I sat with Jean for a moment. She had her coffee and I had my cigar to finish before going inside. We had a conversation. Quite absurd one if you ask from me. Well, what can you expect from a shrink and a possible nutcase…
“Why do you do it?”
“Do what?” Scared Marie? Chose her in the first place?
“Hurt yourself.”
“Did it look like it hurt?” I asked, and Jean actually blushed.
“I don’t do it because it hurts. Okay, it does hurt, but it’s different. It feels good to me. I can control that pain. I decide when, where and how I’m hurt.” Jean looked at me over the brim of the cup she was holding, thoughtful frown on her face.
“That actually makes sense. In a scary and sad way it makes perfect sense.”
“I don’t need your fucking pity,” I spat. Look in her face rubbed me the wrong way.
“I’m not at ease with your involvement with Rogue. Legally I have nothing to say in that matter, but as a friend I would like to ask you not to make her part of it. Not to expose her any more to your ‘therapy sessions’,” Jean said standing up.
“Wasn’t planning to. She wasn’t supposed to know about it at all. That shit is not for her. I may be a bastard, but I’m not insane, Jean.” I crushed the cigar to the ashtray. Time to go and see Marie. See if I could somehow clear up the mess I had made.
Her door is locked. I can hear she’s still awake, breathing fast and erratic. She’s afraid. Afraid of me.
“Marie, could you… Shit. Will you talk with me if I call you?” Maybe that could work. Every student has a phone in their room. I can hear small squeak. Might be yes. Might be no. Well, only one way to find out.
My hand is actually trembling when I dial her number. I can hear it ringing three doors down the hall. It rings. One. Two. Three. She’s not going to answer. Four. Five. Shit. Six. Answer, goddamned! Seven. Eight. Please, answer. Nine. Once more, and if you’re not answering, I’ll come down there and break down your door. We have to talk! Ten. Okay. One more. I’ll give you that. And there it was. Eleven. Fuck!
I can’t go to her like this. I’m a fucking mess. I have to calm down. Stop trembling and cussing. I have a fucking week to take care of this. Plenty of time. There’s time. Maybe it’s better to leave this for tomorrow. I should get some sleep. Classes start at eight. Have to get myself under wraps before that. Can’t go teaching kids in this condition. Luckily we don’t have combat tomorrow. I would probably slaughter half of the class by accident.
I can’t sleep when I’m this wound up. Okay, technically I can sleep under any circumstances, but if I let myself fall asleep now, I will wake up screaming my lungs out. Can’t even remember what I am dreaming about, but can’t be very pleasant, seeing how I end up tossing my cookies afterwards. Every fucking time. Shit. Would be a perfect night to get smashed. Just sit down and drink. Drink until I can’t drink anymore. Then drink some more.
Getting drunk is a bit tricky. Have to override that pesky healing factor. Oh, I can do it. Just takes some time. And shitload of booze. But given enough time I can get drunk. I wonder… Shit. I have to get some sleep. Now, where did I put it?
Oh, God. What am I doing? I should have just answered the phone. I thought I would have the courage to go and see him. Talk to him face to face, like two responsible and sensible adults. I’m standing in front of his door. Slippers. Check. Old, green cloak I had on when I first saw him. Check. As embarrassing as it is, a teddy bear. Check. Adult, my ass.
I can hear him moving around. It sounds a bit like he’s looking for something. Drawers and closets opening. Stuff moving around. I raise my hand to knock on the door. Last second hesitation strikes and my knuckles only skim over the wooden surface lightly. I don’t think he heard it. But I can’t just leave without seeing him. And I’m quite sure that this time his door is locked. But there’s a keyhole. Maybe I could take a quick peek. I just need to see him. I miss him. I’m scared out of my wits, but it actually isn’t Logan that I’m scared. Just a quick peek…
Room is small, and I can see Logan, sitting on his bed. He has a small plastic box on his lap. Oh, he’s on the phone.
“Sorry if I woke you.” Who is he calling at this hour?
“No, I’m… Well, I’m not okay. Just called to tell you that I’m taking a shot.” A shot? Logan is fiddling with the lid of the box.
“No, I can do it by myself. But could you do me a favor? Could you find out if there’s some pills… Yeah. I fucking hate needles.” Does he ever. I didn’t have issues before, but after he touched me at the Statue Of Liberty the mere sight of a needle gives me the creeps.
“Thanks, Jean. Good night.”
I watch when he opens the box. Takes out a small glass vial and a syringe. This has been a rough night for him, too. Usually it’s Jean who does that, after he has had one of his nightmares. I don’t even know what is in that syringe. Must be pretty strong stuff when it’s able to put Logan under.
He fills the syringe and stares at it. Small shiver runs over him and he’s reaching the phone. Then he narrows his eyes.
“Fucking pansy. You can do it…” He whispers and rolls up his sleeve. He puts the syringe on the table and wraps a tourniquet around his bicep. I have a sudden urge to rush in and stop him. To tell him it’s okay. I grab the doorknob, but I’m already too late. And door is locked. Needle slides in and he shivers again. Breath we both have been holding escapes from his lips with a hiss and he closes his eyes, pushing the liquid from the syringe in to him.
As soon as the syringe is empty he throws it away, disgusted grimace plastered to his face, and tears off the tourniquet. Syringe shatters against the windowsill and he slumps forward, palms covering his face. And now I really have to go to him. This is my fault. My fucking fault. He shouldn’t suffer because of my stupidity.
“Logan? Let me in,” I whisper. I know he can hear me, and I don’t want to wake his neighbors.
“Marie?” His footsteps approach the door and I steel myself. I can do this. I can do this. Lock is rattling, then door opens.
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