06. as they took his soul they stole his pride; as he faced the sun he cast no shadow

Notes: Another Dani fic in my quest to do FanFic100 with her. This one's set around Uncanny X-Men #503 (with the car reference coming from that title, as well). The woman Logan mentions in his memory was seen in the Wolverine: Origins arc of Wolverine v3 (confused yet?) but I made up the details about her, so any mistakes are mine alone. Didn't come up with a title for this one as of yet but it's still unedited, so perhaps more marination will breed results. Hope springs eternal and all that.
Disclaimer: Do not own the X-Men or any of their off-shoots. All rights are solely those of Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Please do not sue.


It's rare to find her hair in braids these days. Rarer still for her to pair them with feathers and a headband. She's often seen sporting one (the headband in particular) but all at once? For whatever reason, that's no longer her style.

It's odd, he thinks, after she fought so hard for her individuality that she'd move more toward the social norm. He's never asked her about it, though, and he doesn't think that will change any time soon. They're not close—never have been, and it's not in his nature to pry. He has enough secrets to respect the right of others to keep theirs.

Still, when the light hits her that day—the day that she chooses to once again done her braids, headband and feathers—he's struck by a memory. It's not a feeling he's accustomed to, even after the time that's passed since M-Day.

He doesn't realize he's staring until she glances his way. "Morning, Logan," she greets, lifting her mug of coffee and crossing to the table where he's sitting. She doesn't hesitate to take a section of the newspaper from the pile in front of him but that doesn't surprise him. She's never been the type to tread lightly and, more to the point, she's never been afraid of him. Apparently, more than just her power status would have to change before that did.

"Dani," he responds with a nod before returning to the sports section. Yesterday was not a good day in hockey for the Canucks and it isn't long before he tosses it aside, scowling. The rustle of turning pages has him looking her way again and there's another flash of memory. It tugs at his mind and he can't help but think it's important. Things are rarely so insistent otherwise.

She must feel his gaze because she flips the top of the paper down to look him in the eyes. "Something I can help you with?" she asks pointedly.

He isn't sure if it's curiosity or discomfort that has pushed her to speak—she's never been one to mince words or fill comfortable silences unnecessarily—but it doesn't really matter. His answer is the same either way: "No."

One eyebrow arches delicately and he blinks. Whatever she's thinking, she brushes it off because the next moment she's looking at her paper again. "Okay," she says simply. "Let me have the sports section when you're done."

It's almost refreshing, not being pushed and prodded about his feelings and sharing. Maybe a little disappointing, though he'd never admit that. Silently, he hands her the offensive section and picks up the world news instead.

It's silent between them for a few long minutes, nothing but papers turning and coffee being sipped to break the monotony. Normally, it'd be strange to find the room so empty but it's early still and a weekend, too. It's comfortable save the memories gnawing at him, begging to be remembered.

"You're hair," he comments suddenly, not even realizing he's spoken until she looks at him with confusion written on her face as plain as day. "You don't wear it like that anymore."

Her eyebrows are furrowed and he has the distinct impression she thinks he's crazy but, slowly, she nods. Her lips are pursed and he notices that they're not quite as plump as the set in his memories. Her eyes are wider, too, and hair longer. The face shape is similar, though, and the skin. Tan skin that he remembers in more ways than could be considered decent.

"I don't," she agrees finally, touching the ends almost self-consciously. Then she shrugs. "Tastes change; people change. All part of growing up, I guess."

He grunts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It sounds like something she's recited at least a dozen times but he isn't sure if he's disappointed because it's so very trite or because she didn't answer his unasked questions.

Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "If you don't mind me asking, Logan, why the sudden interest?" From her tone, it's obvious she doesn't care if he does mind or not. When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, "Because, if you're looking for a new style, I have to tell you—I don't think this one is the real you."

"Ha-ha," he replies dryly, emphasizing each syllable. He waves her off, though, content to keep his personal thoughts just that—personal. "It's nothing."

She's holding her coffee with both hands as she rolls her eyes at him. "Right. And Shan likes boys." The sarcasm in her voice doesn't impress him (little does at his age) but the defiance in her gaze does.

He thinks if he hadn't had Kitty, he probably would've liked to work with her for her attitude alone. Well, her or Rahne—the wolf thing always has resonated with him.

