Generation X: Letters From The Inside. 1/1
Feb. 5th, 2008 08:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deathpixieAnother Gen X, this time a 'preview' look at Jono before he joined Gen X. The style - and the title - are borrowed from Australian YA author John Marsden. The document was created September 2001.
Genre: Generation X
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Marvel's, not mine. No profit, only homage.
Dear Gayle,
I don't know why I'm writing this - it's not as if I'm going to send it, or that you'd even read it if I did. I don't even know where you are. You could be dead, except they haven't charged me with murder. But the shrink here says it would be "beneficial" for me to "express my emotions", and I bollixed if I'm going to start a diary like some love-sick teenage girl. So I though I'd write to you instead, putting things down like I was talking to you, face to face. I've never been good at writing, unless it was music, anyway.
"Face to face". That's a laugh. They haven't let me see myself since I finally woke up enough to make some sense. Everything is bandaged, from my nose down to my waist. The scary thing is I can't feel much of anything underneath: no pain, no itching, just this intense warmth. It feels a bit like my chest is covered in liniment or something, without the smell, of course. It's been two weeks since I came to - and that was a rude awakening, I can tell you. The first thing I see after the accident is a close-up of Dr. Churchill's nostrils, each one a hairy, snot-encrusted cavern. To be fair, he wasn't expecting me to wake up just then. In fact, no-one expected me to wake up at all. I'd been out of it for at least a month.
I don't remember much of what happened. Just the evening we spent at your flat, and then some sort of explosion. Maybe it's better that I don't remember. I just wish I knew what had happened to you. It's so frustrating - none of these bastards'll tell me anything. they just look at me strangely and change the subject. The shrink, a dozy sort of woman by the name of Dr. Raniga, keeps telling me it's not good for me to dwell on it. "Dwell on it?" How can't I? My whole life, and yours, was changed forever in that instant. What do they expect me to do? Lie back and think of England?
Typical hospital, this place. Dingy and dull, yellowish walls holding the ghosts of old stains. Worn lino on the floor - I can hear the nurses' shoes squeaking as they come up the corridor. I'm in a room on my own, in the 'new' mutant ward. There are more of them - of _us_ now, and St. Jude's finally gave in to the demand, especially with this Legacy thing. I think this used to be the TB ward or something. Sounds about right - lock us up like plague victims.
"Us". It's funny how you adapt, change your thinking. Before all this, I never gave much thought to mutants. 'Course, I watched the news on Excalibur's latest exploits, or the FOH rallies on campus. But it never really meant that much to me. Now it seems I am one. I suppose I must be, to survive such an explosion. They tell me I'm a telepath - at least that explains the voices in my head when I woke up. As if Dr. Churchill's nose-hair wasn't enough, I had half the bloody population of sodding London screaming in my head. They've got me in a psi-shielded room - got the technology from WHO, I think. 'Cause I can't talk with my mouth - I'm bandaged up like a mummy - they've brought in this government bloke to teach me psi-stuff. Shielding, mind-speak, that sort of thing. Talk about shifty. The plonker dresses like Fox Mulder's evil twin and never looks you in the face for more than a second. Even his mind is grey and shadowy - slipping away like a cockroach down a crack in the floor. I'm not sure why he's bothering with me - I'm not the most co-operative student. The cynic in me makes me think they're on a recruiting drive. If they are, they can forget it. All I want to do is get as far away from humanity as I can.
The ward nurse just came in to tell me it's time for "lights out". Not that I actually sleep. I haven't been able to since I came out of the coma. And I don't seem to need food, either. The doctors think it's part of my mutation. I've argued this point with Nurse Hitler and hundred times already, so I'll finish here, and maybe I'll write again.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
Here I am again. I feel like a right plonker, writing these letters that no-one will ever read, but the first one actually made me feel... not better, but more free, in a way. Like there was more room inside of me somehow. I suppose part of that could be because writing to you was the closest I've come to having a "normal" conversation for two months. Everyone, even Dr. Churchill and Nurse Hitler, skitters away from me like scared mice. And that bloody Dr. Raniga. She doesn't want to have a conversation: all she wants to do is get at me, see what makes me tick, the way you pick at a sore, even though you know it's going too bleed.
The telepathy thing is getting easier. They turn off the shielding for longer periods each day, weaning me off it, I suppose. The doctors have some sort of personal psi-baffle: so I don't read their minds and get the answers I've been asking for. Cowards. What is so terrible that they can't tell me what is happening to me? Or is it because they don't know?
What is it I've become?
Shit, here comes that soppy cow, Raniga. She wears this anklet thing with little bells on, so she jingles all the way up the hallway. She must be coming around for our daily "therapy session", and I'm buggered if she's reading this, so I'll be off. Talk to you later.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
I've been thinking a lot about us lately. Let's face it, trapped in a hospital room with only daytime TV for company, there's not much else for me to do but think. So I run the memories of my life through my head, like my own personal movie, and I find myself drawn again and again to those nine months after we first met.
