I almost wish Scott was still around. Maybe I could ask him to give me lessons. He was always good at crying, did it all the time. Started the day Jean died that first time, saving all our asses and didn’t quit ‘til he was six feet under.

Nah, Scott was a pussy.

Besides, he wouldn’t have helped me for all the tea in China. Can’t say that I blame him. I would’ve fucked his girl if she’d have let me, and he knew it. If things were the other way ‘round, I’d have just as soon sliced his head off as looked at him, too. Thing was, he was too good a man to take an interest in Marie, not because she’s mine, but because she was too young for him.

I, on the other hand, have no trouble with the fact that she was born in the first year I can actually remember. That was just over 20 years ago, but I have no idea exactly how old I was then. Jean and the professor both said they ‘got the impression’ from their trips inside my head that I might have been around since the Lincoln administration. If that’s true, I’m over 140 years old. Damn, I look good for my age. And Marie loves me, or at least she did before…before…

Fuck! I can’t even say it to myself. Why can’t I get those words past my lips? Hell, I can’t even get them out of my brain. It’s like I don’t know there are words for it. It’s stupid. It’s not like I have trouble with rough words. I have probably one of the filthiest vocabularies of anyone on this planet. Shit. Fuck. Cocksucker. Motherfucker. Son of a whore. Twat. Snatch. Hair pie. Cunt.

Although I did retire that last one because Marie asked me to. Said something about how it made her feel bad about that part of her, like it was unclean or something. Of course, I never thought that was true. Not even after…after…Oh, hell.

I even learned to say the L word without flinching, thanks to Marie and her infinite patience with me. Love. Love. Lovelovelovelovelove. I love you, Marie. I’ll always love you, Marie. Nothing will ever change my love for you, Marie. Not even…especially not even…

Goddammit!

But last week she ran out of patience and then she just ran out. It’s not like I didn’t know it was coming. She’d warned me, over and over again, that if I didn’t find a way to deal with this, she’d have no choice but to go.

‘Deal with this’. I dealt with it alright. The stinking piece of shit responsible for this is rotting in hell thanks to me ‘dealing with it’ in the only way I know how.

He was so hammered he never even heard me come up behind him as he was taking a piss at the urinal. I got my hands to within two inches of his back without making a sound. One flick and all six claws sliced through his kidneys, three on either side. The pain was so sudden, so excruciating, he couldn’t even scream. He was dead before he hit the filthy men’s room floor, his limp dick hanging out for all the world to see what a pitiful excuse for a cock it really was. Must have been why he used it the way he did. Not enough to satisfy a woman, just enough to punish one.

Not that I give a flying fuck why the creep did it, because the why never mattered, not to me.

Bugs the shit out of Marie, though, the ‘why’. Sometimes it’s ‘why did he do it?’, but mostly she spends a lot of time asking, ‘why me’? Like knowing that would somehow erase what happened, like it would give her back what he took.

She’s trying so hard to understand something that was done out of pure craziness, pure evil, but because she doesn’t have an evil bone in her entire body, she’ll never understand.

She wants to know so bad she even asked me once if I’d ever done what he did. That hurt, but I get why she asked. She was hoping she could find out what makes a man do such an evil thing, hoping that I could explain it to her. Shit, I was almost sorry to disappoint her.

I ain’t no saint, never claimed to be. I’ve done some wild fucking in my time, almost violent, now and then. Hell, I am who I am. And I can’t say I know the name and favorite color of every woman I’ve ever been with, but they’ve all said ‘yes’ in one way or another, every last one of them.

Like she tells me all the time, I am not an animal. I may act like an animal sometimes, when I have to, but I am still a man. I do have a soul.

And a soul mate. And she’s gone, partly because of stuff I can’t say, and partly because of stuff I did say, words I’d give anything to take back.

You were the one who wanted the Cure.

I might as well have told her she was ‘asking for it’. And that’s just how she took it. But that was never what I meant! I just meant that if she hadn’t had the Cure her skin would have protected her from him.