Taking his silence to mean he isn't going to answer her, she shrugs. "None of my business." There's a slight undercurrent of something like frustration in her words, though he isn't certain if it's at him for not satisfying her curiosity or herself for being curious in the first place.

He decides to let it lie and quiet falls between them again. He's just making his way onto the local news section when she speaks again. "He told me he liked the braids," she whispers, eyes glued to the paper. There's a glazed sort of look in her eyes and he's sure she's not seeing any of the words in front of her. Then she turns to him. "Jimmy—James, I mean. Told me when we were students."

Suddenly, he understands. As a Valkyrie, she didn't wear them—she wouldn't have been able to. But when she came back and he'd moved on... she didn't go back. Didn't want him to think she was doing it for him. That explained the brief resurrection when she came back to teach for Xavier and subsequent disappearance when James returned to be part of the team again.

"You think I'm ridiculous," she mutters, face ashen as she again misinterprets his silence. "Well, you're right. It was just a stupid crush but I can't stop remembering whenever I—"

He places a hand on her arm and she cuts herself off, big brown eyes blinking up at him. "I don't think you're ridiculous, Dani," he assures her with a squeeze. "Trust me, I know all about holding onto things that other people have long forgotten."

Despite her grim expression, she chuckles. It's just a bit watery but he dismisses it. He's found that people (READ: women) tend to be more emotional during the early and late hours of the day.

Awkwardly, he releases her and moves his hand away to run through his hair. His movements are agitated but only slightly. Finally, he comes to a decision. If she can be honest with him about something that obviously still hurts her, then he can do the same. It's not like she's Emma, who'd use it against him later, or 'Ro who, well-meaning or not, would likely gossip to at least one other team member. She's Dani and even though they're not close and probably never will be, he feels he owes her this.

"I still can't remember her name," he starts, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "I've tried but..." He can feel her eyes on him but it's the feather in her hair that has his gaze. Almost without meaning to, he reaches toward it. "She always had a red feather in her hair, though. She was an Indian, like you—Ottawa, I think. And she loved to braid her hair."

Understanding dawns on her face. "You loved her." It isn't a question.

He suppresses a sigh and nods. "I think I did." It's so hard to remember but he genuinely believes that. The realization is more comforting than he would have expected.

She's smiling as she takes his hand in her hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. Then she plucks a red feather from her hair and hands it to him. He tries to wave her off but she insists, placing it in his palm and curling his fingers around it.

In that moment, the sun shining brightly behind her head like a halo, she looks so much like the phantom in his memory it nearly breaks his heart. But it doesn't and he forces a gruff smile, nodding. "Thank you."

There's a heaviness between them now and he knows they won't be able to end the conversation there without feeling awkward. She must feel it, too, because the next moment she's grinning in a way that is completely Dani and no one else. "Talk is cheap," she informs him cheerfully. "Thank me by letting me drive the Maserati."

It's enough to snap him out of it. "I don't think so," he says with a smirk.

She's pouting just a little. "Why not?" she presses, not giving him a real chance to answer. Her track record may be better than most of the X-Men (no trashed jets, for instance) but everybody knows that no one drives his car but him. "Come on, Logan..."

"No way, kid." She looks torn between amusement and objecting to the title, so he saves her the trouble of settling for a response by moving on. "But I will give you a ride. Anywhere you want... at one-eighty-five."

Now she's smiling again. "Deal." She's absentmindedly untying her braids, a triumphant look on her face. "Sam and Bobby are going to be so jealous."

He laughs a little, shaking his head. Partly because she's right—the Hayseed and Brazilian Rich Boy will undoubtedly be green with envy, even if they both have pretty sweet rides—and partly because she's successfully diffused the situation. He thinks she probably is a pretty good teacher-slash-mentor for the kids; not only is she a survivor but she's smart. She knows people, and she knows how to get what she wants. Apparently Summers knew what he was doing (this time, anyway).

05. my heart can't possibly break when it wasn't even whole to start with

Notes: Just a bit of introspection. Because I can. :) No title as of yet but it's not really much of anything, so perhaps it doesn't need one.


The ring wasn't supposed to mean anything. It wasn't.

It was just sitting there innocently, shining inside that little blue box as it stared at her. It was so beautiful. Three stones—man made diamonds but still lovely—set in silver, the middle bigger than the other two. It was too nice. It was too small for her to wear. Somehow, though, getting it resized didn't feel right. It went on a chain instead—another gift from the same source. It fell with the necklace just fine.