I'll never understand what you saw in me, at that first meeting. I was a scruffy, morose little first year, with a chip on my shoulder the size of Lord Nelson's Column. And you were this gorgeous, sophisticated princess, who could have anything and anyone you wanted. And for some reason, you wanted me. Can't see why, when all I did was insult you to your face in front of your friends. I'm not sure why I was even at that party: college parties were not really my thing. Wait, I remember now! 'Podge' Cruikshank - you remember Podge - was after Jenny Hollis, and he was too scared to go on his own. So he dragged me along as emotional support. Hah! Some support I turned out to be, getting so pissed that I could barely stand, and then calling you a "toffee-nosed Thatcher wanna-be who wouldn't know working-class values if they bit you on the arse". Me and politics were never a good combination, even sober.
It took weeks for Podge to talk to me after that - Jenny wouldn't have anything to do with him after my display - but he eventually found himself another lust-object. Poor Podge. Never did have much of a way with girls. I didn't give that night a second thought - actually, to tell the truth, I can't really remember what happened after that - but you could've knocked me down with a feather when you turn up at the College Arms the night I was playing. Somehow I'd been convinced to go in for "Improv Night" where anyone can get up on stage and do their thing. So there I was, doing a cover of a Billy Bragg song: "Levi Stubbs' Tears" I think it was, and then you appear at the front of the stage, looking up at me with those big brown eyes like I was something wonderful. And I fell for it, hook, line and sinker.
I don't know if it helps me to think about these things, or whether it just tears me up even more, to know that they're gone for good. Sometimes it feels like it all happened to someone else, another boy whose name was Jonathan Starsmore, who had a beautiful girl who loved him, a future only just opening out before him, and nothing to hold him back but his own ambition. In a way, that Jono is another person, someone I used to know, but who has left me now. All that's left is a mutant mummy, with a fragmented memory and no dreams. Christ, now I'm depressed. Or even more depressed, if I'm being truthful. Perhaps it's best if I just stop now.
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
It’s been a while since I last wrote. The same day I wrote last, Dr Raniga came in to tell me I had a visitor. The first since I’ve been here. My parents have written me off, hoping I’ll take the hint and leave them alone. Fine by me. I was enough of an embarrassment to them before I found out I was a mutant; it’s worse now. Nice middle-class families don’t have mutant children, and if they do, they certainly don’t let it become general knowledge. Looks like I’ve become one of those nasty family secrets that fester for years until someone gets too drunk at the family Christmas dinner and blurts it out over the Christmas pud.
I’m rambling; guess I’m trying to avoid the inevitable. Where was I? That’s it, my mysterious visitor. It took forever for them to bring him in, but when he came through the door, I wished they’d never bothered. It was your brother, David, who at one point was a good mate, and the hatred in his eyes just about killed me. At first I couldn’t understand what he was doing here - the nurses had made it clear none of your family wanted anything to do with me - but then he started talking, and it all came clear: he wanted to hurt me, to make things even between us. He was after revenge.
And he succeeded, too. He told me every detail I’d forgotten, everything you’d told him, exactly what happened to me, to you, to your flat. To tell the truth, I had myself almost believing it was a gas leak or something that caused the explosion. Stupid of me. David set me straight. Told me how we’d planned a romantic night in to celebrate your birthday, how we were snogging on the couch when I pushed you away. How you saw my chest explode. How the energy that poured out destroyed half the building. How you managed to survive the worst of it, only to be crushed by one of the roof beams. How you’ll never walk again. All his words rolled remorselessly over me like a great black wave, and I couldn’t even speak to say I was sorry. I couldn’t even cry - my tears were burned away that night. David sat there in the ugly brown vinyl visitor’s chair, his voice calm, but his eyes - so much like yours, Gayle - his eyes burning with grief and rage and hate and fear. And when he was done, he stood up, looked me in the eye, and spat in my face.
Things get a bit hazy after that. I remember David being hustled away by a burly porter, screaming things like “gene-joke” and “mutie freak”. I just lay there in my hospital bed, paralysed by this wave of utter despair. Nurse Hitler called in Dr Churchill, but he couldn’t reach me either. It was like I was falling further and further into the abyss, the great pit of darkness that had opened up inside me. It was like being cast into Hell. I barely noticed when they left.
Time passed, or so they tell me. I don’t remember much - just this crushing weight of guilt and self-loathing, as heavy on my soul as that roof beam must have been on your body. Because I could see it all now: David’s words had opened those doors I’d locked and barred against these particular memories. It was the only thing I could see, playing out before me over and over again. How your hair gleamed in the light of the candles you’d set up in the flat, the way your eyes glowed with passion when you looked at me, and told me what you wanted for your birthday present. I’d laughed, and said I wasn’t gift-wrapped, and you’d said it didn’t matter, you’d unwrap me anyway. Typical lovers’ games. The touch of your lips on mine, and your hands on my body, setting my skin on fire, stoking the heat within me. And then the fire wasn’t _in_ me any more, it was pouring out through the gaping wound, tearing down my life, your life, our life together. I heard your screams, over and over.
