Post by StormsFury on Jun 27, 2006 10:50:49 GMT -5
Hope u like this story. Please read and tell me what u think about it.
“I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel…”
The sun is shining high this March morning and many cars are entering the grounds of the school. The mansion is busy, friends and families traveling from all over the world to be with each other at Xavier’s. If only they could meet under more pleasant circumstances. It is a funeral that brings them all together, mourning the death of a life that touched so many yet had been taken for granted for so long.
Remy finishes buttoning the collar of his gray silk shirt before he begins fussing with his black tie. He never learned how to tie one but Scott had been kind enough to do it for him 3 years ago. It never came untied after that, he just slipped it over his head and adjusted it as needed.
He checks his appearance in the mirror above his fireplace, making sure nothing is out of place. He regrets it almost immediately as his eyes fall on a picture on the marble mantle. A photo of him and Ororo. He thought he had put them all away. They were too painful now.
It was a memorable picture she had given him from years ago when they had returned to New Orleans for a vacation. One of those old time photos you get as a souvenir. She had begged for 3 days straight, “We can’t come here and not get one! Every time we’ve visited I’ve asked and you find someway to get me to forget about it. Not this time!” Of course, he finally caved.
In the sepia photo, he is dressed in a pinstripe zoot suit, cigarette in his mouth and a tommy gun in his right hand, a cocksure, smug smile on his face. She’s dressed in a dated dress that shows off her cleavage and her neck is loaded down with pearls. A cream colored beret is tilted mischievously on her white hair. She stands behind him, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and her head peeking out from behind his shoulder, as her other hand is concealed in his front pocket with an ‘O’ of surprise. ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ they had always joked they were.
She had chosen the photo to keep while he was changing out of his gangster clothes and he all but forgot about it until she handed it to him weeks later after they had returned. The sight of it, her impish actions caught on film, had brought tears to his eyes from laughter. Now it brings a different kind of tears. He pulls the picture down and casually tosses it under the bed, its frame scraping across the wood floor underneath.
“Best not t’ t’ink about it now, I have t’ get t’rough dis.” He says out loud to himself.
A knock comes at his door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.” Rogue. He’s devoted 3 years of his life to her and oddly, she’s the last person he wants to talk to right now.
“Come in.” The door opens, letting in someone’s laughter from down below. He doesn’t know how anyone could feel happy right now.
“Ah brought you some orange juice, Tylenol, and a bagel. Everyone’s askin’ about you. I jus’ told them you’re not feelin’ too well.” There’s concern in her green eyes and her voice is wavering a bit. She’s fidgeting with her black velvet gloves, uncomfortable, but he can’t blame her- he’s been hell to be around the past few days.
“T’anks.” It’s more of a farewell than it is gratitude.
She takes the hint and heads for the door. Before opening it, she turns and says, “Ah’ll save you a seat. But if you don’t feel you can make it, ah’ll understand. We all will. Ah asked Sean to stand in for you if necessary…” she was referring to him being a pallbearer.
“I’ll be down fo’ de funeral. I owe her dat much.” He had been asked to speak at her funeral originally. He didn’t feel he had anything to say, nothing he wanted to share with anyone at least. His fondest memories of Ororo were private. He would probably only end up sobbing like a fool anyway.
Rogue says nothing else as she departs and closes the door behind her, leaving him to his grief.
He listens until her high heeled steps begin heading down stairs to join the rest of the guests. It seems the second floor has cleared out. He grabs his black wool blazer from the armchair by the fireplace and exits his room.
He cast quick glances down both ends of the hall, praying there was no one around to bother him. The “how are you doing’s” and “holding up ok’s” had gotten old by the time the 4th person asked him. How the **** was he supposed to feel with his best friend dead? He had retreated to his room before he actually said that to someone. Now, he was exposed to the world again.
He didn’t know how it happened but he found himself standing in front of her bedroom door. The only door in the mansion that had an oak staircase behind it. The only staircase that led to the attic loft. The only room that was completely saturated in her spirit. He wanted to leave it behind, ignore it, and forget it even existed but a tugging at his heart controlled his hand, resting it on the doorknob.