Sometimes she'd finger the ring and wonder what it meant. It wasn't supposed to mean anything but it felt like it did. Did she own the ring or did it own her? Sometimes she wanted to rip the ring off and throw it against a wall. Sometimes it made her want to scream. Sometimes she wanted to actually wear it like a ring.

Sometimes she wanted to drop the ring in the toilet and flush it away. It was too much for her. And whatever it meant, she knew she didn't like it.

Because it made her sad. She didn't know why but it did.

Did it break her heart because she wanted it to be from a lover? Or at least from someone who really loved her instead of from someone who made her wonder if love was a pretend thing. Someone who'd try to save her from her loneliness. Someone who wanted to be with her for all the right reasons instead of the wrong ones. Because the person who gave it to her… he said he loved her—he said it all the time. But saying didn't mean anything when the actions didn't match the words.

He reminded her every time he hurt her. When he'd hurt her without ever seeming to care. She wanted him to care—wanted it to matter enough for things to change—but she knew better. She didn't want to, but she did. Too damn smart for her own good. And tired. She was so damn tired. She felt like she didn't know which way was up—didn't know which direction to go.

Other than away from here. That much was certain. It'd been decided when the hurt became too much to bear. When desperation had given way to anger and the truth had finally stared her so obviously in the face that she couldn't ignore it any longer. What hadn't been decided was what to do with the ring. Throw it away or keep it? Resize it to wear or hide it away? It felt like a heavier decision than it should.

What did it mean?

It wasn't supposed to mean anything, she knew. And maybe one day it wouldn't. Today wasn't that day, though. (Tomorrow wouldn't be, either.)

04. anyone can find the same white pills; it takes my pain away

Notes: I was thinking about the five stages of grief and, well, Dani's my girl so I tossed her in. (I've been trying to do FanFic100 with her. *shrug*) Continuity is vague in so far as it's set pre-Secret Invasion but obviously AU as to what's really happened. Things may seem vague but it should all be explained by story's end. Umm... I guess that's about it.
Disclaimer: Do not own the X-Men or any of their off-shoots. All rights are solely those of Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Please do not sue.

Five Stages

I. Denial

"I don't believe you." The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them in an angry hiss.

She didn't miss the hurt flash across his face but she ignored it. She didn't have a choice. She loved him, she did—he was like a brother to her!—but this… there was no way. It wasn't possible. It wasn't allowed.

She loved him but she could never, ever believe him.

His expression was set but there was sadness in his dark eyes. They were so different from his cornflower blue. "It's true, Dani," he said sternly. "Sam—"

"Shut up!" she yelled, interrupting. "You are so full of it Roberto Da Costa and I—I refuse to play this game with you any more! It's not funny, 'Berto! It's not!"

There was sympathy in his gaze now as he put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. "I know," he insisted in a gentle tone, continence betraying an unusual amount of patience. "But—"

Again, she didn't let him finish. "But nothing," she said harshly, pulling out of his grip. "I don't believe you." There was not even a hint of question in her voice.

"Dani—"

"No!" she shouted suddenly, slapping him across the face. Then she turned and ran. He probably could've caught her if he'd tried—he was taller and fit, after all—but he didn't chase her. Apparently she needed time on her own to digest. And he… well, he didn't need a set of red handprints on his cheeks.


II. Anger

"Uhn!" she grunted, giving Viper a roundhouse kick to the chest. The green haired woman stumbled back for a moment before leaping toward her. Dani managed to duck aside in time to avoid the attack aimed at her face and had rounded again when the villain suddenly flickered out of existence.

Growling, she looked toward the control booth. "What the fuck?" she shouted in what might generously be called an unfriendly tone. When there was no answer, she proceeded to seethe. "Ooh, someone is just asking for a fight…"

"Yeah?" a familiar voice prompted from behind her. To his credit, she hadn't even heard the doors open, let alone his entrance. "That someone you?"

With an inelegant snort, she turned to face the intruder. "Sounds more like you, don't you think, Logan?" she sneered. "What're you doing here—I have the Danger Room reserved for another half hour."

One eyebrow rose at her tone. "Just thought you might like a real fight," he offered casually, as if they were discussing the weather or something equally mundane. "From someone who can handle it, that is."