At one point, I found myself in the ward bathroom, in front of one of those stainless steel mirrors. You know the sort - the ones you can’t break and slash your wrists with. Not usually, anyway. It had been a while since I’d seen myself in a mirror. Not a pretty sight; hair hanging lank and unwashed, most of my face and upper body wrapped in bandages, the skin that was visible pale and dead-looking and riddled with scars. The worst of it was my eyes: usually they’re hazel, changing from green to brown depending on the light, or my mood. Instead they were burning red, glowing like windows on the face of Hell. I started unwrapping the bandages: I just had to know what made the doctors so uneasy, to see what made the nurse look at me with that odd mixture if horror and pity, to find out why David flinched whenever he looked me in the face. A glow started to fill the room as I got closer, a sort of flickering that cast weird shadows over the walls. Then the last layer came away, and I saw the monster I have become. The explosion blew away my chest and throat and the lower part of my face - from below my nose to my waist is a gaping hole. Where my heart and lungs and other internal organs should be is a cavern filled with fire, flames flickering orange-red with a life of their own. I seem to have become a kind of chamber for this energy field, a shell around what the doctors have since told me is a “bio-nuclear psionic biokinetic field”, whatever the hell that means.
When I saw myself, I suppose of sort of lost it. There was a flash, the flames growing stronger and pouring out of the hole, and the stainless steel of the mirror and the sinks was turned to slag, along with part of the wall. I managed to find a shard of tile, the edge razor-sharp, and I used it to slash my wrists, as deep as I dared and long-wise, rather than wasting effort cutting through the ligaments. There wasn’t any pain, which convinced me I’m not real any more, just a vessel for this infernal fire. But the last laugh was on me - the flames were there too, and I wasn’t bleeding. All I could do was huddle on the floor amidst the debris, listening to the fire alarm bleeping, watching the fire seeping through the cuts on my wrists, wishing for death.
Nurse Hitler found me not long after that. She screamed blue murder when she saw what I’d done, and hit the panic button. So since then they’ve had me restrained, with a twenty-four hour “suicide watch”. They only let me loose when I asked to write again. I could tell them not to bother - there’s no way I can kill myself. Drugs don’t work, and there’s no way I could swallow them anyway. I don’t breathe so I can’t gas or hang myself, and I’ve already found out what happens when I try to cut myself.
No-one can tell me if I’ll ever be normal again, if I’ll ever get my face back, but in a way, I don’t care. Perhaps this is what I deserve, a monster’s visage to match my monstrous act. Because my life isn’t the only one that’s been ruined, and nothing I do can ever change that. Maybe one day you’ll forgive me, but I won’t ever forgive myself.
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
The restraints are off, finally, and so is my “bodyguard”: the rather large porter they had on suicide watch with me for the last week and a half. It seems they must’ve realised how unnecessary it all was; I couldn’t do myself in if I wanted to. And I don’t want to, quite so much. It’s amazing how strong the will to live is, how resilient the mind and body. Even the way I look, I find myself making plans for the future, looking towards the next day. In a way it’s pathetic; there’s not much I can look forward to, disfigured the way I am. But there it is, I suppose that that old adage about time healing wounds is true. I’ve been here for so long - long enough to see the seasons turn from summer to winter.
The other part of it is the new shrink they’ve brought in. Raniga got the arse after the debacle with David’s visit. Seems she brought him in against Churchill’s instructions. No-one’s sure why - one of the nurses said there’s a rumour going around that she was a Friends of Humanity sympathiser - but I think it was just another one of her ploys to get at me, to get a reaction out of me. Well she got that in spades, didn’t she? The new bloke isn’t bad, for a shrink. His name’s Dr. Williams, and he spent most of the first few sessions just talking about music. Yeah, transparent, I know, just a ploy to get my trust, but it was good to be able to have an ordinary conversation. Not that I could talk as such - you need a lower jaw for that sort of thing - but I’ve managed to learn enough of this telepathy thing to cope. The bloke who taught me, the shifty bastard in the rumpled suits, turned out to be an agent from Black Air: they stopped him coming after my “suicide attempt”, worried about my vulnerable state, no doubt.
Rob, that’s Dr. Williams, is an okay bloke. He’s a bit… eccentric. That’s what the nurses call him. I reckon he’s as big a nut case as me. He’s very forgetful, always losing things and getting distracted from what he was saying. He goes off on these odd little tangents, too. We were talking about punk music in the Eighties, and he goes off on this rant about the Sex Pistols being a catalyst for the current lack of respect for the monarchy. When he was in first year uni he used to be a guitarist in a punk band: that explains the deafness he gets sometimes. He’s got tinnitus from the amps. But as mad as he is, he’s been good for me. He managed to get me out of that black depression: it took him weeks, but he’s a persistent little bugger.
