Fonts of Wisdom: Sometimes it Hurts

Sometimes it Hurts

DISCLAIMER: Nobody's mine. Everybody's Marvel's. "Sometimes It Hurts" belongs to the group, Stabbing Westward. No money made, you know the drill, so bugger off.

SETTING: Shortly after the legendary Pryde/Wisdom breakup at the hands of Raab.

     "Bloody annoyances, th' 'ole lot o' them."

     "Eh? 'ow's that, mate?"

     Pete Wisdom glared over the rim of his glass at the patron next to him. "Sod off, I wasn't talking to y'ruddy face, y'wanker."

     "Right touchy bloke, y'are, mate. It was a bird, weren't it, now?"

     He almost growled at the other man. "Listen, an' listen good, y'bloody fuckwit. If I wanted to be psychobabblized, I'd go to Xavier an' th rest o' th' spandex worshippers. I didn't come here f'r yer bloody headgames."

     With a glare that made most men reconsider their actions, a glare not yet obscured by the drunken haze he was trying to obtain, Pete turned back to his glass and downed the rest of the contents in a quick gulp. Shoving the glass toward the tender along with a few pound notes to pay for the tab he'd racked up, he turned and left, stalking out into the damp and cool London night.

     I hate her.

     The savagery of the words made his head pound.

     I hate that bloody, rotten, stuck-up, American bitch, and her bloody morals, and what's the big fucking deal with feeling younger? I've been younger, and a lot of bloody fun that was! And here I thought love played a factor. I'm not that bloody old. If younger's what she wants, why doesn't she date Macaulay fucking Culkin?

     He stopped, leaning against a railing, the Thames barely visible, reflecting the city lights like an illusion of a gathering of people in the black depths, all of them inhaling deeply on lit cigarettes.

     That reminds me....

     He pulled the squashed pack from his shirt pocket, and scowled when he saw there was only one left. Sticking it in his mouth, he crumpled the package and tossed it over the rail to where it was swallowed up in the shadows.

     He hitched one leg up on the rail as he lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply and enjoying a momentary respite in the heavy tightness as smoke filled his lungs.

     It was only momentary. Then he could hear Moira's gentle nagging--that was something he never thought he'd miss--and he almost found himself hunting down a ferry to take him back to Muir.

     Back to her.

     Back to the best goddamned thing that ever happened in his sorry life.

     "Where th' bloody fuck did we go wrong, Kit?" he whispered, staring off past all the buildings and an ocean's width, in the direction where he knew she was tonight. In that bloody greenhouse of angst.

     "Why couldn't you stop me from leaving? I thought you cared. Where did we go wrong? I thought we were happy. Fuck it all. For once, I was happy."

     He shook his head, looking at the nearly done cigarette. Time to buy some more. "Where did I go wrong with you? When did we lose what we had? Goddamn you, Kit." He clenched his teeth so hard it made his head hurt. "When did I lose you? When did just me quit being enough to make you happy?"

     Pete swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes against the sting, against the tightness forming in the bridge of his nose, glaring at nothing in particular. His teeth clenched hard enough that it felt like his molars were being driven back into his gums. He swallowed once--hard--and inhaled deeply.

     The stinging sensation went away.

     What was wrong with me, Kit? Why couldn't I make you happy anymore? What was I doing wrong?

     "Fuck you," he growled, his voice low and thick with emotion. "Why th' fuck couldn't you tell me? Talk to me?"

     Wasn't what we had worth enough to you to try to save it? Apparently not....

     With an incoherent curse, he kicked away from the rail and sought out another tavern, with a quick stop on the way for another pack--or five--of cigarettes. With a glass of scotch in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, Pete took a table in the corner away from the other patrons.

     He didn't want to socialize with anyone. He just wanted to get completely and utterly arsefaced...and maybe forget.

     He didn't want to go home either. She was still in there somehow, everywhere he looked, everything he touched. He could still hear her laughter in the bathroom, the morning she phased in through the door with a bucket of ice, and 'airwalked' to where she could dump it over the curtain on him.

     A small, sad smile momentarily tugged at one corner of his mouth. The tiny wannabe kitchen remembered her too, the times they'd cook, or rather she would, and he'd just get in the way until she started in yelling at him in annoyance, and he'd shush her with a kiss. The living room still had her presence, the lazy nights they'd spend curled up on an armchair that had seen better days, watching the telly until they got distracted with more interesting things.

     Interesting things.... Just how the hell was he ever going to sleep in that bed--in that room--again? Even if he washed the sheets a million times over, even if he burned the mattress, he'd still know. He'd still be able to see her, smiling sleepily up at him as the morning sun cut through the fog and forced its way through the cracks in the closed blinds to spill over her face.

     The ashtray was overflowing with a crumpled, empty pack next to it when the tender announced it was closing time. Pete stared at him for a few long moments before the words managed to inch past the alcoholic haze. He tried to stand, and the next thing he knew, the streetlights were flashing through the windows of a cab.

***

     It was a sneeze that woke him up.

     His sneeze, to be exact. It was the miniature explosions of pain in his alcohol-heavy head that roused him. Something was pressed against his face, rough and a bit dusty.

     Gingerly, he cracked one eye open, and the world fell into focus with a crystal-cut clarity that burned ever synapse. He was laying on his living room floor, his face mostly shoved into the rug.

     The thought occurred that he really should vacuum at least once before the next millennium rolled around. But that was still a few years off. He'd get to it eventually. But unless he wanted any more rude awakenings, it would be a good idea to at least crawl into the chair.

Six o'clock in the morning,
My head is ready to explode.
I can't believe I made it home alive.

Forcing his protesting limbs to move, Pete tried to recall how he got in the night before.

