Random. That's what mutations are. They occur in one out of every.God, what is it? Ten thousand, a million? Doesn't really matter I guess. I can sit around, wondering what the chances were of my being a mutant, how the Fates chose to strike me down with my "gift", but it wouldn't make any difference. It wouldn't change anything. I would still be what I am.

Sometimes, I sit in my room, alone, and I look at my hands. I stare down at them, memorizing the lines, wondering what makes them -the skin around them- different than everyone else's. I think about how much power they possess. I possess. A destructive power, meant to take life away.

I sit and remember the times I've used that power for the "good of the team". How many times I've had to absorb people who made me despise myself, who made me look in the mirror and hate what I saw. I remember the times I've absorbed someone "by accident". The look of sheer horror that crosses their face when I touch them is crystal clear in my memory. And then, I remember the times I've touched people purposefully, because I wanted to.

I can pretend I don't touch people because I don't want to hurt them. Part of that is true, I guess. But that's not the entire reason. It's not even most of it. The reality is, I don't want them in my head. I'm twenty-five and I have too many people swimming around inside of me, waiting to emerge. If I weren't a mutant, I'd be crazy.

I don't choose to touch, normally. But I have. Those are rare. One of those almost cost me the only family I have. One of those almost cost me the little sanity I have. One of those broke my heart.

Carol Danvers is a name not mentioned in my presence. It's more than a sore subject, you could say. After her, I never felt more hated in my entire life. The look in Ororo's face when she found out what happened. I thought she would strike me down. A bolt of lightening straight from the heavens might have compensated for what I did to Carol. Might have.

Aside from being one of my more costly absorptions, Carol's has got to be the stupidest. The way it happened . I would laugh if I hadn't nearly lost everything.

I was doing dishes. Without the gloves. For some reason, I refused to wear those big, yellow gloves to wash dishes. Instead, I preferred the feel of the water, the soap, the grease, everything on my bare hands. It sounds ridiculous. Maybe it was. But that's the way I liked it. This woman, this stranger came up to me out of nowhere. I didn't know who she was. I'd never seen her before. She wasn't threatening me, though. She was smiling, so I wasn't afraid. Then she held out her hand. "I'm Carol," she said. I didn't respond. I just looked at her, maybe a little wary of the situation. My hands were by my sides, dripping sudsy water on the shiny kitchen floor.

She laughed then. Carol did. "Don't be afraid," she said, quickly, so quickly, reaching for my hand. "I won't bite."

I saw it coming. The woman was fast, but I could have been faster; I was so used to moving out of the way, dodging hands like they were bullets. She grabbed mine, and I let her. Carol, in her friendliness, in her desire to reach out to a lonely-looking girl, inadvertently brought on her demise. And I helped.

It didn't happen as rapidly as it had some other times. The hand felt so strange in my own. It was warm against my cold, wet skin. It probably would have slipped away if she hadn't been holding on so tightly. If I hadn't been holding on so tightly? It's hard to remember. One of us held on. And I watched that generous smile turn into a grimace of pain. I felt a surge of power, a flood of memories that weren't mine, and I still didn't let go. Or she continued holding on. How long was it? Seconds? Minutes? Too long. Long enough.

And when I pulled away (she let go?), the woman, Carol, simply collapsed lifelessly. So, I cried out for help, because that's what I was supposed to do. "Help!" I screamed, over and over again, until I was surrounded by people. And in my disorientation, I saw their faces-the fear, the recrimination etched so profoundly- and I felt the wall of people part as I made my way out of the room.

Carol was dead. I knew that much. She was screaming in my head, asking what I'd done to her, begging to be released. I told her I was sorry. I told her it was an accident. I told myself it was an accident. But it wasn't. Not really.

Ororo hated me. Maybe she still does, a little. Her friend was dead because of me, because I hadn't been careful enough. Every time she caught sight of me, she turned away. I think she might have been worried she would lose her composure -- that she would strike me down in a fit of rage. It took almost a year for her to say a single word to me.

She wasn't the only one upset. They all were. They all looked at me differently, even though some tried, some feigned understanding. Jean was especially nice, yet beneath her kind words, I could here an echo of anger, slight but present. The professor talked to me in the way you talk to a child who has broken something irreparably. He warned that I should be more careful, that my powers are very dangerous and that I should always keep that in mind. He said that I should try to understand that many of the X-Men were very close to Carol, that they would mourn her loss. He said he knew it wasn't my fault, but that they would all be a little resentful for a while. It was human nature. I wonder if he really knows. If he saw into my mind and Carol told him what really happened. That scares me sometimes.

Carol's powers are mine now. Permanently. I try not to fly around the others, because I know that reminds them. But sometimes, I can't help it. I love to fly. It's something I never could have imagined doing. It's completely liberating. My favorite moments come when the wind is touching me everywhere at once.

---

The next one I never told anyone about. To this day, I hold it a secret.

I was walking down 43rd street in New York. It was not long after the Carol incident, less than a year, and I'd left the mansion because no one was looking at me and I felt like the house was going to cave in on me. In New York no one looks at you either, but it isn't active avoidance. It's just habit.

