He's watching me. Worrying for me. Loving me.
Hating these threads I drape myself in.
"She's part of the past," he'd said when he first saw me. "A bad part. Leave it be, Jean. Let her die."
How can I let her die?
Green and gold. Beautiful. Copper hair taking a burnished shine from the brilliant metallic sash and gloves and boots. A blazing bird spread rampant across my chest, mouth open forever in a soundless cry that echoes across the deaf ears of the cosmos.
"You can't wear that suit," he'd told me. "She's not you. It's not you."
What does he know, anyway?
I spin before the mirror. Green and gold. Copper and gold. Green and copper. Gold and
Why did he have to argue with me? Why did he have to make such an issue over it? It's not like I was asking for anything unreasonable. I only wanted to let myself be...free.
He's watching me. Worrying for me. Loving me. Hating this outfit.
"Jean...what's gotten into you?" he'd asked. "Stop it! Power down before someone gets hurt!"
As if I can't control myself. As if I don't know how to handle these powers.
"Please...look at me. Jean...Jean, look at yourself."
I did look at myself. I looked in the mirror and saw the beautiful green and gold and copper and
"This can't be happening... God, don't let this be happening..."
He can be so opinionated. So stubborn.
I spin before the mirror, watching the colors flash. Green and gold. Copper and gold. Green and copper. Copper and
"She's dead! You're not her!"
Died on the moon, right love? Died screaming your name and reaching for you when that alien weapon seared her to ash. Stopped in the midst of becoming that dark goddess you so feared once more.
Yes. She did indeed die on the moon.
I did indeed die on the moon.
It hurt. I don't think I want to do that again.
I smile into the mirror, then meet his eyes in the reflecting glass. Amazing, the eyes on the man. Beautiful warm eyes that watch me and worry for me and love me and hate my clothes. So much more handsome without the visor. I smile wider, trying to call a matching expression from him. A fly crawls across his open eye. I frown.
Then I reach out with my mind and stretch his lips into an expression of utter happiness. "There you are, love. Smile." And he does.
Content, I turn back to the mirror, raising my arms and twisting in a slow, graceful dance. Gold sash, boots, gloves, raging bird...so beautiful. Copper hair flowing around my face and over my shoulders. Lovely. Green...eyes snapping with the life burning inside of me. Gold and copper and green and
"I can't let you leave here," he'd said. "I can't let you do this, Jean. God help me. I can't."
"You didn't, Scott," I whisper, hands caressing over my red-clothed ribs, hips, thighs. "You didn't let me do anything." For a moment the seriousness of the matter takes me. I feel the power surging inside. I feel the anger boiling just beneath, and just beneath that the hunger.
And then the moment is gone, and I smile brightly at my husband and his staring eyes that watch me and worry for me and love me and hate the red I wear. I don't have anything else to say to him, and he says nothing to me, so I raise my arms again and sway, sway, sway to that inner song, feeling it build, build, build in strength. In a little while I'll leave here and go...wherever I want.
But for now I just close my eyes and dance for my silent audience and wait for the song to become a scream.
Other Stories By Kaylee