Her arms were crossed now as she eyed him up and down. "You that someone?" she asked with an ugly look of contempt on her face. "I'm not stupid, Wolverine, I know you can kick my ass five ways from Sunday."

"And I know that you want someone to feel the pain you're feeling," he countered in that same neutral tone. "Might as well be me seein' as I can actually take the heat you dish out."

For whatever reason, that only served to make her angrier. "Well sor-ry," she snapped, dragging the second syllable of her questionable apology out. "Not all of us can heal our wounds as easily as you."

He just smiled in a slightly disconcerting but mostly kind way. "Can't rile me up, darlin'. This is about your anger. So how 'bout you get it out before it destroys everything you care about?"

She was stiff for a moment, considering, then nodded. "Fine." And the next second she was in the air, lashing out angrily toward him. She hated admitting it but it felt good. Anger was safe like that. She knew she'd have to let it go eventually, but for the moment she was happy to revel in it.


III. Bargaining

It was weird, being in a church. She wasn't Catholic or even Christian but there was something so peaceful about the space. She felt like if the gods were going to live somewhere, it'd be places like that.

Her face was lifted toward the sky, specks of color dancing over her closed eyes as she tried to find something resembling peace. "Isn't there something I can do?" she asked softly, startled by the sound of her voice in her ears.

"Ah but that it were that easy, lieb," a gentle German accented voice responded. It didn't surprise her, exactly—she knew this was his sanctuary more than most—but she also hadn't heard or seen him since her entrance.

Opening her eyes, she saw he was standing not too far from her, straightening up. "Kurt," she said quietly after a long moment of watching him, "why would God—any God—let this happen?"

There was something decidedly sad in his smile. "That's not how it works, Dani," he answered slowly. "You know that."

"I don't know anything!" she burst out suddenly, only slightly mortified by the loudness of her voice. "I would give anything—everything—to fix this. To take his place. Something. Please, there has to be something. It's just—it's not fair that we're all so helpless!"

There were tears running down her cheeks and he was hugging her but she didn't notice either of those things just then. "What can I do?" she asked. "What can I do to make this better? How can I—" here, her voice cracked, "how can I save him? Please, there has to be something…"

He knew she wasn't asking him, so he only held her and whispered comforting words in German. It wasn't much but it was all he could do for her just then. This was something she had to face on her own.

Eventually, she sniffled and pushed away slightly. Now, she looked at him with wide brown eyes, red-rimmed and glistening with still more unshed tears. "Why can't I do anything?"

"All I can think," he said slowly, "is that there is some plan out there." He took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "And remember, lieb, it may be his fight but there are things you can do. There are always things we can do."

She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "Yeah," she agreed half-heartedly and he wondered if she truly believed his words at all.


IV. Depression

She was sitting, pouring over a box of pictures when he found her. There were tear tracks on her face and tissues littering the floor around her. He didn't say anything until he was crouched beside her. Turning the photo in her hand so he could see it, he smiled a little at the image. It was him and Sam horsing around with a guilty-looking Doug and innocently mischievous Warlock—classic.

"Soon there'll only be you left," she whispered, bypassing the usual pleasantries. Fresh tears sprang from her eyes and it hurt to see her so very broken. "The other two are already gone…"

His heart constricted as he released the picture and put his hand on her back instead, rubbing circles gently. "Dani, you shouldn't think like that. The doctors—they say he has a sixty percent chance of finding a match."

She was silent for a moment, leaning into his touch. "You know it's a bunch of bullshit," she said quietly, no malice in her tone. There was only heartbreaking sadness to be found there. "He's going to die. Everyone we love does—Illyana, Doug, Warlock, Kitty, Jean…"

"On multiple occasions," he tried to joke.

"'Berto!" she admonished, though there was a watery smile on her face. It dimmed almost as soon as it appeared, though, and she covered her face with her hands. "Everybody dies and there's never anything we can do to stop it."

He pulled her into a hug then and she curled against him, body shaking with silent sobs. "We can be there for them," he whispered into her hair, holding her tightly. "We can let them know we care for them."

She let him pet her hair comfortingly for a minute before shaking her head. "It's not enough. Nothing can ever be enough. And I just—I can't…" she trailed off into hiccupping sobs.

Murmuring words of comfort in both English and Portuguese, he rocked her gently back and forth. "Just be honest with him. Tell him how you feel." He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead as he extracted himself from her. "It will be enough. For him, that's always been enough."

