X-men: World of Gray

Chapter 35

Hey, everyone.  New chapter--new blog entry.  Check out my blog at www.erinjensen.wordpress.com; this week, I've written about the myths surrounding spinal cord injury.  I've had some people comment on Charles' injury in this fan fiction, as I really wanted to portray his issues with paraplegia realistically.  So I did a lot of research about SCI, and was surprised about all the misconceptions I had.  If you want to learn more about this condition, take a look!  And now, on to the next chapter...

Chapter 35…

Charles remembered this place. He had been there once before and recently at that. A hospital room. The indifferent ashen walls—the consistent droning of nurses talking and doctors' dress shoes clip-clapping the tiles. The stench of all things 'sterile.' It was almost an exact replica of his room in the hospital in Florida, down to the noises and smells.

Of course, things had been different then. After Cuba, the naval ships retrieved him and the other mutants, and almost immediately, he was hustled onto a helicopter towards American soil. Everyone had been in such a rush. They rushed him into the hospital. They rushed him to X-ray, and then an operating room. They pressed a mask to his face and had him count down from a hundred.

He had no time to think he might die.

He had no time to grasp what all had happened to his body.

Things were no longer rushed. Now, it felt as if the world was going one speed slower than he was. Everything was dragging.

Dr. Napier had Charles transferred to a private room, away from the ICU and the constant commotion of people dying. Charles wasn't dying. Charles was doing great. That's what all the medical staff told him like he had passed some kind of test.

Charles knew better.

That was why, as Erik came back into his hospital room that afternoon, all Charles could do was frown. Erik didn't. No helmet cradled his head—no stone cold expression clouded his features, but somehow, the other man still didn't resemble Charles' old friend from six months before. Charles wasn't certain why exactly. Erik's eyes glinted with relief and there was even a smile.

Maybe it wasn't Erik who had changed.

"You're sitting up," the man commented as if such a feat deserved a medal. He sailed into the room and dropped down into a chair beside the bed.

Charles blinked slowly like his eyelids were too tired to give a damn.

Erik reclined back. "You should listen to the nurses' station. They think you're a miracle of some sort."

"Have them come in here, then," Charles replied. "That should set them straight."

Finally, the grin on Erik's face lowered. Clearing his throat, he bent forward, and mounted his elbows to his thighs. "This never should have happened."

"I knew that weeks ago, Erik. Where have you been?"

"I didn't send him there."

He was talking about Riptide; instantly, Charles felt the anger barreling up his throat, ready to explain all the reasons that was irrelevant. But what good would it do? When had anything Charles said to Erik ever make an impact? The anger felt toxic in Charles' veins, but more than that, the exhaustion…Dear God, just the idea of continuing this pointless bickering made Charles feel as though he was a hundred years old. He couldn't change what happened—he couldn't change anything about his life. The fury sank back into Charles' stomach.

"I know you didn't," was all he whispered.

"He's gone," Erik continued. "You don't have to worry about him again."