Disjointed
by ALC Punk!

::I didn't hear you leave, I wonder how am I still here::

She moved restlessly around the apartment, the moonlight only registering if she stepped into it. He had gone. Well, at least he'd left her the means to keep the pain away.

The water was taking forever to boil. Forever was too long. She needed relief, now. Pain flickered on the edge of her dulled perceptions. Soon, it would blossom and then all she would do was curl around a couch cushion. Too weary to cry, too awake to find sleep.

::And I don't want to move a thing, it might change my memory::

She woke up in the shower, her underwear and t-shirt soaked with sweat. A quick twist sent water cascading down onto her body and she whimpered. One of the needles had accidentally ripped through more than she'd wanted. Clumsy of her.

Blood dripped down from the long scratch, and she watched it swirl down the drain. It was pretty, really. Like his painting had been. All colours and swirl, and emotion.

::Oh I am what I am, I'll do what I want, but I can't hide::

That last day, standing there in New York, watching the demons. Sometimes it came back to her in her dreams. People screaming, running, and none of them able to do anything. And then Sinister arrived and ripped the heart from X-Factor. The survivors had tried so hard. But even with their help, Scott had slipped away, leaving nothing but a shell.

Nothing they could do. And so they went their seperate ways. She became his model, and in return, he gave her money.

::I won't go, I won't sleep, I can't breathe, until you're resting here with me::

She missed him. Even with all that had gone before, she missed him. He was warm and gentle, compassionate and caring. Even with the scars Maddie had given him, he was willing to help her. To love her.

::I won't leave, I can't hide, I cannot be, until you're resting here with me::

The painting had been his idea, surprisingly. He used to watch Piotr do it, back when the young Russian was still around. It was after Kitty, Kurt and Piotr disappeared that he started. He threw himself into it with a furious kind of passion. As if only through what came out on the canvas could he be calm.

Abstracts, at first. Then faces, hands, feet, legs. One had been nothing but interlocking middle fingers. Reds and blues and greens. Sometimes yellow. And always black, for shadow. For darkness.

::I don't want to call my friends, Oh they might wake me from this dream::

Alison called, sometimes. Left messages on the machine. Call me, she'd say. Betsy erased them after shooting up for the day. Call. Right. Not an option.

Sometimes, she wondered how Alison could stay so cheerful. The ex-disco singer was barely hanging on in her tiny apartment in Greenwhich. But she was always so happy. Betsy didn't even think she was doing anything illegal. Maybe it was that drug, Prozac. Or something.

::And I can't leave this bed, risk forgetting all that's been::

Days came when she couldn't move. Would lay in bed and stare at the wall. There were times it was the floor, and she'd stay there, watching the tiny drifts of dust. And trying to work around the raging pain in her chest.

It wasn't real pain. The doctors, when she'd gone to them, couldn't find a reason for it. But she knew. Her heart had shattered, that day in Dallas. Because, for a split second, she'd seen what should happen. And it hadn't.

::Oh I am what I am, I'll do what I want, but I can't hide::

They had been meant to live. To grow and become something great. Save the world? All in a day's work. Go out and laugh with friends? They did it every night.

But the golden future was slashed away in an instant. And terror and pain and death reigned instead.

::I won't go, I won't sleep, I can't breathe, until you're resting here with me::

Getting rid of the pain, the only way she knew how, Betsy sighed and slowly sank onto the couch. The room around her spiralled slightly, and then steadied.

It was like one of his first paintings. All swirly and full of pain, suddenly. Pain. Pain that shouldn't be there. She cried softly, tears forming. With an effort, she stood and staggered into the kitchen, blindly searching for something, anything that would end the pain. Stop the pain.

::I won't leave, I can't hide, I cannot be, until you're resting here with me::

"Betsy!"

The voice penetrated the fog of her mind, and she stared at him. Pain was still there, a happy friend as it pounded through her brain. "Alex."

"Give me the knife. Please." He held out a hand.

With a start, she looked at the knife in her hand and whimpered, "It won't stop, Alex."

"Please."

"It never stops. I wake up with it, I go to the fucking loo with it, I fall into bed at night with it. And it never. Stops." She giggled, then, "And red is such a good colour for me, don't you think?"

"Betsy..." He reached out and brushed a strand of purple hair off her face, "Give me the knife."

"But you can't promise that it will stop, can you? I know you can't." A tear tracked down her face, "It should have been so beautiful, Alex. We would have been heroes."

"We still can."

"With what, a few scattered people who all have chronic pain, and don't remember even the alphabet?"

"Please. Don't end it like this, Betsy."

"You're right." A short laugh escaped her, "Oh, Alex, you're right. This is the wong way to end it." With a violent twist, she turned and threw the knife across the room. It went through the small kitchen window, shattering it. "Oops."

She giggled, then, the giggle turning ugly as she coughed and then began to sob. "It's gone Alex. All gone."

He caught her as she began to sag, pulling her into his arms and knelt on the floor. "It's okay, it's going to be okay." His hands rubbed her back gently.

And she cried. For real, this time. It had been so long since she had, that she'd almost forgotten how.

::Oh I am what I am, I'll do what I want, but I can't hide
I won't go, I won't sleep, I can't breathe, until you're resting here with me
I won't leave, I can't hide, I cannot be, until you're resting here with me::

-=finis=-

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