I hate my streaks. Plain and simple. I hate them. They are a constant reminder of my curse, a constant reminder to everyone else that I'm different.

A freak.

People say it's okay to be different. It's okay to be unique. Not everyone's meant to be the same.

It's okay to be different.

It's not.

Bullshit.

It's not okay to be different. People don't act the same when you're different. People who aren't like you don't celebrate your uniqueness.

They fear it.

Normal people don't understand my layers of clothes. They don't understand my streaks. They fear me, fear is translated into confusion. Confusion is met with aggression.

They hate me.

Other mutants act like they understand. They act like they know how I feel. They don't know anything. They are afraid of my skin, just like everyone else. They don't want their powers, their gifts, taken away. Fear is met with anger.

They hate me.

Jean Grey hates me. She can't treat me. She can't physically touch me without plastic gloves, and sometimes even that isn't enough. My skin has a reaction with the thin layer of plastic, and slowly eats through it like acid.

She's not alone. Everyone is just like her. Just like Jean. Simple life, no problems, a loving husband and a dead hot gorgeous man falling head over heals for her. Blind. She's so blind.

I hate the way she sees me. I hate the way everyone sees me. I hate the way Logan can love her.

I hate her.

It's the same with everyone else. Maybe they appear friendly and understanding. But they're not. They don't have a clue. None of them.

Well…

Logan.

Logan is the only one who I can really relate to. Funny, relating me to someone as ferocious as the Wolverine. I don't think I've gone through as much as he has, but he's the only one who understands exactly how to heal. Other people attempt to talk things out and tell you it's okay when it's not.

Wolverine just leaves it alone.

That's how you heal. You don't heal with the help of others. You heal with isolation and being alone and figuring things out for yourself. Logan understands that.

And I love him for it.

I love him. How could I not? The man's saved my life, in the process of risking his, in so many ways. I feel like I understand him.

He doesn't understand me.

He understands more than they do. But he doesn't get me. He didn't understand why I dyed my streaks brown, didn't understand when I began wearing black, and stopped talking to everyone.

He doesn't understand my way to heal.

I was sitting in my room when he entered. His hair was wet and he looked fresh and clean. I smiled at him and in return he frowned.

My fake greeting fell off my face and I asked politely, "What's wrong?"

Logan starred at me for a moment and sat on the bed, turning to just sit and stare at me, leaning over his legs. His fingers nervously laced in and out of each other.

I turned my chair away from my desk to face him. "Logan, what's wrong?"

He sighed, "Us."

I stared at him, baffled. "Us?"

"Us. Me. You. Together. Us," Logan said, a growling hint in his voice becoming more apparent.

"What about us?" I didn't even know there was an `us.'

Logan studied my face, my clothes, my skin, my hair. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

I was enraged. "What?"

"Look at what you're wearing, Marie!"

Black pants, black shirt, tall black boots, black leather gloves.

"So?"

"You aren't the same, Marie. You're not the bright, happy girl-woman-I once knew."

Did he just call me a woman? So what if I'm not so cheery and so what if I'm not always around Bobby and Kitty anymore? So what if I don't want to be around people who fear and hate me? Not like he can willingly talk about his anti-socialness.

"That's how I heal."

This is how my heart heals every time I see you and Jean together.

"People don't heal that way."

"I do."

As if to give up on the debate Logan reached over and fingered my brown hair that had at one time been natural.

"Why'd you go and do this?"

I pulled back, his fingers lay suspended in the air where it had been. "I don't want to remember."

Logan stared up at me. "You can't change what you are."

"God knows I've tried."

Logan stared at me from the comment. "Look, Marie…"

"Rogue," I breathed. I could feel tears forming. God, it hurt to try to tear him away. "My name's Rogue."

"No it's not."

"Yes it…" Logan grabbed my arm and I was yanked off the chair and onto the bed next to him. His lips closed around mine. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to pull away. Don't want Logan to get hurt. He was too strong. I slipped my hand out of my glove and elbowed him, pulling away.

I broke the kiss and cried, "No!"

Logan stared into my eyes.

"Don't, Logan. Please. Just don't. I don't need any help…"

Logan snatched my gloveless hand and squeezed. My mouth opened with a sharp cry on how hard he was squeezing. I gritted my teeth and faced him.

"You're name is Marie. You are beautiful, strong, and brave." The veins in his skin began to pop out. "And I love you."

His grip was firm on me. Like clamped jaws on my hand. I began to cry. I stared at him. His eyes were bloodshot. He began to tremble.

His firm grip tightened.

"I want you to change."

I shook my head, biting my lip.

"I want you to change for me, Marie."

I gasped. He started to shake. His skin grew deathly pale and his tears were bleeding blood.

I screamed. "Logan! Let go!"

He shook his head. "No. You decide. Are you going to watch me die, or are you going to change?"

I sobbed, "Ah can't."

I fainted. I couldn't see anything. I could hear Logan's voice.

"Logan?"

No answer.

I saw a hint of light, then hundreds of memories flashed past me. Logan's memories. I could hear his thoughts.

`Can't let her live like this.'

Was he really so concerned?

`I'd rather die than see her like this.'

His voice, his mind, his thoughts, his memories, all became mine. Mine.

"Logan, Let go!"

"No."

I suddenly felt my body jolt up. I studied my surroundings. My room, my bed…

Oh my god.

"Logan?" Logan's hand still clung to mine. His body lay motionless on my bed.

I began to sob. "Logan?" Panicked, I wiggled free from his now frail grip and turned him around. I had to see his face.

I screamed.

His skin was wrinkled, his eyes were closed. Besides the silent scream written on his face he looked peaceful.

Logan was dead. I'd killed Logan.

I scream. I don't know what to do. I scream louder.

I back away from the bed. Logan's voice and thoughts running through my head.

`Marie!'

I cry. I sit and I cry and ball and I shake and scream. "Logan!"

My hair fell in front of my face. White streaks were visible. I dry my eyes and look towards the bed. A small puddle of hair dye lies on the floor.

Absorbing powers for too long.

Never thought it would be fatal. Not to Logan.

I cry. I can hear his voice now, clearly.

`Calm down. Go on.'

I bit my lip, "Ah can't go on without you."

`an you change for me now?'

I sniffled. "Not without you."

`Does it sound like I'm gone?'

"Why didn't you let go?"

`I didn't want to.'