Who: John, NPCs [narrative] When: November 11-14, 2005 Where: Governeur Hospital, Lower East Side, New York What: Secret Origins! The aftermath (dun dun duuuun). Notes: I know, I know, I'm late posting these, but I didn't have time to write them during finals week. So, uh. They're late. Sorry!
John was tired. He was sick, weak, running a fever that was baffling doctors because even packing ice around him couldn't cool him down, and he was pretty sure he'd just made the single biggest mistake in a life already riddled with mistakes. His thoughts were racing too quickly to ever pick one out, making him feel as though he was rapidly going insane. He couldn't concentrate on anything, couldn't really hear anything that was said to him, but he was at least dimly aware of people speaking in hushed voices nearby. Something about the results of his blood tests and a mutation being present, but that was as far as John got before the overwhelming sense of exhaustion got the better of him.
About an hour passed before John woke again, this time with a slightly clearer head. After taking a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, he tried to push himself up on his elbows to assess his surroundings, crying out in pain as he did so. Glancing down, he noticed why; both arms were bandaged from elbows to hands, precisely what would have been exposed by the t-shirt he'd been wearing earlier, and the sudden, sickening flood of memories that came rushing back made his stomach drop. His chest ached and he was suddenly aware of the oxygen tube under his nose, but he was even more startled to find his foster mother sitting at his bedside. She looked like hell. Her face was blotchy, the nice makeup she'd been wearing for her evening out was messed up by what had obviously been some heavy sobbing, her eyes were red and puffy, and yet she still lit up when she realized John was awake and blinking at her in confusion.
"Hey. Hey, baby," she cooed, smoothing a hand over his hair and then letting it linger against his cheek before she drew it back to cup his hand between both of hers, gently minding the wrapped burns. John opened his mouth, though he wasn't at all sure what he was supposed to say. Sorry for killing your kid wouldn't cut it, but he didn't have a clue what to say otherwise. As it turned out, he needn't have worried anyway; Melissa Jenkins was nothing if not a bleeding heart, so she probably wouldn't have let him try to apologize in the first place. True to form, she shook her head and cut him off before he could speak. "Shh, don't try to talk, John. Just go back to sleep and try to get some rest, okay?"
That sounded like a terrific idea, but this was wrong, it was all wrong. She should have been sitting with Lizzie, holding her hand, not sitting with a kid she'd only known for a couple years.
"Liz . . ." he croaked out, wincing and now wishing he'd have listened and not said anything, because his throat felt like it'd been scrubbed with sandpaper. He also wished he hadn't said it because Melissa's face fell immediately, the fleeting happiness she'd gotten from seeing him wake now dashed. Way to go.
"She didn't -- she's gone, honey," she said finally, barely getting the words out with a trembling voice. John stared, bewildered, having heard and yet not comprehended any of that. No, that wasn't -- that's not what had happened. The fire, it was-it was his, right? He'd controlled it. The flames had listened to him and receded, he knew they had, he'd felt it right before --
Right before passing out.
Fuck.
His mouth moved wordlessly, unable to find the right word or even the right noise to make besides a quiet whimper. It was his fault. He'd killed her, he knew that now, and it didn't make any bit of difference that he hadn't meant to. And now here was the girl's mom keeping vigil at his bedside, holding his hand like he'd been another innocent victim.
Fighting against the bile working its way up his throat, John swallowed hard and pressed on, determined to speak no matter what. "I-I'm sorry . . . oh God, I'm so sorry, I . . . I did it. It's my fault." Each word was agony, scraping across his scoured throat with all the subtlety of ragged blades, tearing open what had only just begun to heal. "I was . . . I . . . I fell asleep. I've been feeling really bad, and I was making dinner and I fell asleep, and-and-and the smoke detector woke me up, and I tried to put the fire out but it-it just got worse, and --"
"Shh, no, sweetheart, no, it's not your fault. It was an accident," Melissa continued to try to comfort John in her own smothering way, and John recoiled from her touch as though she had burned him just as the fire had; he couldn't let her touch him, couldn't even look at her, without feeling like he was going to throw up until there was nothing left inside of him.
"It was--the fire, it was-it was . . . reacting to me. I kept getting more and more scared and it kept getting worse, and it was --"
"Johnny, stop it, this wasn't your fault," Melissa tried again, though her voice was faltering, proof that she was having doubts about that herself. "Of course you were scared, you were just --"
"They said I'm a mutant," he pointed out in an apparent non sequitur that nonetheless held heavy meaning for both of them. Melissa went quiet at last, her hands squeezing down around John's to hide their shaking, hard enough to make John flinch as the bandages rubbed uncomfortably against the burns. "I heard the doctor earlier. Said I was a mutant. I think . . . I think I . . ." He trailed off again, his throat at last deciding it had suffered enough and refusing to give voice to any of his words from then on. Didn't much matter anyway; obviously disturbed, Melissa let his hand drop from hers and tried to appear calm, mumbled something about needing to go find her husband and get some coffee, and that was the last John remembered seeing of her before darkness closed in on him again.
