A late-night Scott drabble

I've never envied the son of a bitch before, but at the moment he seems to fucking have it all. She was just a fantasy for him, not a soulmate. He'll get over it -- he heals. Whereas I -- I can't even take these glasses off, and the tears leave a salt crust that rubs my swollen eyes raw.

Control. I have to be under control. She wouldn't want me to let loose.

oh god there she is Jean! Jean!

(turn your power up. that's it, boy. destroy her. she is the enemy. move your hand up there, that's it -- now go.)

I hate lying here curled up on our bed, unmade since we last shared it. If I bite my lip any more I'll stain our sheets with blood. My fingers find their way to the back of my neck, and they're groping, clawing at that scorching depression.

And that's when I want, with terrifying clarity, to be him, just for one minute. Maybe on him the mark would only be internal.

* * *

I'd also like to take this opportunity to pimp a very much in its infant stages Nightcrawler story that's peeking around on my journal. It's nowhere near -- er, anything, really -- but I like it and maybe you will too. :)