then move on. Logan's regrets, much like his ambitions, were short term. Short lived. Much like his forced inebriation. Much like his boots staying under one bed. His frown changed texture. And the one time he considered changing that lifestyle, it all went to shit on him. Yes. The danger. But Logan still had options.

Scott continued looking to treetops, the brilliant colors of the setting sun had long burned off, the blues darkened progressively, the scenery took a ghostly air. Scott sighed and took another sip, this time deeper than the first, face clenched past the unfamiliar bitterness to take in as much as the ale would offer.

Logan watched him finish the beer and then returned his attentions back to his empty, about to toss it to the ground with the others. Then he saw the pile, perhaps dozens of bottles strewn about and abandoned. Lying in precarious poses, all around his feet and beyond like a battlefield's belongings, the evidence of a good fight fought. Those bottles died with honor, the war did not end though at their own individual ends. It intrigued Logan how he found slight entertainment with this.

Logan immersed himself into the problem of bottles. The sudden need to get up and remove them from the carefully manicured grass and carefully placed stone compelled him to rise. The concepts of plans echoed in his head. Plans should always be short term, never long. Long term plans can always get thwarted, short term is quick and easy. Pick up the bottles, place them in the trash. Soon all will be clean and done. A good plan. And he was now committed to the execution of this new plan; he does it so well.

He patted Scott’s upper knee as he silently got up. Scott watched as Logan bent over to start gathering the bottles, three in each hand, to deposit them into the large garbage bin a foot or so from the bench. Scott made movements to get up but Logan refused the help with a wave. Relenting, Scott settled back to the bench, his eyes keeping busy watching Logan’s current occupation. After the last empty was tossed, Logan reached to the ground beside where he was sitting at the bench. He came up with the large cardboard box, opened roughly, that held the remaining beers and placed it roughly beside Scott on the bench. They both shared smiles at Logan’s offering. Scott gave him an 'understood' nod and Logan did the same. Scott watched Logan stretch vertically and then start walking towards the door, giving Scott a rough pat on his shoulder while passing him.

“Logan,” Scott uttered quietly while rising from the bench. Logan turned and found himself face to face with his companion.

Scott presented his hand. Logan looked at it first, sizing it up as was often his habit, before he understood the gesture. Logan put his hand in his and they shared a firm shake. Their hands mingled for a moment as their eyes met. Logan blinked as if in agreement to words not uttered then stepped away. Scott smiled slightly, and continued to look after him as Logan moved towards the doorway, into the house.

After a few more minutes of standing in silence, the dark now fully enveloping the manse, Scott, with a sigh, returned to the bench. Roughly sat, opening another beer. The soon-empty bottle he had gripped tightly before he tossed it to the ground.



in medias res…





You must login () to review.