Perhaps… this was a cruel joke… perhaps, she wasn’t dead. He would be angry at her for it, but he would forgive her for just being alive. He swallowed and wrenched the door open.
Pictures of You
Chapter 2
“Remembering you
Standing quiet in the rain
As I ran to your heart to be near
And we kissed as the sky fell in
Holding you close
How I always held close in your fear”
The door shut behind him, filling the room with an empty echo. He slowly climbs the risers, surprised at how stuffy the room is. The windows hadn’t been opened in days and the door below was shut, sealing the room off. The faint smell of rosemary and sandalwood still linger.
He reaches the top of the stairs, avoiding looking to his right, where her bed is, where he had found her. Instead, he scans the area to his left where her indoor garden sits, unattended, and showing signs of neglect already. They’re illuminated by the sun filtering through one of her many skylights, but they’re suffering without her. He drops his coat to the floor and goes to them.
Mechanically, he grabs the watering can, and begins to fill it in the wash-tub sink, wondering what he’s doing but not caring at the same time. He waters them, lost in the sound of the water falling like rain, resurrecting a memory he’s tried to quell…
Remy sat on the window ledge, lit cigarette in hand, surveying the city below. It had been 2 weeks since he’d met Ororo and although he hadn’t intended, she had grown on him. They had become their own version of Robin Hood virtually overnight and he couldn’t help but feel relieved to not be alone anymore, even if it was with an adolescent girl. She was the sister he never had yet, reminded him so much of himself at her age. Though, something he couldn’t pinpoint, she seemed older than her years.
Ororo tossed and turned in her sleep, her brow furrowing in frustration, her body struggling against an invisible foe. It was the same dream. She’s so young, perhaps 5, out picnicking with her mother and father. Her father zooms her across the sky in his arms, like she’s an airplane, the wind rushing through her ears. She screams to go higher, higher, to touch the clouds above her. He finally collapses back on the picnic blanket, into N’Dare’s lap. Her mother tells her with a gentle smile to let her father rest a bit.
It is at that moment, her father’s grip tightens on her wrists, causing her to cry out in surprise. She turns to ask him what’s going on and it is no longer her father but the Shadow King! She turns to beg her mother for help but she is no longer there, having been replaced by the mechanical Nanny. Terror rips through her and they both grab for her.
The wind picks up outside, created by unseen hands and Remy looks over at Ororo noticing her struggles. “Merde…” he ignites the remainder of the cigarette with his mutant abilities and tosses it out the window, it vanishing in a puff of smoke, and treads carefully over to where she’s laying. “Petite… y’ ok?”
Those mechanical arms clawing at her… so tight she can barely move while the Shadow King pulls her the other way, straining her tiny arms… she’s being pulled apart! “Oh bright lady… please make it stop!”
A slow, heavy pat begins on the roof that swiftly builds into a deafening rain of hail. Lightning and thunder crash around the entire city, and Remy is now trying desperately to shake her awake. She’s starting to scream so he does the only thing that came naturally and he grabs her to his chest and hugs her, trying to sooth her. “C’mon fille… s’ok… jus’ wake up an’ end dis…”
He feels her body relax slightly and the storm overhead passes. She grips him and begins sobbing onto his shoulder, not able to speak, just relieved. “S’ok ma tempête… you’re safe now.” He kissed the top of her head and rocked her until she cried herself to sleep and even then, he dared not move her until morning.
Remy realized he was still tilting an empty watering can over the garden. Exhaling loudly he set the can back in the wash-tub and rinsed his hands. He goes over to the wall where the switch to the skylight is, he flips it up and immediately, the mechanics of the window begin to whir, propping the window up about 2 feet. A cool breeze rushes in, refreshing him.
He looks at his watch, noting the funeral is in 8 minutes. With a heavy heart, he grabs his coat from the floor, dusts it off and begins to descend the steps. He decides he doesn’t care if he’s left the skylight open as he closes the door behind him. He just needs to survive the next 20 minutes and everything will be ok.