Hell, as bladdered as he was, if he remembered anything of the night before, he'd be lucky.

I don't remember where I went,
Or what I was drinking.
I know it made me sick,
And I'm not denying
That I get this way
When I try to get over you.

     Reflexively, he patted down his pockets, noting with relief that his wallet and keys were still on his person. Glancing at the door, he saw that the lock had been melted through.

     Again.

     "Jesus wept!"

     He really had to start remembering what keys were for. He was beginning to cop it with the building super.

     Kit had laughed when she first saw him do that. Of course, at the time, he really had lost his keys.

I get this way
When I try to get over you.
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.

The memory of her name brought everything he'd tried so hard to forget rushing back to the surface. Bloody fuck. He couldn't even suffer a hangover in peace.

I tried so hard to hate you,
But it only makes things worse.

     She had taken over his home, his heart, his soul. Even after she left--or was it him? Did it even matter?--she was still here.

     If she couldn't have stopped him from leaving, if she didn't care enough, then why the fuck was her ghost still here?

     The Shadowcat's shadow.

     He had to laugh at that, but it was a harsh sound, pained and coarse. Staggering to his feet, he stumbled and slouched against the wall, punching it and ignoring the pain that lanced his knuckles as he did.

     What was left? Was this all there was? Where was he going to go from here? Why had she wanted to leave? What had he done wrong?

     "Fucking slag...."

     His voice broke at the words.

I only end up hating myself.
And as my hatred grows,
So do the lies.
It's hard to face the truth sometimes.

     "What did I do, Kit?" he whispered, sinking to the floor and resting his head in his hands. "What did I do wrong? Where did I go wrong with you?"

     The words choked in his throat.

     You fuckwit, why did you have to go and make a right balls-up of the best thing that ever happened to your worthless life?

God, I feel so useless.
God, I hate myself
When I try to get over you.
I hate myself, will I ever get over you?
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.

     I need a fag....

     He patted down his rumpled suit pockets again until he found a pack of cigarettes and lit one, the flame wavering as he held the lighter in a shaky hand.

     The apartment was dim, the afternoon sun slanting away from the windows, the feeble light trying to work through the grimy glass and curtains.

     Kitty had the curtains opened wide, and she was spritzing them with some godawful blue ammonia liquid and scrubbing them down. The morning sunlight hit the droplets and refracted in a dazzling display.

     "Kit, wot th' 'ell are y'doing?" he demanded, shielding his eyes as he winced.

     "Cleaning your windows," she replied in a voice far too chipper for the early hour. God, when was the last time he was awake at nine in the morning?

     "Why?"

     "They need it. This place is too gloomy."

     "This place faces the bloody fucking east, Kit. The sunlight's murder on hangovers."

     "What a shame," she replied dryly, and he had tried to glare at her.

     "Not t' mention it's too bloody early to be getting out of bed. Morning's ought to be illegal, I tell you."

     God, how long ago had that been? He could still hear her laughter, as clear as if it was just a few minutes ago.

     He missed that laugh.

     When had he stopped being able to make her laugh?

     "You fucking wanker," he growled, the sound choking up toward the end.

And after all this time,
You'd think I'd understand
The way you feel, but no.

     He hadn't understood. He still didn't. She had to feel younger? What was wrong? What had he done wrong?

     When had his love stopped being enough?

     The best thing in his life, and he lost her. Fuck if he knew why, but she was gone. She was gone and he could still hear her so clearly, see her, feel her, taste her. If he just closed his eyes, he could imagine that she'd come wandering out of his bedroom, wearing one of his white rumpled shirts, just a few buttons done in the middle, and nothing else, that silky brown hair mussed over sleepy eyes.

     She was gone, and he still needed her.

     Like those curtains opened to the dim apartment that morning, so she was to his life, a shining light.

     A jewel too valuable to be wasted on a git like him.

I only think about myself,
And it's driving you away.
I always knew it would one day.

"Fuck you! Why couldn't you tell me what I was doing wrong?" The second lit cigarette crumpled in clenched hands, burning him. He slowly released it to watch it fall to the carpet. It smoldered and burned for a moment, then faded, leaving only blackened fibers behind.

Rather like how he felt.

Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.
Sometimes it hurts so much to lose the one you love.

     Maybe there was life after Kit. Maybe he'd find it. It wouldn't be worth living, though. Not the way she had given him a reason to look forward to waking up. Closing his eyes, he could feel her hands on him again so clearly it was driving him mad.

     For the briefest moment, he considered boarding the next plane out of Heathrow to New York.

     No.

     She let him walk away without a word.

     But then, he had walked out of her life without telling her the truth, without telling her how bloody much that hurt.

     No, it wasn't Kit's fault.

     Just because he couldn't tell her how much it hurt him when she had left. Doubts about their relationship? Why hadn't she just talked to him?

     And then what, you blighter? Like how you talked to her?

     Fuck it all to hell. He'd walked out on the best thing that ever happened, because he was too bloody scared to stay, too bloody afraid of being hurt.

     He couldn't remember hurting this much before.

     "Why didn't you call me back, Kit?" he whispered. "Why didn't you say anything?"

     Why did you even leave, you fuckwit?

     God, where did all go wrong? Somebody show me the bloody fucking point it all went balls-up on us, and I'll go and find that big bloke, what's his name? Bishop? Find him and get the bloke to tell me how to travel back in time and I'll put it all right again.

     It's never going to be all right again, is it?

     Aw, just shut your cakehole and forget her. No bird's worth this much trouble.

     But she wasn't just any bird....

     Pete glanced at his watch.

     Hmm, the pub should be open now. Keep your pecker up. It'll work. It worked before with St. Hubbins. It'll work with Pryde.

     Just...sometimes it hurts.