Unfortunately, the truth of his statement only served to draw her deeper into her despair. Whether it was because of how it spoke volumes about Sam's kindness or guiltily reminded her that she'd rarely been able to give him that, even after all these years, she wasn't certain. In the end, she decided it probably didn't matter. In her state, little felt as if it did.


V. Acceptance

The first thing she noticed about the building was how white it was. Floors, walls, ceiling—even the curtains were white. They tried to break it up with touches of color here and there, a peaceful and utterly non-offensive painting in each room, things like that. She knew they were meant to calm the patients and visitors but it had little effect on her. Mostly, the mediocre art just served to irritate her.

She let herself into his room—number six-one-three, quietly closing the door behind her. If he was asleep, she could just come back. Yeah. That's what she told herself. And she'd make sure she didn't wake him, if that were the case. Out of respect. Uh-huh. Not because of any sort of guilty feelings because she hadn't visited him at all since he'd been admitted. No, no. That wasn't it at all.

"Hello?" his voice called, a bit horse but still distinctively Southern. "Someone there?"

The curtain (white, of course) was hiding her. It took all of her courage to push away from the (also white) door and walk fully into the room. Somehow she managed, though, the small bouquet of lavender in her hand feeling woefully inadequate.

It could've been her imagination but he looked tired to her. His blond hair was a bit stringy, as if it hadn't been washed for a few days, and there were wrinkles around his blue eyes she'd never seen before. She stopped a good distance from his bed and waved bashfully with her free hand, a light blush covering her cheeks. "Um, hi."

His face instantly softened, and he smiled. "Hey there, Chief," he said kindly. He eyed her for a long moment, then waved for her to come closer. "Whatchu doin' all the way over there, girl? Get over here!"

That was all the prompting she needed. She dropped the flowers on the foot of his bed and all but flew to his side, hugging him tightly (but carefully). "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry," she breathed as she pulled away. "I know I should've been here, but I just didn't want to believe it because—because, well, you're Sam and this isn't supposed to be happening. You were gonna outlive us all. And I—I just…" Tears were racing down her face but she paid them no mind. "I'm so sorry. You deserve better."

"Hey now," he replied softly, reaching up to grab her hand in his and pull her closer again, "don't say that. You're one of my best friends, Dani. Who cares if it took ya a while to come? You're here now, ain'tcha?" His free hand wiped away some of the tears on her cheek. "That's what counts."

Sniffling and swallowing hard, she shook her head. "You're too nice to me, Sam. You've always been too nice." That was why women walked all over him and how he was patient enough to be best friends with the likes of Roberto Da Costa. "I just couldn't take it, you know? I didn't want to admit…"

Here's where she drew on her last reserves of strength, hoping beyond hope that she could find it in her to be brave. It was easy to face things she could fight; things she might fear but could still beat. Facing her feelings, though? That was a whole other ball game.

She sat beside him and took both his hands into hers. "I love you, Sam. You always believe in me and are such a good friend… I hate to think of my life without you. Even when we were apart, I always knew that if I needed you, you'd be there. That's what brought me back. That's what keeps me fighting." She gave his hands a gentle squeeze. "Not the other New Mutants, not Xavier's dream, not the next generation—you. And I just don't know where I'll be if I lose that. If I lose you."

And there it was. Her deep, dark secret. The truth of how she felt about him—the truth she'd never shared. The real reason she didn't want to accept his diagnosis and the finality of what it could bring. She just hoped it was enough. Because that was really and truly all she had left to give him. The only help she could think offer.

He nodded once and then his face broke out in a smile. "Thank you." Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close so their foreheads were practically touching. "But you know I'm gonna live to a ripe old age, just to tease ya 'bout your big emotional display." Impulsively, he gave her a wet smack of a kiss on the cheek.

"Ugh, Sa-am!" she cried, rubbing the spit off as best she could. "I swear, even after all these years, Roberto still hasn't managed to get any manners into that thick skull of yours." She shook her head, then snuggled against him a little. "Guess I'll just have to whip you both into shape once you get outta here."

Pulling her shoulder tightly, he reached up to give her a noogie. Still, there was nothing but warmth in his tone as he agreed, "Guess so."