Pictures of You
“I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel…”
The sun is shining high this March morning and many cars are entering the grounds of the school. The mansion is busy, friends and families traveling from all over the world to be with each other at Xavier’s. If only they could meet under more pleasant circumstances. It is a funeral that brings them all together, mourning the death of a life that touched so many yet had been taken for granted for so long.
Remy finishes buttoning the collar of his gray silk shirt before he begins fussing with his black tie. He never learned how to tie one but Scott had been kind enough to do it for him 3 years ago. It never came untied after that, he just slipped it over his head and adjusted it as needed.
He checks his appearance in the mirror above his fireplace, making sure nothing is out of place. He regrets it almost immediately as his eyes fall on a picture on the marble mantle. A photo of him and Ororo. He thought he had put them all away. They were too painful now.
It was a memorable picture she had given him from years ago when they had returned to New Orleans for a vacation. One of those old time photos you get as a souvenir. She had begged for 3 days straight, “We can’t come here and not get one! Every time we’ve visited I’ve asked and you find someway to get me to forget about it. Not this time!” Of course, he finally caved.
In the sepia photo, he is dressed in a pinstripe zoot suit, cigarette in his mouth and a tommy gun in his right hand, a cocksure, smug smile on his face. She’s dressed in a dated dress that shows off her cleavage and her neck is loaded down with pearls. A cream colored beret is tilted mischievously on her white hair. She stands behind him, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and her head peeking out from behind his shoulder, as her other hand is concealed in his front pocket with an ‘O’ of surprise. ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ they had always joked they were.
She had chosen the photo to keep while he was changing out of his gangster clothes and he all but forgot about it until she handed it to him weeks later after they had returned. The sight of it, her impish actions caught on film, had brought tears to his eyes from laughter. Now it brings a different kind of tears. He pulls the picture down and casually tosses it under the bed, its frame scraping across the wood floor underneath.
“Best not t’ t’ink about it now, I have t’ get t’rough dis.” He says out loud to himself.
A knock comes at his door. “Who is it?”
“It’s me.” Rogue. He’s devoted 3 years of his life to her and oddly, she’s the last person he wants to talk to right now.
“Come in.” The door opens, letting in someone’s laughter from down below. He doesn’t know how anyone could feel happy right now.
“Ah brought you some orange juice, Tylenol, and a bagel. Everyone’s askin’ about you. I jus’ told them you’re not feelin’ too well.” There’s concern in her green eyes and her voice is wavering a bit. She’s fidgeting with her black velvet gloves, uncomfortable, but he can’t blame her- he’s been hell to be around the past few days.
“T’anks.” It’s more of a farewell than it is gratitude.
She takes the hint and heads for the door. Before opening it, she turns and says, “Ah’ll save you a seat. But if you don’t feel you can make it, ah’ll understand. We all will. Ah asked Sean to stand in for you if necessary…” she was referring to him being a pallbearer.
“I’ll be down fo’ de funeral. I owe her dat much.” He had been asked to speak at her funeral originally. He didn’t feel he had anything to say, nothing he wanted to share with anyone at least. His fondest memories of Ororo were private. He would probably only end up sobbing like a fool anyway.
Rogue says nothing else as she departs and closes the door behind her, leaving him to his grief.
He listens until her high heeled steps begin heading down stairs to join the rest of the guests. It seems the second floor has cleared out. He grabs his black wool blazer from the armchair by the fireplace and exits his room.
He cast quick glances down both ends of the hall, praying there was no one around to bother him. The “how are you doing’s” and “holding up ok’s” had gotten old by the time the 4th person asked him. How the **** was he supposed to feel with his best friend dead? He had retreated to his room before he actually said that to someone. Now, he was exposed to the world again.
He didn’t know how it happened but he found himself standing in front of her bedroom door. The only door in the mansion that had an oak staircase behind it. The only staircase that led to the attic loft. The only room that was completely saturated in her spirit. He wanted to leave it behind, ignore it, and forget it even existed but a tugging at his heart controlled his hand, resting it on the doorknob.
