Chapter 3
It was too much. That was what set you off first.
Normally you can force your brain into boxes, learned mannerisms taking over your actual self so you can smile-laugh-talk-behave during these events, these events, these events of high society that absolutely none of you wanted to attend.
They were parties for the rich and the famous, and the people that Warren-Bird-Boy worked with came here, so Warren had to take a few of you along a month, to show how safe and sweet and soft these mutant weapons he was raising were (and, in Remy’s case, how many wallets one man could steal in a night).
You had volunteered in place of Victor, because he did not want to wear a suit, so you donned a dress and you squeezed Nori’s hand tight and you walked in with a gracious smile on your lips.
(These mutants seemed to have their children at beck and call, the humans whispered, and you looked over at Remy until he came to rescue you.)
Still, the dress itched and your hair was touching your shoulders in the Wrong way and you wanted to whack your hands against each other more than anything but a voice in the back of your head reminded you that normal children did not move like toddlers, like a baby, like some weird thing. So you keep your hands under your legs until someone starts screaming along to a song playing. Others join, high-reedy-Bad-chorus-of-voices blasting full force on you.
The screams pierce your head until you feel as if your ears are bleeding and your dress itches and your feet hurt and it’s too bright, so you stumble out of your seat and you run, outoutoutout to the street. You barely even notice your shoes fall off so you are running barefoot on the street, only realizing when the bloody soles of your feet leaving a trail behind you.
You force open the door to home and you keep running, running, running until you reach the danger room, shut down for the late hour.
You tug the door open and you crash onto the floor, mouth out of your control (you hear yourself screaming but you make no effort to stop) and hands shaking as you pull on the hoodie Logan always leaves on the bench.
Normally you would feel okay now but this is not normally, not right now, because your head still aches at every creak the mansion gives.
Your claws pop out and you shove them into the wall next to you until only an inch of metal is left outside of it, ripping open the steel until the pressure of it releases some of the bad in your chest.
The alarms begin blaring and the bad comes back, tears in your eyes as you rip your claws out of the wall and your hands begin to blur, hitting your face and your chest and the floor, and you scream again, screamloudloudloudly until your hands cover your ears.
(Are they even your hands? You are not sure what is real in this meltdown, if the hands are yours or this room is real or you are here.)
Your breath comes out in short gasps and you finally stop your whirlwind, dropping onto your knees as the alarm goes on and on and on and on. There’s blood dripping from your knuckles, and you want it off! You want all of the red off, all of the terrible horrible liquid removed from your hands and your chest and your heartbeat.
You barely hear a voice above you, soft and melodic, but you can smell flowery perfume and another person, clouds and rainfall and the earth, almost covering up the bloody-finger poison. The alarm stops at the click of a button that you scarcely hear.
“Laura, sweetheart, can you hear me? Can we touch you?”
Jean, jeanjeanjean, firebird-jean, older-jean, and Ororo next to her. You do not respond except with another cry and her heartbeat quickens, you can tell that much.
“Okay, kiddo, what do you need? If you’re non-verbal, try to sign it, okay?”
Jean was always good in a crisis, Logan had said once. Okay, okay, okay, you think, and you whack your hands around again, fasterlouderfaster than before.
“The blood,” you choke out. “Get it off off off off off!”
“Okay, okay, we’re gonna touch you, okay?”
Ororo’s hands lift you up and she carries you out, even though you are nearly fourteen, you are nearly fourteen and six feet tall, but Ororo is managing and Jean is behind you, freckles glowing in the soft light of the hallways.
Ororo puts you down on the counter and passes you a can of clay, one of the several she has stacked on the windowsill. You press on it and try not to be fiery-bright again, and Ororo turns on the tap water and takes your hand gently, rubbing off the blood with soap and not a word of anger. She did not smell angry to you, just worried, anxiety in the way she stood and the way her breath came.
The blood was gone, that was the relevant thing, the sounds had stopped and you are wrapped in your father’s hoodie, all the Bad screamed out of you. Jean is looking at you from one of the tables and you shake, hands pressed together, but Jean does not scream either, just gives a soft smile and whispers to Ororo that she can handle the rest.
She helps you down from the counter and lets you lean on her until you reach your room, Sooraya still out at the party. Jean helps you when you stumble and gets you into bed and turns the light off with a soft sigh.
“Stay safe, Lau, and get us if you need anything else.”
You almost miss the I love you that comes after it. You find it in yourself to say it back.