The only good thing Raniga did apparently was to get me onto this letter-writing lark. Rob said it was a good idea, ‘cause it gives me an outlet for the things I didn’t want to talk to him, or anyone about. He didn’t insist on reading them, either. He said it was enough for me to write. It does help, a bit. Writing to you like this makes me feel I’m almost talking to you. Not that that will ever happen again in this lifetime, but it helps to dream, just a little. Little dreams are all I can manage. As those jokers say in AA, it’s “one day at a time”. Right now, I’ll just settle for being able to get out of these damn hospital PJs.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
Wonders’ll never cease. Some egghead by the name of Xavier in the US has written asking if I want to join his school for “Gifted Youngsters”. I suppose “Gifted Youngsters” is just a euphemism for “mutant freaks”. God knows what he thinks this school will be able to do for me: I’m no use to anyone like this, not even myself. I chucked the letter out, but Nurse Hitler (her real name is McKinney, and she’s a Scottish harridan) found it and showed it to Churchill and Rob. Bloody do-gooders think I should “consider it at least”. I reckon they just want to get rid of me. I’m as healed as I’m ever going to be, and since my family has disowned me, they need somewhere to put me.
It’s strange, but I’ll be sorry to leave this place. St Jude’s has been home for the last eight months, and it’s become familiar and safe. While I won’t be missed for my wit and charm and sparkling personality, they at least treat me like a person, another human being. Out there is another story. I have this recurring nightmare (or vision if you like, seeing how I don’t sleep) where I’m lynched the moment I set foot outside the hospital. I can’t help but feel it’s a prophecy of sorts.
At least they’ve let me have my guitar back. Rob’s doing again. He got ‘round Nurse McKinney by telling her it was good physiotherapy for my wrists. They’ve healed up pretty good - not much tendon damage and all the fingers still work, although they’re a bit stiff. Nurse McKinney and I have come to a truce: I don’t play at night and she doesn’t worry about lights out in my room. Like I said, she’s a bit of a harridan, but underneath that crusty exterior is an overbearing bossy cow. Just joking. Actually, she’s been getting a bit soft on me lately; maybe she’s going to miss me when I leave here. I don’t know where - maybe I’ll take up Charles Xavier’s offer. After all, everyone’s got to be somewhere, and a school to teach me about my powers might not be such a bad idea. If I stay here, Black Air’ll sink their claws into me. Either that, or Excalibur will end up recruiting me!
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
It’s all settled. One more week here, and then they’re shipping me off to the US. Prof Xavier’s written to Rob and Dr Churchill, making sure my “condition” is stable enough to attend his school, and I got a letter from one of the head teachers, Emma Frost. She sounds a bit on the cold side: her letter had all the warmth of a dictionary. Seems she’s a telepath too: just my luck, I get to spend “quality time” with her.
There’s only half a dozen students at the school; that’s odd, because I thought the States were crawling with mutants. Guess they don’t have what it takes to be a “gifted youngster”. The more I think about this, the more I wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’ll be the oldest there, and the only Brit. One of the other students comes from Algeria, but the rest are Americans. Even with my face attached I’d stick out like a sore thumb, but it looks like I’m going to be the freaks’ freak.
Rob brought me in the ol’ faithful jacket yesterday. Once I’d “recovered” from my suicide attempt, Nurse McKinney brought in some ordinary clothes for me, dragged out of the Samaritan bin by the looks of it. I told Rob about the jacket during one of our sessions, and bugger me if he didn’t manage to find it for me. It’s the only thing I’m taking that reminds me of you. I still remember the day you got it for me. After my old one finally gave up the ghost (no thanks to that spill we had off Podge’s push-bike when we were pissed), you snuck this one into my wardrobe. Rob managed to track it down through the police: it was salvaged from the ruins of your flat, and had been sitting in a property room for the last nine months. It still smells like dope! Let’s hope they don’t notice at the airport, it could get hard to explain.
Here comes Rob. Speak of the devil. I can’t let him see this: after all, I told him I wanted to go, and he arranged everything down to my passport (now there’s a story!) and luggage. Can’t disappoint the little bugger.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
Today’s the day. They’re taking me to Heathrow soon. I’ve packed up my stuff and said my goodbyes to everyone. That leaves just one more thing.
You’ll probably never forgive me for running away like this. You always told me running away was the coward’s way out. But I can’t face you. Isn’t it enough that I’ve ruined both our lives? I can’t stay here, knowing you’re around some place, that I might bump into you one day by accident. I can’t stay here and be reminded of everything I’ve lost. So I’m running away, as far as I can go. I’d emigrate to Australia if I could, but you know me, never could stand hot weather.
I hope you understand, this is for the best. For you and me both. I can never give you back what you’ve lost, but I can make sure I never cause you any more pain. Believe me, Gayle, it’s the best thing to do. One day you’ll meet someone else, someone normal , someone who can treat you the way you deserve. All I’ve ever caused you was grief. David was right; perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d died in the explosion, but I didn’t, so this is all I can do. Get out of your life forever.
You’ll never know how much writing to you helped me. You’ll never know because you’ll never read those letters. No-one will. I burned them all last night, nearly setting off the bloody fire alarm in the process. But it’s enough for me to say that I owe you Gayle, I owe you big. I may have ruined your life, but you saved mine. And for that I’ll always be grateful.
Love always,
Jono.
***
“You ready to go Jonathan?”
~Ready as I’ll ever be, Rob. Thanks fer everythin’~
“I’m just glad to see you so much improved. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
~Yeah, there is. Could yer post this letter fer me? See that it gets to her?~
“Of course, Jonathan. Best of luck, old chap.”
