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Charles Xavier (yep, it's him) and all described characters in this story belong to Marvel, not me.  I don't make any $$$ at
all.  Not even a little.  Don't sue me.

I s'pose I've been doing some exploring of characters I'm not as "close" to lately, and here's another.  Okay, so a bona fide
Logan fan is supposed to hate him.  Well, I thought that about Scotty boy, and look what went and happened there!  (For those of you who don't know, I wrote "Seeing Red" and fell in love with poor misunderstood Cyke. ;-)  So I thought I'd give Chuck a chance and...hell, now I kinda like him, too!  Damnit.  Is there _no one_ safe to hate anymore???

Anyways, I dunno if I've got the boyo here in character or Not...I was just working off my impressions of him, which do tend to be a bit skewed. ;-)  Chuckles experts, drop me a line, hmm?  I'd be interested in hearing your opinions.

Comments to Kaylee1109@aol.com

Finding Me.

by Kaylee

He left the door open.  He does every time.  It's intentional...a reminder to me of just how very weak and crippled I am.  I believe he'd enjoy it very much if I were to try to drag myself out of here, crawling along on arms alone, whatever small bit of pride I have left being smeared across the floor behind me as the guards that no doubt wait in the hall laugh at me.

I won't give him the satisfaction.  I haven't much left.  Not freedom, certainly.  Very little sense of Self.  No...the first was taken because I lost the second...because I let myself _abandon_ the second.

No.  No, I won't think that way.  I have too little left, and I won't release the last vestige of pride, not even in the sick blanket of guilt that chokes my throat with every breath.  That's what he wants; to defeat me by making me defeat myself.   It won't happen.

He speaks of ending a menace - and he uses whatever means he sees necessary to do so.   Murder.  Torture.  Mutilation.  I'm one of his favorite projects; a personal challenge, in a way.  He seems to believe that if he breaks me, he breaks the wills
of mutants everywhere.

I won't let him.

But I have so little left...

My back is scored with welts.  Physical pain is nothing new to me, but torture like this isn't something I've had much occasion to become accustomed to in the past.   That's all right.  I can handle it.  He has yet to make me beg...though he did finally manage to make me scream.

I lay on my belly to ease the pain as much as possible, and I feel my stomach growl an irritable protest to days of going without food.  That's not too hard to ignore, all in all.  There's much else to think about.  Too much.

How do I make amends for what I allowed to happen if I'm not given freedom to even try?

No...I didn't _allow_ it to happen.  I was overwhelmed.  Tainted by the dark that lived in another man's soul.  Corrupted because of an act intended to preserve the lives of my students, my...family.  And the world, as well.  I _meant_ to stop the madness once and for all.

And instead I carried it on within me.

But it wasn't entirely my fault.

Right?

The open door mocks me, laughs at me silently with its gaping maw.  I picture myself slithering down the hall like some broken snake, surrounded by dozens of guards who don't even bother to draw their weapons as they chortle at the tops of their lungs and point sharp fingers towards me...

No.  No, I still have enough left to avoid _that._

I wonder how my students are...but don't let myself think about that for too long.  I betrayed them.  No matter the reasons.  No matter the excuses.  I betrayed them, nearly killed them, nearly killed _everyone_...

And they forgave me.

I haven't forgiven myself.

I _can't_ forgive myself as long as I'm here, shoring up my defenses against this man who wants to crush my will.  Any small weakness, any minuscule doubt will be found and utilized against me.  I can't allow that.  I know too much that could hurt those who've trusted me...and I've already done that enough, haven't I?

If only there was some way to build again the man I was...

The door laughs, and I turn my head from it and stare at the blank, featureless wall.   Somehow the bland surface is more comforting than that dark rectangle of ridicule and possibility.  I can lose myself for a time in the unchanging white...let go of the doubts and the pain and the fears and the-

He's getting to me, if I'm thinking this way.  Wearing down my reserves a little more with every session.  I...I _can't_ let him break me.  Too much depends on me finding the strength to stay whole.

Am I whole?

The man I was is gone, I know that.  I've searched endlessly inside for him, for the courage I know he must have had.  For the will that encouraged so many ambitious ideas, all intended to make the world a better place.  I've searched...and found only ashes.  How long has he been dead?  Perhaps since the day he used the gift he'd been granted to steal the mind of his once-greatest friend...?

The pillars I've been shoring up my resistance with are trembling, trying to crumble.   The welts across my back burn.  My hollow stomach claws at its walls.   Guilt does its best to gnaw at the heart thudding in my chest.

I have so little left...not even myself, anymore...

Convulsively, I turn my head from the wall, teeth bared in a snarl I'm barely conscious of.  Have I really gone so far?  Would I really turn my head _away_ from a dark doorway because I'm frightened of what might be beyond it?

Or is it that I fear the shame and embarrassment that waits for me...?

He'd laugh, if he saw me try it.  He'd use it to remind me once again that I'm helpless and dependent upon his _mercy._  As if such a thing existed...  I've already lost most of who I am, and I have no idea how to find it again...I won't let him have that.  I won't sign over even the last vestiges of self-respect I am left with.

I won't...

It's tempting to believe that my students will find me, will rescue me.  That fantasy has come to me through more than a few long, long nights.  I try not to indulge in it too much; I'm not worthy of such a risk from them.  Not after what I did. 

