I remind him of her, of Marie.

I know I do. I see it in his eyes sometimes, in those ephemeral moments when he loses control and breaks down under the force of my blows. And I see it in his head, when he breaks down under the weight of my mind twisting his.

They say that the human body can take only so much pain and abuse, and I believe that goes for the mutant before me as well. It's the brain, you see, that ends it; that central dictator of life and thought, it can only take so much. The body doesn't care. After all, it's only flesh, only bone. It can't even register agony inflicted without the brain telling it to do so.

So the mind goes, and everything else follows.

Take the mind, and you've conquered the soul.

I've learned my lessons well.

He's lasted so long, though, longer than I would ever have dreamed. So I took a peek inside his head, cheated a little, and I found it. I found the reason why he keeps going.

I remind him of her.

I know what he sees when he looks at me, and I consider it a testament to how far gone he is. Rich brown hair streaked with spectral white, pale smooth skin that drains life with a touch.

Sometimes, it amuses me, because then I know how close I am to pushing him over that edge, that precipice. That nebulous point where what is outside ceases to matter, because what is inside is dead.

He is going to will himself to die, and I'm going to watch. Watch as what I once considered unbreakable shatters into a thousand tiny shards of...nothing.

It's taking a while, but I can wait.

And it amuses me. Sometimes. Other times, I am almost frightened by the tenacity with which he clings to it, to the thought that I remind him of Marie. I am nothing like her, nothing, but it doesn't matter what is real, because his world has been reduced to what is not.

Real, that is.

You'd be surprised at his dreams. One would expect nightmares, chained as he is to suffering these days. But he has no nightmares. No, his dreams are sweet and heated, filled with flashing images of eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate. Of a cupid's-bow mouth under his, and the silk of gloves brushing against his jaw, and lower.

Why do people always want what they cannot have?

Some would say that there was a time when he could have had her, and he threw it away because what he wanted then was fiery hair and a willowy body draped over his.

Then Marie died, killed in battle, fighting the good fight. I know because I was there. I know because I killed her, destroyed her life while he watched in horror at the scene unfolding before him.

And as soon as she died, he wanted her back.

Like I said, people always want what they cannot have.

Oh, but I haven't you told you the funniest part yet. I haven't touched him, not once. The slashes and bruises that mar his tanned flesh are all technically self-inflicted.

It's wonderful being a telepath. And it's wonderful watching the Wolverine obey my every command, like a marionette with taut strings ascending from his hands, his legs, his head. I make him walk and talk, and it's so easy now that his mind is so nearly gone. He doesn't struggle anymore, not like he used to.

Now, he just looks at me with melancholy dripping from his eyes, seeing what is not there. Seeing what he wants to see, and nothing more.

Nothing more, because he's almost gone.

Sometimes, he's so steeped in the loop of scenes in his head that he actually calls me Marie. It always brings a smile to my face, a song to my sluggish heart. Pure satisfaction in a job well done, because I've nearly broken him. He whispers her name and more, speaks of love and of bonds that cannot be destroyed. Of need and never letting go.

He speaks of forever.

I let him talk, and it's always such a beautiful thing when he realizes that Marie is dead, and that I am not her. The veil of fantasy lifts, and fleeting clarity shows him that he is not speaking to Marie.

That's when he starts to fight, and that's my favorite time. That's when the soft snick of adamantium slicing through skin plays like sweet music, and I compose sonatas on that unscarred flesh of his, scores that move me nearly to tears. Then, when he has had enough, I put away my music, save my composition for a time when he is healed and once more ready to play for me. And he escapes into sleep, into the dreams that he wishes would wake with him.

Other times, I never let him get far enough to realize he's pleading with a ghost. I cut into his dance of denial, taking the lead and swinging him around, demanding to know things, things I'm certain he never wants to consider. If he loved Marie so much, then why didn't he save her? Why didn't he try harder? Why didn't he want her heart when it was in his hands?

Soon, his protests and rationalizations dissolve, and he cries. He does not know the answers to my questions, and he hates himself for that.

I don't hate him. I love him for the pain he feels, and I know him like no other. I've seen every part of his mind, though I don't spend much time these days exploring the caverns of thought that dwell in him. I have seen enough. And I know that it cannot last much longer, this strange affection, this hobby of mine. He is nearly gone, and that's probably for the best.

For the best because, sometimes, when he calls me Marie, I want to answer.

I still want to answer.

But I won't.

My name is Rogue, and I think I'm going to live up to it today.

Oh, good. He's awake again.

end