03. there are certain people you just keep coming back to

Notes: Short and kinda pointless. Takes place during Season 7; I was just inspired during an episode where J.D. mentioned The Fray and... yes. Not edited, not much of a plot but, well, there we are. I just wanted to give some new characters a shot, really. (I don't always do so well with boys. *shrug*)
Disclaimer: Don't own Scrubs or The Fray (I wish, right?); please no suing. Especially you ABC-- don't think I don't know the show is winding down despite your reprieve!

All At Once

John Michael Dorian, more affectionately known as J.D. to most, was conflicted. So, as he often did when conflicted, he turned to his best friend.

Christopher Duncan Turk, usually called simply by his surname but also known as Brown Bear to J.D., was usually able to lend a sympathetic ear to his friends. Today was not one of those days, mostly because J.D. had started yet another round of agonizing over Elliot Reid as possibly maybe being The One. Chris Turk decided it was time to lay it all one the line and tell J.D. what he really thought.

Shaking his head, Turk cut his pal off mid-sentence: "You don't get it, do you? There is no perfect woman." The emphasis Turk placed on the words was not lost on J.D. who stood, blinking in surprised. "No perfect relationship. I mean, I get it, man—you're a giant commitment-phobe." This was where Turk started to move toward a tangent. "Like, huge. The biggest one ever."

J.D. gave Turk a look, waving for him to move on. Not always the quickest to take note of things, this time his Brown Bear did.

"But, listen," Turk continued, "here's the thing—the bottom line: you broke her heart. You can't go back." He put a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Break the cycle, my friend. Because she's over it." He dropped his hand and shrugged. "And chances are even if you got it, you'd still keep looking for something better."

Sighing, J.D. considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah… you're probably right."

Turk gave him a look. "No, I am right." He grabbed out his mp3 player and scrolled through before handing the device to J.D. "Here—listen to this song from The Fray. It sums up your entire history with Elliot perfectly."

Without any real consideration, J.D. tilted his head to the side as was his wont to do. "Well, I do like The Fray…"

When he trailed off, Turk took his leave. The expression on his face was one he'd come to associate with J.D.'s visits to his daydream world. It was usually better to just leave.

After imagining what it would be like to chase after The Fray with a giant group of crazed, mostly female teenaged groupies, J.D. came back to reality. "We'd need a mountain of cheese," he said before he realized he was alone with Turk's mp3 player… and the Janitor. That was all the motivation he needed for a quick exit.

Slipping into the lounge, he popped the buds into his ears and pressed play. He was instantly assaulted by the mellow voice crooning the familiar, "All At Once," and a montage of memories involving him and Elliot.

When the song ended, J.D. had to admit that maybe Turk was right. The Fray had something there and that something was looking a lot like him. He knew he ought to think about it but then Smash Mouth came on and he was too busy rocking out in his incredibly dorky yet strangely adorable way to be bothered at that moment. Besides, the heavy thoughts weren't going anywhere. Turk's mp3, on the other hand, would.

02. and its your final last call (why'd you have to let it go)

Notes: Very unedited by anyone that isn't me. Completed short story. Characters portrayed are all my own; inspiration comes from a POSTSECRET card I once saw about someone not telling his (or her) family that he (or she) was still alive. Oh, and ::this:: means the person was speaking in another language, though it should be obvious. Also, the title is work-in-progress.

Serenity

Every day started the same. She woke up on a straw mat that didn’t do much to add to the comfort of her little room but it gave the illusion of keeping her off the packed dirt floor. There was a small bowl of dirty water (and a few pieces of hay) sitting on the lone piece of furniture in the room—a wooden bench. The scarf she wore in her hair became a makeshift washcloth used to wipe off her arms, legs and face. It didn’t do much to clean but it was all she had unless she made the long trip to the river.

Once that was done, she wrung the scarf and used the damp cloth to pull back her stringy blonde bangs. Then she changed her clothes (though they weren’t really her clothes). Today she wore a dark dress-like set made of thin cloth that was designed to keep the wearer from suffering in the heat. (She thought if that was truly the intent, the cloth would’ve been a paler color.) As was her daily wont, she wished for a change of unmentionables but settled for what she had.

After that, she’d shake out her mat before rolling it up and storing it beneath the bench. It was a cleaning habit she couldn’t help, even now. It wasn’t like it made a difference—there wasn’t anyone who cared or such a lack of space to necessitate it. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure she cared most days. But just like the washing, the cleaning added some semblance of normalcy to this life she lived. (If it could even be called that.)