She called me a hypocrite, said her taking the Cure had sure given me a lot of satisfaction and what the hell did I know about being helpless anyway.

I think I’m starting to get what that feels like, though. Here I am, the fucking indestructible Wolverine, all strength and power and adamantium, and I am as helpless as a day-old kitten when it comes to sharing my feelings with her. Oh, I can tell her I love her, and I do, and I know she believes me, but it’s the rest of it that I have trouble with.

See, since this happened, I haven’t been able to say the words out loud. Not once. Marie says it’s because I don’t want to believe it happened.

Well, duh!

I don’t want to believe it, but I do. I know I have to get past this. Storm told Marie that until I can say it I’ll never be able to put it behind me. Shit, I didn’t think I was the one who had anything to get over. I’m not the one who was…raped.

There! I said it! I got it out. Raped. Raped. Oh, God, that feels awful. Just saying the word feels so bad…

And if just saying it is that terrible, then imagine…what Marie feels…what she felt when he…raped her…

He raped her. The cocksucking son of a whore raped my Marie!

He shoved her against the wall of that changing room at the Westchester Mall, tore her panties off, held a knife to her throat and violated her, invaded her body in the most intimate way possible, and I couldn’t do a goddamn thing to stop him!

Oh, I killed him for it, but that was after the fact. The damage was already done. Not that I regret slicing him open and watching him bleed. Oh, fuck, no. But Marie was right when she said I didn’t kill him for her; I did it for me.

I thought I was avenging her honor, but I wasn’t. Selfish bastard that I am, I was easing my own guilt.

I couldn’t stand the guilt, so I did the only thing I could do. I killed him so he could never do it again—never rape her or anybody else ever again. But it was still too little too late.

Christ, that’s been my whole reason for living for as long as I’ve known her—to protect her. And I failed her. It doesn’t matter that I was on some stupid pick-up with Storm that day, so I couldn’t be there to protect her in person. Oh, no, I failed her in another way entirely.

I helped make her his victim. Marie was right about my being a hypocrite. I was happy that she took the Cure, because it cleared the way for me to have what I had wanted since the day I found her stowed away in my trailer. I wanted her. I wanted her ‘til I ached like a school boy trying to seduce his prom date.

I never gave a moment’s thought to how vulnerable she would be once her mutation was gone. All I cared about was being able to touch her, everywhere, anywhere, anytime I wanted to—and I wanted to a lot.

And by some miracle that I’ll never get why I deserve, she wanted me, too. She loved me. Even more amazing, she showed me how to love her and how to let her love me when I didn’t think I was worth loving.

Oh, shit, this emotional stuff is pure hell! Fuck, this hurts! I’ve always heard people talk about ‘hurting’, but I never knew it was actual physical pain. Holy mother, no wonder I’ve tried to avoid this for so long. The guilt sits like Mt. Rushmore on my chest, crushing me. I can’t breathe.

How do I get rid of this pain?

Oh, God, Marie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…

Knock. Knock.

What the fuck?

“Go away!” Whoever you are, you don’t want any part of me now. Not fucking now.

“Logan?”

Marie?!?

I jerk the door open and stare at her, but she looks so funny, like she’s under water. I don’t care. I have to tell her, I have to say it or I’ll die from this unrelenting agony.

“I’m sorry. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. Sorry I wasn’t there, sorry this happened to you, sorry you were raped. I’m sorry about the Cure, darlin’, about what it cost you. Oh, Christ, Marie, I’m so sorry for all of it.”

I’m crushing her against me and I feel her pushing on my chest. I loosen my hold and look down at her. Her eyes are dry, but her face is wet.

She wipes her cheek with her fingers and then kisses her fingertips, tasting my tears.

She smiles, really smiles for the first time in eight weeks, five days and eleven hours, and I know she’s back to stay.

And somewhere in the bottom of my heart, I can’t help but find a little bit of respect for Scott, who believed all along in the healing power of a good cry.

Not that I plan on making a habit of it or anything…I mean, Scott was a pussy, right?