Genre: Generation X
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Marvel's, not mine. No profit, only homage.
Dear Gayle,
I don't know why I'm writing this - it's not as if I'm going to send it, or that you'd even read it if I did. I don't even know where you are. You could be dead, except they haven't charged me with murder. But the shrink here says it would be "beneficial" for me to "express my emotions", and I bollixed if I'm going to start a diary like some love-sick teenage girl. So I though I'd write to you instead, putting things down like I was talking to you, face to face. I've never been good at writing, unless it was music, anyway.
"Face to face". That's a laugh. They haven't let me see myself since I finally woke up enough to make some sense. Everything is bandaged, from my nose down to my waist. The scary thing is I can't feel much of anything underneath: no pain, no itching, just this intense warmth. It feels a bit like my chest is covered in liniment or something, without the smell, of course. It's been two weeks since I came to - and that was a rude awakening, I can tell you. The first thing I see after the accident is a close-up of Dr. Churchill's nostrils, each one a hairy, snot-encrusted cavern. To be fair, he wasn't expecting me to wake up just then. In fact, no-one expected me to wake up at all. I'd been out of it for at least a month.
I don't remember much of what happened. Just the evening we spent at your flat, and then some sort of explosion. Maybe it's better that I don't remember. I just wish I knew what had happened to you. It's so frustrating - none of these bastards'll tell me anything. they just look at me strangely and change the subject. The shrink, a dozy sort of woman by the name of Dr. Raniga, keeps telling me it's not good for me to dwell on it. "Dwell on it?" How can't I? My whole life, and yours, was changed forever in that instant. What do they expect me to do? Lie back and think of England?
Typical hospital, this place. Dingy and dull, yellowish walls holding the ghosts of old stains. Worn lino on the floor - I can hear the nurses' shoes squeaking as they come up the corridor. I'm in a room on my own, in the 'new' mutant ward. There are more of them - of _us_ now, and St. Jude's finally gave in to the demand, especially with this Legacy thing. I think this used to be the TB ward or something. Sounds about right - lock us up like plague victims.
"Us". It's funny how you adapt, change your thinking. Before all this, I never gave much thought to mutants. 'Course, I watched the news on Excalibur's latest exploits, or the FOH rallies on campus. But it never really meant that much to me. Now it seems I am one. I suppose I must be, to survive such an explosion. They tell me I'm a telepath - at least that explains the voices in my head when I woke up. As if Dr. Churchill's nose-hair wasn't enough, I had half the bloody population of sodding London screaming in my head. They've got me in a psi-shielded room - got the technology from WHO, I think. 'Cause I can't talk with my mouth - I'm bandaged up like a mummy - they've brought in this government bloke to teach me psi-stuff. Shielding, mind-speak, that sort of thing. Talk about shifty. The plonker dresses like Fox Mulder's evil twin and never looks you in the face for more than a second. Even his mind is grey and shadowy - slipping away like a cockroach down a crack in the floor. I'm not sure why he's bothering with me - I'm not the most co-operative student. The cynic in me makes me think they're on a recruiting drive. If they are, they can forget it. All I want to do is get as far away from humanity as I can.
The ward nurse just came in to tell me it's time for "lights out". Not that I actually sleep. I haven't been able to since I came out of the coma. And I don't seem to need food, either. The doctors think it's part of my mutation. I've argued this point with Nurse Hitler and hundred times already, so I'll finish here, and maybe I'll write again.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
Here I am again. I feel like a right plonker, writing these letters that no-one will ever read, but the first one actually made me feel... not better, but more free, in a way. Like there was more room inside of me somehow. I suppose part of that could be because writing to you was the closest I've come to having a "normal" conversation for two months. Everyone, even Dr. Churchill and Nurse Hitler, skitters away from me like scared mice. And that bloody Dr. Raniga. She doesn't want to have a conversation: all she wants to do is get at me, see what makes me tick, the way you pick at a sore, even though you know it's going too bleed.
The telepathy thing is getting easier. They turn off the shielding for longer periods each day, weaning me off it, I suppose. The doctors have some sort of personal psi-baffle: so I don't read their minds and get the answers I've been asking for. Cowards. What is so terrible that they can't tell me what is happening to me? Or is it because they don't know?
What is it I've become?
Shit, here comes that soppy cow, Raniga. She wears this anklet thing with little bells on, so she jingles all the way up the hallway. She must be coming around for our daily "therapy session", and I'm buggered if she's reading this, so I'll be off. Talk to you later.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
I've been thinking a lot about us lately. Let's face it, trapped in a hospital room with only daytime TV for company, there's not much else for me to do but think. So I run the memories of my life through my head, like my own personal movie, and I find myself drawn again and again to those nine months after we first met.