It was around that point she usually made her first choice of the day. She could spend some time making marks on her bench—words and sentences if she was lucky (she only had her nails to use as tools, after all). If that wasn't appealing, she could close her eyes and travel inside herself to visit her "special place". Or, if she had the energy, she could take venture out of her room and into the real world. Usually she did some combination of the three, depending on how tired she was.

Today started slowly. She spent a couple of hours scratching at the bench, managing to make a whole sentence: Give me strength. With that in mind, she decided it was time for her outside adventure. She slipped on the pair of leather sandals by the door, though they little to assuage the blistering heat and often made rocky ground slipperier. Then she dabbed a bit of the dirty water on the back of her neck in a vain attempt to keep cool for at least a short amount of time.

Pushing open the poorly constructed wooden door, she stepped the main room. It was larger than her room with a worn wooden table that had bench seats not unlike the one in her room on both sides. There was a bowl of something on the table and she assumed it was for her. The room also passed for the kitchen with an old Dutch oven in the corner. There was an old woman at the stove who only gave her a peripheral glance before returning to her task of stirring the pot.

It was silent as she ate her food. She took the time to eat slowly, savoring every watery bit and undercooked vegetable there was to be had. It wasn’t every day she had something warm—it wasn’t every day they had wood for the fire. Hell, on the bad days, she often wouldn’t eat at all. (Thankfully, those days were mostly few and far between.) It wasn’t like she could complain, anyway—she wasn’t contributing much of anything to the home.

Useless, that’s what she was. How she felt.

::Thank you,:: she whispered, the strange language still tasting wrong in her mouth. Her accent was rubbish, too, she was certain. But she did what she could. It was all she had to offer.

She spread her dark scarf to cover her hair and stepped out into the blinding sunlight. The winds were blowing strong today but she hardly noticed the thin fabric of her sort of dress brushing against her legs. She’d grown used to the desert by then. She shielded her eyes and glanced around. There were a few people out and about, several more working and still more she knew remaining inside. That was the safest place to be, after all.

A boy a few years her junior came to her when she stepped into the light. ::Why do you stay here, outsider?:: he asked, tone accusing. ::You are not welcome.::

::No home to go,:: she replied slowly, aware her words were broken. ::You want me go; why?::

He sniffed, expression disdainful. ::Outsiders do not belong here. You should have never come.::

Suppressing a sigh, she looked away. “Believe me, I wish the same thing. But I’m here now and there isn’t anything that can be done about it.”

The boy shook his head, muttering choice words in Arabic as he moved away from her. She ignored him in favor of a brief trip into her happy place.

“Darling, it’s so good to see you again,” her mother cooed, reaching forward to gently tuck a stray blonde hair behind her ear.

Her father grunted his agreement, turning the page of his paper.

Her brother poked her in the side. “It’s always so boring without you, kiddo,” he complained with a teasing grin.

Squirming out of the way, she glared. “You’re just sore that you can’t pester Mom and Dad.”

“Well, duh,” was his intelligent response.

She gave them a sad smile. “I have to cut it short. I’ll be back soon, promise.” One last fond look, then she closed her eyes…

Blinking her eyes open, she saw a young girl looking at her with a curious expression. ::What are you doing?:: she asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

::No thing,:: she replied, trying to force a smile. ::I think.:: She pointed to her head to emphasize.

The little girl grinned. ::Boring!:: she announced. ::Come play with me, pale skin.::

Now her smile came easier, though she hated to disappoint the girl. ::I no can, child. I want to sleep and your father no like.::

Pouting, the child gave a nod and raced off.

She wondered how it would feel to be young and innocent again. How it would be if she could see her family in the flesh instead of in waking dreams.

An older woman carrying a heavy burden passed. She moved forward and took the basket from her, waving off her objections with a kind smile. ::Help?:: she offered in a placating tone. It would be so nice to feel useful, if only for a minute.

The woman smiled, nodding her consent. She followed the woman to a hut in the outskirts of their village, placing the burden on her small wooden table inside. ::Thank you,:: the woman told her sincerely.

It was the sincerity that touched her the most. ::You are welcome,:: she said quietly, uncertain why her eyes were suddenly tearing.

She was about to leave when the old woman grabbed her wrist suddenly. ::Why did you come here? Does your family not miss you?::

Again, the sincerity moved her. ::I no have family. Family think…:: here, she mimed that she was dead by a shot to the head.

