My father wasn't there when I was born, he never heard my first word or saw my first step but all in all he was a good man, a man's man who spent more time out with the boys than at home with his wife and baby daughter. He never saw my first communion or witnessed my first crush, he never saw me graduate with honors from High school or win a full scholarship to college...
I wasn't there when he died, but it wasn't really of my own choosing after all he was the one that had kicked me out of home in a drunken rage, sick after a year of being father to the town leper. His last words were ones of hate, anger and disgust.
Yet here I am, standing stoically next to the grave of my father, my mother, the women who was too timid, too weak to stand up for her sixteen year old daughter, her only child, the one she had grown to be so afraid of.
It was so surreal I felt like I wasn't in my own body, that I was floating outside myself looking down at the scene. My face dry of tears, my mothers overflowing. I didn't feel like I belonged at my own fathers' funeral. I was alone within my own skin.
That's when I saw him, standing off to the side, and as my eyes locked onto his I began to silently cry, cry for my father or myself I didn't know. All I knew was that he had come even without me telling him, asking him too. Logan had returned, found me gone from the mansion and come to find me. He had come to Mississippi and with him had come the sun.
The funeral was nothing if not long, the type of funeral only a true catholic could appreciate, the type filled with doctrine and scripture and with my father hypocrisy, as he had never been to church in his life. Mama was the catholic, father was the self-proclaimed atheist or thought religion was simply another trick of politicians to infiltrate the masses with beliefs in the righteousness of democracy. Don't ask me how or why, my father never really made that much sense, always after some type of government conspiracy that was designed to rip off every Tom, Dick and Harry.
I stood stoically through the whole thing, my body numb, my heart heavy, my mind screaming, my only desire was to see Logan, to feel his arms around me, to hear him tell me that it was all going to be alright, that he would make everything better in the way only Logan could.
And then it was over and it began to rain, not very heavily but very unusual for mid-august weather in Mississippi. I was left alone by the grave, the rain coming down around me, my mother lead off by aunt Molly, no look towards me, no indication that I even existed, no indication that I had ever existed. I had gotten use to it the four days I'd been back, no one noticed me, no-one knew me, no-one cared to.
So I just stood there before the open hole my toe connecting with a mound of dirt before scurrying away again as if afraid to touch even this evidence of my father, afraid to mourn the man who had no daughter.
I didn't notice Logan until he took my hand, his face was downcast as he squeezed my fingers in his larger hand, lacing our hands together, finger after finger, his hair getting wet, the spikes starting to take on a peculiar sideways slant, as if melting in the rain. He was Logan, all muscle and strength, gentleness and caring. God, how I had missed him.
"My granny use to say that rain where the tears of angels weeping at the state of the world and it was up to us to find out why they were weeping and fix it", a slight smirk lifted the corners of my mouth in timid amusement. "Of course she also use to say that Dick Clark should have been president so perhaps she was just a little eccentric".
Logan was quiet and I loved him for that, he simply squeezed my hand and let me talk, talk about meaningless things, empty memories, simple regrets, he just stood the rain wetting his clothes and held my hand.
"I wish you could have meet my granny, you would have liked her she use to make the best fresh lemonade in the county and would talk your left ear off if she had the chance" a brittle laugh escaped my mouth, "father use to say she was Median's answer to Martha Stewart, she knew everything and anything and was never afraid to tell you like she saw it. Forthright was my granny, she taught me everything I know except how to cook, said I was hopeless and would probably end up a lesbian since no good man would ever want a woman who couldn't bake. That was my granny liberated and old-fashioned all at once."
The rain was heavier now, encompassing the ground in small puddles, turning the twin mounds of dirt into mud, Logan simply ignored the rain and pulled me closer to his body, his arms going around me, pulling me into the alcove of his body and wrapping his leather jacket around me. He was warm and all I could do was snuggle into him, tears finally escaping my eyelids to be mixed with the rain as it streamed down my face.
And Logan simply held me, swaying softly and making soothing noises that turned into quite growls and then distinct purrs that radiated through my body. I clung to him for dear life.
I never knew how long we stayed there, both clinging to the other as if we would disappear. Logan, his strong body sheltering me from the rain and wind, the open grave a stark reminder of what I lost, the man holding me a reminder of what I had gained. I mourned my lost innocence, the loss of innocence that came not from the mutation but from the stark reality of the cruelty of people, even those close to you. I cried for my mother, her old-fashioned values that had made her forsake not only her child but also herself to a man who was not worthy of either; I mourned for the lives destroyed; I cried for the life gained. I wept in anger at the treatment I had received at the hands of people to whom humanity was simply a word, tolerance a utopian ideal that didn't fit with their reality.
Standing in the rain, my arms and senses filled to bursting with Logan, it was hard to ever remember myself alone. It was funny that I had only known this man for a little more than a week, that such fundamental changes, fundamental events to unfold within such a limited timeframe, could bind to untouchable people so completely that I could feel safe and secure for the first time in my life. That's what Logan gave me, security in his own unique way, love unconditional in the hand that lightly stroked my hair, everlasting in the press of lips on my forehead, comfort in the fact that he would never be anywhere that I couldn't find him when I needed him. That this one mans strength and support could help me to see my own, that I was not my mother, that he could never consume me, that loving and being loved did not mean losing oneself, it was a sharing, a mutual respect.
The untouchable girl had come home but I was no longer afraid of who I was, no longer the scared girl that had run from the torture of the only people she had ever known. No longer the mouthy teenager who had hitched across the country putting perverts in their place. I was stronger and wiser, no longer a child, but a woman who could understand on some level the fear of the unknown. I was a stronger person than my lineage would contest to. I was strong enough to love a father who didn't love me, strong enough to realize he had missed out, strong enough to mourn and put the past behind me. Strong enough to love my mother despite her faults, strong enough to value myself, strong enough to move on and forgive. Strong enough to grasp onto what happiness life offers you and never let go.
"Marie". It was the first word he had uttered and he pulled me closer with it, still stroking and pressing his lips quickly against my wet skin, too quick to effect my mutation but long enough for me to feel the wet warmth of his smooth lips. To him I was Marie and for once I realized that I still was, that Marie was not the girl who once lived in this town, Rogue had emerged from the treatment that Marie had received but Marie had survived. Pulling back I looked into concerned eyes, love reflected back at me and I smiled for the first time in four days.
"Lets go home Logan". And he quirked an eyebrow.
"Back to the mansion?" I smiled at him.
"It doesn't matter as long as your there". And he smiled, the full-fledged grin that spoke volumes of his thoughts and whispered against my forehead, his lips cool but warming.
"No, it doesn't does it?"
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Story Notes:
O.K I know some of you are patiently waiting for a sequel to Departure to Places Unknown, I'm working on it but real life is a bummer right now and this quick piece just flew out of my head. Hope you like it.