I'll never understand what you saw in me, at that first meeting. I was a scruffy, morose little first year, with a chip on my shoulder the size of Lord Nelson's Column. And you were this gorgeous, sophisticated princess, who could have anything and anyone you wanted. And for some reason, you wanted me. Can't see why, when all I did was insult you to your face in front of your friends. I'm not sure why I was even at that party: college parties were not really my thing. Wait, I remember now! 'Podge' Cruikshank - you remember Podge - was after Jenny Hollis, and he was too scared to go on his own. So he dragged me along as emotional support. Hah! Some support I turned out to be, getting so pissed that I could barely stand, and then calling you a "toffee-nosed Thatcher wanna-be who wouldn't know working-class values if they bit you on the arse". Me and politics were never a good combination, even sober.
It took weeks for Podge to talk to me after that - Jenny wouldn't have anything to do with him after my display - but he eventually found himself another lust-object. Poor Podge. Never did have much of a way with girls. I didn't give that night a second thought - actually, to tell the truth, I can't really remember what happened after that - but you could've knocked me down with a feather when you turn up at the College Arms the night I was playing. Somehow I'd been convinced to go in for "Improv Night" where anyone can get up on stage and do their thing. So there I was, doing a cover of a Billy Bragg song: "Levi Stubbs' Tears" I think it was, and then you appear at the front of the stage, looking up at me with those big brown eyes like I was something wonderful. And I fell for it, hook, line and sinker.
I don't know if it helps me to think about these things, or whether it just tears me up even more, to know that they're gone for good. Sometimes it feels like it all happened to someone else, another boy whose name was Jonathan Starsmore, who had a beautiful girl who loved him, a future only just opening out before him, and nothing to hold him back but his own ambition. In a way, that Jono is another person, someone I used to know, but who has left me now. All that's left is a mutant mummy, with a fragmented memory and no dreams. Christ, now I'm depressed. Or even more depressed, if I'm being truthful. Perhaps it's best if I just stop now.
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
It’s been a while since I last wrote. The same day I wrote last, Dr Raniga came in to tell me I had a visitor. The first since I’ve been here. My parents have written me off, hoping I’ll take the hint and leave them alone. Fine by me. I was enough of an embarrassment to them before I found out I was a mutant; it’s worse now. Nice middle-class families don’t have mutant children, and if they do, they certainly don’t let it become general knowledge. Looks like I’ve become one of those nasty family secrets that fester for years until someone gets too drunk at the family Christmas dinner and blurts it out over the Christmas pud.
I’m rambling; guess I’m trying to avoid the inevitable. Where was I? That’s it, my mysterious visitor. It took forever for them to bring him in, but when he came through the door, I wished they’d never bothered. It was your brother, David, who at one point was a good mate, and the hatred in his eyes just about killed me. At first I couldn’t understand what he was doing here - the nurses had made it clear none of your family wanted anything to do with me - but then he started talking, and it all came clear: he wanted to hurt me, to make things even between us. He was after revenge.
And he succeeded, too. He told me every detail I’d forgotten, everything you’d told him, exactly what happened to me, to you, to your flat. To tell the truth, I had myself almost believing it was a gas leak or something that caused the explosion. Stupid of me. David set me straight. Told me how we’d planned a romantic night in to celebrate your birthday, how we were snogging on the couch when I pushed you away. How you saw my chest explode. How the energy that poured out destroyed half the building. How you managed to survive the worst of it, only to be crushed by one of the roof beams. How you’ll never walk again. All his words rolled remorselessly over me like a great black wave, and I couldn’t even speak to say I was sorry. I couldn’t even cry - my tears were burned away that night. David sat there in the ugly brown vinyl visitor’s chair, his voice calm, but his eyes - so much like yours, Gayle - his eyes burning with grief and rage and hate and fear. And when he was done, he stood up, looked me in the eye, and spat in my face.
Things get a bit hazy after that. I remember David being hustled away by a burly porter, screaming things like “gene-joke” and “mutie freak”. I just lay there in my hospital bed, paralysed by this wave of utter despair. Nurse Hitler called in Dr Churchill, but he couldn’t reach me either. It was like I was falling further and further into the abyss, the great pit of darkness that had opened up inside me. It was like being cast into Hell. I barely noticed when they left.
Time passed, or so they tell me. I don’t remember much - just this crushing weight of guilt and self-loathing, as heavy on my soul as that roof beam must have been on your body. Because I could see it all now: David’s words had opened those doors I’d locked and barred against these particular memories. It was the only thing I could see, playing out before me over and over again. How your hair gleamed in the light of the candles you’d set up in the flat, the way your eyes glowed with passion when you looked at me, and told me what you wanted for your birthday present. I’d laughed, and said I wasn’t gift-wrapped, and you’d said it didn’t matter, you’d unwrap me anyway. Typical lovers’ games. The touch of your lips on mine, and your hands on my body, setting my skin on fire, stoking the heat within me. And then the fire wasn’t _in_ me any more, it was pouring out through the gaping wound, tearing down my life, your life, our life together. I heard your screams, over and over.
