Drunk
by
Wild Thing
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of Marvel Comics. I'm not making any money from this; sometimes it's just good to exorcise the demons.
It's places like this where I feel most at home, a nameless dive at the edge of a nameless town. I don't want to know their names and I'm not giving mine. The smoke's so thick I exhale little gray puffs, even though my cigarette's burned itself out in the ashtray. The only good thing about this much smoke is that it dulls my senses. I can't see or smell anything beyond about five feet and even the steel guitar from the jukebox sounds distant. Just as well. I don't want any distractions from my attempts at getting completely drunk. I need all my concentration for that. It's not impossible for me to get hammered, just damn hard. That's why it takes so much focus. It also takes a lot of alcohol. The bartender'd've been well within his rights to cut me off a long time ago but he either knows better or just doesn't care. I'm betting it's the latter. Places this far out don't really care much about liquor enforcement, and probably more than one old coot has drank himself to death at the bar. As long as I keep giving him $50 bills, he'll keep leaving the bottle, until I stagger out of here, pass out or run out of fifties.
I'm on my fourth fifth right now; at least I think I am. Good, starting to get a little harder to think. Time for another one, before the buzz has a chance to wear off. The bartender takes my fifty and sets another bottle of whisky down in front of me. I used up the good stuff first, back when the flavor still mattered. Right now, all I care is that it's strong. The stronger the better.
I thought I was drinking to forget, but I can't remember why that is. Maybe that's another good sign. No, that can't be it; I've been spending too long trying to remember things. I don't remember where I'm going, that's for sure, but I think that's more because I don't have any destination in mind. I'm more about getting away that going somewhere. Getting away from Xavier's, yeah.
I can feel the buzz starting to fade already. Got to start drinking straight from the bottle now, a shot glass is just too slow. I don't want my healing factor to save me. Why can't it just let me die?
Jubilee, Gambit, Bishop. Each one of 'em had been told at one time or another that they'd be the last X-Man. How could any of 'em really have a hope when I'm the one who can't be killed? But I wished by all that's holy that I wouldn't have to watch 'em go one by one. Guess I got my wish, but in a real sick, twisted, gut-wrencher of a way.
I got to see 'em go all at once.
There's a new breed of Sentinels out there called Omega Sentinels. They're kamikazes, go in to a large group of mutants, say, at a school, and blow 'em all to kingdom come. They sent the first three to Xavier's, disguised as kids. Sleeper units like the Prime Sentinels, so they were completely undetectable until it was too late. The blast crater extended as far as the lake. Kurt and I were in the hangar working on the blackbird when the blast wave caught us. Rogue was apparently halfway down the tunnel when it caught up with her. She smacked into the far wall of the hangar at probably close to three hundred miles an hour. Shrapnel hit Kurt just as he was teleporting. He never made it. The blast wave pretty near fried me and the shockwave threw me against the wall near Rogue. She was still breathing, but I could hear her lungs filling up with blood. I grabbed her to me. Both of our uniforms had pretty much disintegrated in the heat of the pulse, so I was trying to give her everything I had, even if it killed me. She died in my arms before her power could even kick in.
The scene closer to the mansion was worse than anything I'd ever seen. Near the lake, I found charred skeletons. Closer to the crater, not even that. There was nothing left of the house and the sub-basements were little more than melted slag. I later found Beast's remains fused to a lump of metal in his lab. Even the walls of the Danger Room had not been proof against the explosion, even if anyone had had the chance to make it that far and seal the room.
I down the fifth bottle without taking a breath. Slap $100 on the counter and demand he bring two bottles. I needed to forget and fast. He says they're out of whisky. I don't care. Give me something, anything! Can't you see I'm trying to kill myself here?
I realize then that I'm on the bar, leaned over and grabbing him by handfuls of his shirt, shouting into his face. I let him go with such force that he staggers back. He grabs the two closest bottles, leaves them on the bar and gets out of arms length with his hundred.
"I've had it with you, mister. Take yer bottles and go kill yerself somewheres else. I ain't puttin' up with it no more."
Fine then. I will go kill myself somewhere else, if such a place exists. Bet it doesn't. Bet I'm doomed to walk the earth, a ghost of a man who's lost his soul, lost his life, but his body don't know it yet. What this body does know, though, is that they're building those Omega Sentinels in New Mexico. So that's where it's going.
But I'll take those bottles to go, thanks. No point in going all the way to New Mexico to kill myself if it can be done a lot closer to home.
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