I walked until I heard a muffled groan coming from a nearby alley. Any other time, I might have ignored it. I might have chalked it up to a drunken man fighting a nasty hangover. But I was so obsessed with pain at the time I had to see. It was a bum, a street person, huddled under a cardboard box. He was a man, and he was sick. Thin, pale, dried and encrusted mouth, grimy beard. He was wearing layers and layers of clothing, all filthy, streaked with mud and blood. I knelt by him and he opened his eyes slightly. His mouth moved a little but no sound emerged, none but the wheezing sound of strained breathing. I knew he was dying. I'd seen it enough. I put a gloved hand over his and squeezed a little. He almost smiled, I think. A coughing fit overtook him but when it was over I distinctly heard him say, "Angel."

I kissed him. I placed my lips on his forehead until I the rasping of his breath came to a halt. I killed him.

Then, I wandered the streets of New York for three more days, overtaken by thoughts of alien conspiracies, and monsters, and a family I left behind when I started drinking. When I went home, no one asked where I'd been.

Logan came back to the school about two years after that. He'd been back before - a few times, actually. He never stayed long. Once, he told me that he never felt more at home any other place, but that he had to keep moving because home was a place that scared him more than anything. Home meant family, and family meant responsibility. I asked what was wrong with that. He had to explain that he only wanted to be responsible for himself, that anything else was too much.

This time, he was staying a lot longer than usual. He hadn't learned of my incident with Carol so, when I flew up to his bedroom window one morning, he was more than a little surprised. I told him what happened but I left out that it had been my fault. I didn't want him to think any less of me. He just sort of looked at me and nodded. He didn't ask any questions, and I was glad.

I went after Logan with a determination I shouldn't have had. Despite everything that had happened to me, all of the people I had touched, Logan was still the only one who'd touched me. He'd been the only one to voluntarily do that. And I craved it.

He ran at first, when he saw what my intentions were. He was sitting around watching television when I sat next to him. Smiling, he said, "Hi, kid." I responded in kind. I sat there for an eternity until I finally worked up the courage to gingerly place a hand on his thigh. Jerking a little, he looked up, smile gone. When I moved my hand up, he angrily got off the couch and left.

Next time I saw him was in the Danger Room. He was running a fight simulation. I entered the room to see him sweating, grunting, working his frustrations out on mechanized versions of Sabretooth and Toad. I watched him until the simulation was over and then I walked over to him and asked, "You're not afraid of me, are you Logan?"

He was, but not in the way I thought. He looked me up and down and said, "You're in the Danger Room, Rogue. Did you come looking for a fight?" I hadn't thought of that, but I accepted his sparring proposal. It'd been a while since I'd last been in a real close, physical fight but I was strong. Stronger than him, thanks to Carol. We fought. I took his punches and he took mine and it wasn't over until we were both exhausted.

When it was over, we showered and dressed and met up again in his room. We lay together on his bed and talked about nothing in particular until he asked, "What is it you want, Marie?"

I hadn't heard that name in six years and I barely recognized it. I understood why he was using it, though. He wanted me to be honest. He knew what I wanted, but he wanted me to say it. "I want you to touch me," I replied. It was as honest a statement as I have ever made.

He covered his face with his hands. I could see him thinking. When he removed his hands, his eyes were shining brightly. He turned to me, pulled my body up over his, and put his mouth on my breast.

It was just like I remembered. His touch. It was inflammatory. His mouth was hungry on my breast, his hands were digging into my backside, and all I could think was that I hoped he would leave bruises. I wanted a reminder.

I touched him, too. I can remember the feel of his stomach under my gloved hands. The repeated tensing of muscles. I remember moving them down, my hands, touching him and making him grow still, very still. He stopped all movement when my hands reached down for him. Mostly, I remember the look in his face: his eyes clenched shut, his mouth half open and gasping for air.

We touched and touched each other until we both came, breathing each other's names. Rolling into a half-sitting position, Logan looked at me and said, "I'm going to kiss you now, Marie."

I should have said no. I should have pushed him away, like I knew I could, and run from the room. Instead, I just lay there and let him. It was slight, and the rush came too quickly, but I loved it. I loved him for doing it. And even when he fell back, unconscious, onto the bed, I wouldn't have changed it.

He left a week later. He didn't say a word, he usually didn't. He just left. I found a note on my nightstand and I knew it was his writing. I almost didn't read it. I almost tossed it because I was afraid of what it might say. I read it anyway.

Dear Marie,

This is as corny as I'm going to get, kid, because you know I'm no good at good-byes. I just thought I'd let you know I'm leaving for a while. Don't know how long. Take care of yourself.

Logan

That was it. No mention of anything. Maybe it's for the best.

Random. That's what mutation is. It affects one in. I really don't want to think about it. If I think about the odds. If I let myself grasp the idea that one single random act of the universe could lead me to being alone and hated, untouched and pitied. I think I'd explode.

I'm twenty-five years old and I've touched three people voluntarily since I found out about my mutation. I don't think I'll be touching any more.