But it's so tempting to just let myself believe in the dream...

The Dream.  Hah!  That's something else entirely, isn't it?  I devoted my life to smoke and shadows, to things that will never see the light of a living day.   Peaceful coexistence?  When has the world _ever_ managed that?  The Dream is a pipe-dream, and me nothing but the smoker...who single-handedly destroyed what little progress was made towards that dangerously hoped-for future.

I swear, that doorway is breathing...

Am I going crazy now?

God, I hope so...

Convoluted mental games meant to wear me down.  Physical torture weakening a body that hasn't been known for its strength for a very long time.  He's good at his chosen job, I'll give him that.  He knows how to attack in such a way as to exploit every frailty and tear at the foundations of what strengths there are.  A time might come soon that he _does_ manage to break me, despite my declarations of immense will.   After all...I managed to break myself.

And I haven't managed to fix that broken thing yet.

I wish someone would close that door...

But so many people are hidden safely in my head, their secrets entrusted to me, their lives held by my tenuous rein on my mouth.  If he makes me talk, those people are doomed.  My conscience is heavy enough as it is.  There's got to be some way to make myself strong enough...

Why does he have to leave the damned door open?!

I know the answer.  It's obvious, really.  Any time I'm foolish enough to attempt to escape that way, he'll be there to batter my fragile hopes into the ground.   If this modicum of pride is all that's left of me, he'll do everything he can to destroy it.  I _need_ this pride.  I have so little else...

And no real chance of regaining what I've lost.

How can a man regain a soul after it's been handed away?

My breathing's labored.  A rib was bruised this last time, and every inhalation makes it sing a song of agony.  The room is kept hot, oppressively so, to make me more uncomfortable...as if comfort is even a _thought_ here.  There's a wool blanket in my mouth where my tongue used to be - I haven't had water in almost two days.

I think I'm going to break.

But I can't.

God, I hurt.

And the door sneers. 

It would surely delight him to no end to see me making my slow, painful way down the hall.   It would give him such satisfaction, such pleasure, such a chance to mock me even further.

To...mock me...

Is that...what I'm afraid of?

Ridiculous.  I've lived much of my life bound to a wheelchair.  I've _been_ mocked, often by those who didn't even realize what they said...or what they _thought._   I've seen "my" people scorned because of accidents of birth - a strange genetic twist that removes them somehow from what most would call the human race.  I can't be afraid of _ridicule._

And besides...I have so little left...

It's not that I don't _want_ to believe in hope...I do.  Very much.  But that yawning, gaping doorway doesn't lead to hope at all...it leads to nothing but crushing, smothering disappointment.  And damn it all, that's what the bastard _wants!_   He _wants_ me to hope, and to have that hope battered beyond reclamation!   He..._does,_ damn it!

Doesn't he?

Or does he want me to see that waiting door...to see it and to know that there's nothing for me beyond it?  To realize how very trapped I am without ever even _trying_ to find a way...?

I'm staring at the door, straining my ears to hear any sounds coming from the hallway.   Nothing.  But then, there's _always_ nothing, unless he's coming to "talk" with me.

Where is the man I was?

Is he in the hallway...waiting?

Too close to breaking.  Too close to losing whatever small piece of "me" is left.  And once I go...

I have only an infinitesimal fragment of pride left.  He wants to destroy it.   But does he seek to do that by tempting me into futile hope...or by denying even the birth of that?

Something made up the core of the man I was, and I have to find that again.  It's been missing for far too long, though it took recent events to drag that into the light.   A sort of strength, I suppose, that has nothing to do with pride, or with ego, or with arrogance.

Courage.

Dare I even think that word?

I have to.  Too many people are depending on me finding it again.

The door gapes.  Leers.  They'll laugh at me, and this "escape effort" will be for nothing.

That's not true.  It will be for something.  Just not escape.

After all, a man has to crawl before he can walk, doesn't he?  Maybe dreams are the same.

My arms push my torso up, and my back screams its disapproval.  So does the rib.   So does my stomach.  So does my aching, trembling pride.  I ignore them all.  In a graceless move, I slide from the cot to the floor. 

God, that hurt...

It takes a minute for me to catch my breath, and I take that moment to also gather flagging nerves that want to run.  My heart's slamming furiously in my chest, demanding that I stop this foolishness _right now._

Hope is such a difficult thing to bring to life.

The man I was is out there.  Somewhere.  He's strong enough to take what this madman does, and his will is firm enough to hold out until I'm dead or rescued, I hope...

Did I just think of rescue?  And _mean_ it?

An arm slides forward.  The angle turns, muscles tightening to draw my body after.   More pain...but it's a goad, now.  Angry encouragement from a body and a mind tired of just _waiting_ for some decision; any decision.  Another arm, skin twisting savagely at the marks across my back.  Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging and making me blink sharply.  The door dances in my vision, laughing, laughing, laughing...

Let it laugh.  Let _him_ laugh.  I have so little left...  But I'll find more.  There's a man to rebuild, and a soul to find and brush off and salvage.   And there's a family out there that I owe an awful lot to.

Some men run a gauntlet to find their inner strength, to prove their courage to themselves.

I crawl through an open door.

It's enough.

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