At one point, I found myself in the ward bathroom, in front of one of those stainless steel mirrors. You know the sort - the ones you can’t break and slash your wrists with. Not usually, anyway. It had been a while since I’d seen myself in a mirror. Not a pretty sight; hair hanging lank and unwashed, most of my face and upper body wrapped in bandages, the skin that was visible pale and dead-looking and riddled with scars. The worst of it was my eyes: usually they’re hazel, changing from green to brown depending on the light, or my mood. Instead they were burning red, glowing like windows on the face of Hell. I started unwrapping the bandages: I just had to know what made the doctors so uneasy, to see what made the nurse look at me with that odd mixture if horror and pity, to find out why David flinched whenever he looked me in the face. A glow started to fill the room as I got closer, a sort of flickering that cast weird shadows over the walls. Then the last layer came away, and I saw the monster I have become. The explosion blew away my chest and throat and the lower part of my face - from below my nose to my waist is a gaping hole. Where my heart and lungs and other internal organs should be is a cavern filled with fire, flames flickering orange-red with a life of their own. I seem to have become a kind of chamber for this energy field, a shell around what the doctors have since told me is a “bio-nuclear psionic biokinetic field”, whatever the hell that means.
When I saw myself, I suppose of sort of lost it. There was a flash, the flames growing stronger and pouring out of the hole, and the stainless steel of the mirror and the sinks was turned to slag, along with part of the wall. I managed to find a shard of tile, the edge razor-sharp, and I used it to slash my wrists, as deep as I dared and long-wise, rather than wasting effort cutting through the ligaments. There wasn’t any pain, which convinced me I’m not real any more, just a vessel for this infernal fire. But the last laugh was on me - the flames were there too, and I wasn’t bleeding. All I could do was huddle on the floor amidst the debris, listening to the fire alarm bleeping, watching the fire seeping through the cuts on my wrists, wishing for death.
Nurse Hitler found me not long after that. She screamed blue murder when she saw what I’d done, and hit the panic button. So since then they’ve had me restrained, with a twenty-four hour “suicide watch”. They only let me loose when I asked to write again. I could tell them not to bother - there’s no way I can kill myself. Drugs don’t work, and there’s no way I could swallow them anyway. I don’t breathe so I can’t gas or hang myself, and I’ve already found out what happens when I try to cut myself.
No-one can tell me if I’ll ever be normal again, if I’ll ever get my face back, but in a way, I don’t care. Perhaps this is what I deserve, a monster’s visage to match my monstrous act. Because my life isn’t the only one that’s been ruined, and nothing I do can ever change that. Maybe one day you’ll forgive me, but I won’t ever forgive myself.
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
The restraints are off, finally, and so is my “bodyguard”: the rather large porter they had on suicide watch with me for the last week and a half. It seems they must’ve realised how unnecessary it all was; I couldn’t do myself in if I wanted to. And I don’t want to, quite so much. It’s amazing how strong the will to live is, how resilient the mind and body. Even the way I look, I find myself making plans for the future, looking towards the next day. In a way it’s pathetic; there’s not much I can look forward to, disfigured the way I am. But there it is, I suppose that that old adage about time healing wounds is true. I’ve been here for so long - long enough to see the seasons turn from summer to winter.
The other part of it is the new shrink they’ve brought in. Raniga got the arse after the debacle with David’s visit. Seems she brought him in against Churchill’s instructions. No-one’s sure why - one of the nurses said there’s a rumour going around that she was a Friends of Humanity sympathiser - but I think it was just another one of her ploys to get at me, to get a reaction out of me. Well she got that in spades, didn’t she? The new bloke isn’t bad, for a shrink. His name’s Dr. Williams, and he spent most of the first few sessions just talking about music. Yeah, transparent, I know, just a ploy to get my trust, but it was good to be able to have an ordinary conversation. Not that I could talk as such - you need a lower jaw for that sort of thing - but I’ve managed to learn enough of this telepathy thing to cope. The bloke who taught me, the shifty bastard in the rumpled suits, turned out to be an agent from Black Air: they stopped him coming after my “suicide attempt”, worried about my vulnerable state, no doubt.
Rob, that’s Dr. Williams, is an okay bloke. He’s a bit… eccentric. That’s what the nurses call him. I reckon he’s as big a nut case as me. He’s very forgetful, always losing things and getting distracted from what he was saying. He goes off on these odd little tangents, too. We were talking about punk music in the Eighties, and he goes off on this rant about the Sex Pistols being a catalyst for the current lack of respect for the monarchy. When he was in first year uni he used to be a guitarist in a punk band: that explains the deafness he gets sometimes. He’s got tinnitus from the amps. But as mad as he is, he’s been good for me. He managed to get me out of that black depression: it took him weeks, but he’s a persistent little bugger.
The only good thing Raniga did apparently was to get me onto this letter-writing lark. Rob said it was a good idea, ‘cause it gives me an outlet for the things I didn’t want to talk to him, or anyone about. He didn’t insist on reading them, either. He said it was enough for me to write. It does help, a bit. Writing to you like this makes me feel I’m almost talking to you. Not that that will ever happen again in this lifetime, but it helps to dream, just a little. Little dreams are all I can manage. As those jokers say in AA, it’s “one day at a time”. Right now, I’ll just settle for being able to get out of these damn hospital PJs.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
Wonders’ll never cease. Some egghead by the name of Xavier in the US has written asking if I want to join his school for “Gifted Youngsters”. I suppose “Gifted Youngsters” is just a euphemism for “mutant freaks”. God knows what he thinks this school will be able to do for me: I’m no use to anyone like this, not even myself. I chucked the letter out, but Nurse Hitler (her real name is McKinney, and she’s a Scottish harridan) found it and showed it to Churchill and Rob. Bloody do-gooders think I should “consider it at least”. I reckon they just want to get rid of me. I’m as healed as I’m ever going to be, and since my family has disowned me, they need somewhere to put me.