Perhaps… this was a cruel joke… perhaps, she wasn’t dead. He would be angry at her for it, but he would forgive her for just being alive. He swallowed and wrenched the door open.
Pictures of You
Chapter 2
“Remembering you
Standing quiet in the rain
As I ran to your heart to be near
And we kissed as the sky fell in
Holding you close
How I always held close in your fear”
The door shut behind him, filling the room with an empty echo. He slowly climbs the risers, surprised at how stuffy the room is. The windows hadn’t been opened in days and the door below was shut, sealing the room off. The faint smell of rosemary and sandalwood still linger.
He reaches the top of the stairs, avoiding looking to his right, where her bed is, where he had found her. Instead, he scans the area to his left where her indoor garden sits, unattended, and showing signs of neglect already. They’re illuminated by the sun filtering through one of her many skylights, but they’re suffering without her. He drops his coat to the floor and goes to them.
Mechanically, he grabs the watering can, and begins to fill it in the wash-tub sink, wondering what he’s doing but not caring at the same time. He waters them, lost in the sound of the water falling like rain, resurrecting a memory he’s tried to quell…
Remy sat on the window ledge, lit cigarette in hand, surveying the city below. It had been 2 weeks since he’d met Ororo and although he hadn’t intended, she had grown on him. They had become their own version of Robin Hood virtually overnight and he couldn’t help but feel relieved to not be alone anymore, even if it was with an adolescent girl. She was the sister he never had yet, reminded him so much of himself at her age. Though, something he couldn’t pinpoint, she seemed older than her years.
Ororo tossed and turned in her sleep, her brow furrowing in frustration, her body struggling against an invisible foe. It was the same dream. She’s so young, perhaps 5, out picnicking with her mother and father. Her father zooms her across the sky in his arms, like she’s an airplane, the wind rushing through her ears. She screams to go higher, higher, to touch the clouds above her. He finally collapses back on the picnic blanket, into N’Dare’s lap. Her mother tells her with a gentle smile to let her father rest a bit.
It is at that moment, her father’s grip tightens on her wrists, causing her to cry out in surprise. She turns to ask him what’s going on and it is no longer her father but the Shadow King! She turns to beg her mother for help but she is no longer there, having been replaced by the mechanical Nanny. Terror rips through her and they both grab for her.
The wind picks up outside, created by unseen hands and Remy looks over at Ororo noticing her struggles. “Merde…” he ignites the remainder of the cigarette with his mutant abilities and tosses it out the window, it vanishing in a puff of smoke, and treads carefully over to where she’s laying. “Petite… y’ ok?”
Those mechanical arms clawing at her… so tight she can barely move while the Shadow King pulls her the other way, straining her tiny arms… she’s being pulled apart! “Oh bright lady… please make it stop!”
A slow, heavy pat begins on the roof that swiftly builds into a deafening rain of hail. Lightning and thunder crash around the entire city, and Remy is now trying desperately to shake her awake. She’s starting to scream so he does the only thing that came naturally and he grabs her to his chest and hugs her, trying to sooth her. “C’mon fille… s’ok… jus’ wake up an’ end dis…”
He feels her body relax slightly and the storm overhead passes. She grips him and begins sobbing onto his shoulder, not able to speak, just relieved. “S’ok ma tempête… you’re safe now.” He kissed the top of her head and rocked her until she cried herself to sleep and even then, he dared not move her until morning.
Remy realized he was still tilting an empty watering can over the garden. Exhaling loudly he set the can back in the wash-tub and rinsed his hands. He goes over to the wall where the switch to the skylight is, he flips it up and immediately, the mechanics of the window begin to whir, propping the window up about 2 feet. A cool breeze rushes in, refreshing him.
He looks at his watch, noting the funeral is in 8 minutes. With a heavy heart, he grabs his coat from the floor, dusts it off and begins to descend the steps. He decides he doesn’t care if he’s left the skylight open as he closes the door behind him. He just needs to survive the next 20 minutes and everything will be ok.
Pictures of You