She had awoken again, the nightmares still haunting her as if she were still there, in the past. But that’s all it was wasn’t it. The past. Though no matter how hard she tired she could still not escape it. She could not be touched, ever since it had happened she had been insecure, it was the thought of it happening again left her vulnerable, that had left her…like this.
When he had touched her she felt as if she were doing something wrong something dirty, but that’s what he was dirty, so she never told a soul. To her he had been this man was close enough to be an uncle, but had left her fragile and broken. His name eating her from inside, never leaving her-Forge.
He had been the source of this pain, her pain. She was only a child when it happened when he came to her, too many occasions to dare think of, to be remembered, but then again who would want to remember. THEY made her remember. Psychiatrists.
First it had been her parents, they died when she was five, a small war had buried them alive, though her parents had not survived the impact as she had.. It had left her claustrophobic, for life. However, unlike most street urchins she had found new ones, well a new father, Charles, he had always been good to her helped her when she needed it. He listened.
Nine years after Charles had found her it happened, she had been fifteen, and he had come to her, a man almost twice her age and in her he seek comfort, but comfort was not usually forced. She begged him to stop. He didn’t, he never stopped, not even when he saw she was broken.
A year went by and he still sought her out of the crowd, took her when he wanted to, damaging her further. She hadn’t been the first, and she knew that she wouldn’t be the last. He was wanted and she caught him, almost killed him. What else could she do? He came after her first, but she was the one who ended it, not knowing that her troubles had only began.
Ororo Munroe, a tortured, broken soul, one that many had tried to fix, but damaged even further. She was the untouchable troubled teenager, to find that life was hard as you grew up with scars as deep as hers, not to allow any one to touch her, unless she made the first move. A hug, a kiss, a simple brush from the tips of your finger tip was all in a handshake, only to the people she new and loved, but her trust in them was still little. For those of them that she didn’t know she would not extended her hand, she’d just mutter ‘goodbye’.
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