Dark Mirror

1 In her first moment of consciousness, before opening her eyes to the world and discovering such things as floors and walls and straitjackets, Jean Grey imagined she had died; that for all she had suffered in her life, all her terrible sacrifices, the final end would offer nothing but an eternity of suffocation, an unending crushing darkness spent in utter isolation. Her mind was blind. She felt nothing. Heard nothing. Not even Scott. Cut off, like a blade had been dropped on her neck, separating life from thought, life from sensation, life from -- Scott? -- life. The remembrance of flesh came to her slowly. She became aware of her legs, curled on a flat hard surface; her hands, tucked close and warm against a hard body. Her body, though it felt odd, unfamiliar. Not right. Jean opened her eyes. She saw a cracked white wall decorated by the shadows of chicken wire. She smelled bleach, and beneath that scent, urine. She felt something sticky beneath her cheek. Her head was strange -- not just her mind, but her actual head -- and her hair rasped against her cheek. No silken strands, but rough, like stubble. Her mouth felt different, too; her teeth grated unevenly. Her jaw popped. Jean could not move her arms. This concerned her until she realized she was not paralyzed. Her arms were simply restrained against her chest, bound tight within white sleeves that crisscrossed her body like an arcane corset. Again, she tried to reach out with her mind beyond the isolation of silent mental darkness -- Scott, where are you, what has happened -- to find some trace of that living golden thread that was a thought, a presence, a -- I am not alone -- As a child, alone was all Jean wanted to be. Alone in her head, alone in her heart, alone with no voices whispering incessantly of their fears and dreams and sins. Funny, how things could change. Her wishes had grown up. Jean tried to roll into a sitting position. Slow, so slow -- her head throbbed, a wicked pain like she had been struck -- and she fought down nausea, swallowing hard. She had to get her feet back, get free and away, away to find the others. It did not matter where she was or who had done this -- results, results are all that matter -- only that it could not be allowed to continue. Scott will be looking for me. Yes, if he could. Jean's last memory of her husband was his strong profile as he gazed up at the dilapidated brick facade of an old mental hospital, sagging on its foundations in a quiet neighborhood located beside the industrial hinterland between Tacoma and Seattle. Disturbing reports of rising mutant and human tensions had trickled in from the Northwest for weeks, but without anything specific enough to warrant a full investigation -- or interference -- from the X-Men. Until two days ago. Logan had learned through an old contact that mutants were being arrested on false charges and incarcerated in state mental hospitals. Serious accusations, with no real hard evidence -- except a name. Belldonne. An institute for the mentally ill, and a place -- according to Logan's contact -- where the X-Men would find incontrovertible evidence that mutants were being held against their will. "And if it's true, then it ain't no holiday they're having," Logan had said. Because prison was bad enough -- but add doctors, the ominous specter of science, experimentation, and the scenario became much worse. Mutants, despite the law protecting them, were still easy fodder for overeager scientists who wanted nothing more than to see, in the flesh, the why and how of extreme mutation. Jean understood the fascination. She simply did not think it was an excuse for unscrupulous behavior. The room was small. One window, covered in fine mesh. No furniture or cameras or anything atLiu, Marjorie M. is the author of 'Dark Mirror ', published 2005 under ISBN 9781416510635 and ISBN 141651063X.