It was, in fact, the last time John saw her, period. He couldn't say he was surprised, really; he'd been abandoned more than once before, so it wasn't like he didn't constantly expect to be kicked to the curb at any moment. But he'd learned to trust the Jenkins family, even to love them as much as he could, or at least he was beginning to try. They were the closest thing to a real family he'd ever had, the only ones who hadn't given up on him because he was difficult to handle or got them constantly called in for meetings with his teachers. The only ones who hadn't used him for a government check and/or a convenient punching bag. The only ones who had ever seemed to have any faith that he was actually a good kid beneath all his much more visible issues, the only ones who had ever uncovered a talent in him and encouraged it rather than telling him he wasn't going to amount to anything or that only fags wrote poetry. That was what hurt more than their actual absence; he could have lived with that, but not after they had almost given him hope that he wasn't a complete drain on everyone around him.
The first day hadn't been much cause for concern; they were probably trying to deal with insurance and finding somewhere to live and, oh yeah, funeral arrangements, which John really didn't want to think about. The second day, however, John began to suspect something was up. The third day, John knew he'd been dumped. At first when he'd asked the nurses if they'd seen his foster parents, they acted like nothing was wrong and told him no, but by the end of the day they were acting as though they didn't hear him, or changed the subject, or worst of all, just gave him that pitying look he hated so much.
That still didn't make it any easier, though, when on the fourth day he saw his old case worker enter his room. He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he knew what was coming next. He'd been through this routine so many times it was kind of ridiculous now.
"Hi, John." Gail Armiston was a nice enough person, John guessed, but she was far from the top of John's hoped for visitors list. She seated herself next to him in the same chair he'd last seen Melissa in, and there was an uncertain moment when he thought his battle to keep calm was already lost. "How are you?" John said nothing, didn't even look over, and he heard Gail sigh; she'd been through this routine with him as well, and she knew better than to press him. Accordingly, she scooted her chair around to better see John, resting her hand on the bed but being very careful not to actually touch him.
"They're releasing you from the hospital today. Your lungs are in much better shape and the burns were pretty mild, considering. You're a lucky kid, John."
"Go to hell," John groused, not at all in the mood for Gail's usual pleasantries; she knew better than that, too.
She shifted in her chair again, glancing down at the floor as she tried to gather her courage, not knowing at all how John might react to news he'd already likely pieced together on his own. "They're releasing you back into our custody."
So it was official then. John knew what was coming and he thought he'd been prepared, but the cold sensation of betrayal and regret still felt like a weight crushing his chest. His eyes burned, but he squeezed them tightly shut, too stubborn and prideful to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He wasn't a baby. He'd been ditched before; hell, he'd come to expect it. This was nothing new. Nothing at all.
"John, there's . . . there's a school upstate. It has a full curriculum, a beautiful campus, a good staff, everything. It's tailored to help kids like you."
John visibly bristled, finally turning his head to look at Gail, face dark and emotionless. "'Kids like me'? What is it, a juvie hall? Reform school?"
Gail shook her head and cleared her throat. "It's . . . it's for mutants, John." Seeing John's lips press into a thin line, she hastily added, "They can help you learn to control your . . . abilities there. You could get to know other people your age who are going through the-the same thing you are, learn from people who are older and who've been there and probably have some great advice."
"In other words," John started, giving a disdainful snort, "I'm damaged property and you're gonna unload me on some prep school for rich gene jokes. No way."
"John, I really think you should consider --"
"Get out," he ordered, wondering if he could start fires as well, because Gail's face should have burst into flames about that moment with as hard as he was glaring at her. "Get the fuck out of my room. You can come back when they kick me out. Until then, stay the hell away from me."
They had a strange kind of working relationship, John knew, but he was nevertheless thankful that Gail didn't bother arguing with him since they both knew that was entirely useless. She simply got up and walked out the door, just like everyone else John had ever relied on. That was the key, then. He couldn't rely on anyone else, even those few who had lulled him into submission. Everyone inevitably turned on him, which was a pretty sucky revelation for a thirteen-year-old, but a valuable one.
It was kind of fitting, in a way. He'd never had much, and what few belongings he had managed to hold onto over the years were now burnt to cinders. In a very literal way, he now had to start all over. He could start today.
John would not be in his room, in the building, or even the same part of town when Gail returned to claim him.