It’s strange, but I’ll be sorry to leave this place. St Jude’s has been home for the last eight months, and it’s become familiar and safe. While I won’t be missed for my wit and charm and sparkling personality, they at least treat me like a person, another human being. Out there is another story. I have this recurring nightmare (or vision if you like, seeing how I don’t sleep) where I’m lynched the moment I set foot outside the hospital. I can’t help but feel it’s a prophecy of sorts.
At least they’ve let me have my guitar back. Rob’s doing again. He got ‘round Nurse McKinney by telling her it was good physiotherapy for my wrists. They’ve healed up pretty good - not much tendon damage and all the fingers still work, although they’re a bit stiff. Nurse McKinney and I have come to a truce: I don’t play at night and she doesn’t worry about lights out in my room. Like I said, she’s a bit of a harridan, but underneath that crusty exterior is an overbearing bossy cow. Just joking. Actually, she’s been getting a bit soft on me lately; maybe she’s going to miss me when I leave here. I don’t know where - maybe I’ll take up Charles Xavier’s offer. After all, everyone’s got to be somewhere, and a school to teach me about my powers might not be such a bad idea. If I stay here, Black Air’ll sink their claws into me. Either that, or Excalibur will end up recruiting me!
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
It’s all settled. One more week here, and then they’re shipping me off to the US. Prof Xavier’s written to Rob and Dr Churchill, making sure my “condition” is stable enough to attend his school, and I got a letter from one of the head teachers, Emma Frost. She sounds a bit on the cold side: her letter had all the warmth of a dictionary. Seems she’s a telepath too: just my luck, I get to spend “quality time” with her.
There’s only half a dozen students at the school; that’s odd, because I thought the States were crawling with mutants. Guess they don’t have what it takes to be a “gifted youngster”. The more I think about this, the more I wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’ll be the oldest there, and the only Brit. One of the other students comes from Algeria, but the rest are Americans. Even with my face attached I’d stick out like a sore thumb, but it looks like I’m going to be the freaks’ freak.
Rob brought me in the ol’ faithful jacket yesterday. Once I’d “recovered” from my suicide attempt, Nurse McKinney brought in some ordinary clothes for me, dragged out of the Samaritan bin by the looks of it. I told Rob about the jacket during one of our sessions, and bugger me if he didn’t manage to find it for me. It’s the only thing I’m taking that reminds me of you. I still remember the day you got it for me. After my old one finally gave up the ghost (no thanks to that spill we had off Podge’s push-bike when we were pissed), you snuck this one into my wardrobe. Rob managed to track it down through the police: it was salvaged from the ruins of your flat, and had been sitting in a property room for the last nine months. It still smells like dope! Let’s hope they don’t notice at the airport, it could get hard to explain.
Here comes Rob. Speak of the devil. I can’t let him see this: after all, I told him I wanted to go, and he arranged everything down to my passport (now there’s a story!) and luggage. Can’t disappoint the little bugger.
Love,
Jono.
***
Dear Gayle,
Today’s the day. They’re taking me to Heathrow soon. I’ve packed up my stuff and said my goodbyes to everyone. That leaves just one more thing.
You’ll probably never forgive me for running away like this. You always told me running away was the coward’s way out. But I can’t face you. Isn’t it enough that I’ve ruined both our lives? I can’t stay here, knowing you’re around some place, that I might bump into you one day by accident. I can’t stay here and be reminded of everything I’ve lost. So I’m running away, as far as I can go. I’d emigrate to Australia if I could, but you know me, never could stand hot weather.
I hope you understand, this is for the best. For you and me both. I can never give you back what you’ve lost, but I can make sure I never cause you any more pain. Believe me, Gayle, it’s the best thing to do. One day you’ll meet someone else, someone normal , someone who can treat you the way you deserve. All I’ve ever caused you was grief. David was right; perhaps it would’ve been better if I’d died in the explosion, but I didn’t, so this is all I can do. Get out of your life forever.
You’ll never know how much writing to you helped me. You’ll never know because you’ll never read those letters. No-one will. I burned them all last night, nearly setting off the bloody fire alarm in the process. But it’s enough for me to say that I owe you Gayle, I owe you big. I may have ruined your life, but you saved mine. And for that I’ll always be grateful.
Love always,
Jono.
***
“You ready to go Jonathan?”
~Ready as I’ll ever be, Rob. Thanks fer everythin’~
“I’m just glad to see you so much improved. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
~Yeah, there is. Could yer post this letter fer me? See that it gets to her?~
“Of course, Jonathan. Best of luck, old chap.”