The horrified expression on the woman's face was all the confirmation she needed that the message had been received. ::And you do not tell them the truth?:: the woman asked curiously.

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to burden the lady but it seemed wrong to lie to her. She was just so tiny and kind. Reminded her of her grandmother, if not a bit younger. ::I am to be soon. Want hurt them less.::

Now the woman appeared concerned. ::You are dying?::

She looked sadly at her hands. “Sometimes I think I'm already dead,” she whispered as she nodded.

The old woman placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. ::I am sorry to hear that,:: she said kindly. ::Is that why you came here?::

She froze momentarily, memories racing through her mind. ::No, I come…:: She shook her head. ::Tall story.:: She emphasized its length with exaggerated gestures.

There was an understanding in the old woman’s eyes that more than crossed cultural lines. ::You will tell me some other time, then,:: she replied easily. ::Thank you, child, for all your help.::

Forcing a smile, she nodded. ::Happy to be helping. Very.:: She was surprised to find she actually meant it, too. The woman had shown her something she’d sorely been missing—kindness. With a wave, she headed out into the hot desert again.

The hike back to her hut wasn’t too long but it gave her time to think. About how she’d been in Mumbai when terrorists attacked. About how she’d landed in the hospital only to find out she was dying. Inoperable brain tumor with no hope. “You could go to America,” the doctor’s interpreter had offered kindly, “but they will tell you the same.” It was then that she’d decided it’d be easier to let her family off the hook than go home only to let them see her die again.

And then she’d come here. Come to this backwards place where she was as much a prisoner as a guest. No money, no language skills, losing more to the tumor each day… there were times she’d questioned her sanity for coming. She never would’ve come herself—never. But at the hospital, she’d had a roommate. A girl her age who went by Gia and they’d bonded over their similar circumstances. Gia was worse off, though (suffering from end stage throat cancer), and soon she was hardly able to speak.

One of her last days in the hospital, Gia had grabbed her urgently. “Find her,” she’d begged. “My father’s mother—tell her of my fate. Please.”

She hadn’t thought much of it when she promised to do just that. She’d wanted to comfort her friend. And she was glad she had, too, because just three days later Gia was gone. The next day, a letter came to her. It was from Gia explaining where to find her aging grandmother and how to get there. How to get to Afghanistan. It even had the Arabic words she was to say spelled out phonically for her. That was the moment she realized how much the promise had really meant.

“Well, shit,” were the first words she spoke as reality sunk in.

Soon she was discharged with explicit instructions to come back for pointless chemotherapy and radiation treatments. She spent what little money she had remaining—because a dead person can’t access ATMs—to travel to the small town in Afghanistan, no questions asked. There were risks, sure, but it wasn’t like she had anything to lose. Her days were already marked. More than that, she’d made a promise to Gia. It was only right that she keep it.

The traveling was rough, getting to the grandmother’s village. There weren’t always roads to travel on or vehicles to travel inside. Food was scarce, water scarcer. And it was so hot but she had to stay covered. Always covered from head to toe. It was the law. (If sweat marks were the new fashion statement, though, she was going to be riding that wave in.) Eventually, she’d arrived. Dehydrated and dirty, exhausted and broken but she made it.

A few words of broken Arabic were all she knew then but, somehow, she found Gia’s grandmother. Then the moment of truth—she read the lines. She read them slowly and carefully, certain the grandmother wouldn’t be able to read them herself. The old woman’s crumpled form was all the confirmation she needed that her message had been received. All that work and for what? Destroying an old woman’s last hopes? Part of her wished she’d never come.

She’d intended to leave then—to leave and never return. She didn’t know where she’d go or to what end (she had no money and she was dying, after all) but there was no reason to stay. Three steps away from the hut, she collapsed. Days later, she woke up on the mat she now called her own in the room that was once Gia’s. Understanding she was ill, the grandmother took her in. No words were ever exchanged, nothing discussed. It just was.

Now the room was hers. She was fed, given water regularly. She tried to contribute—tried to do her part. It was easy at first. She cleaned and lifted things, got water daily and even worked in a field. And she would listen, trying to pick up the language. As the days wore on, though, she grew weaker. She wanted to be strong. Wanted to help because that was what she was sure she was meant to do. But more and more she was a burden. The tumor was winning. And she—she had little fight left in her.

It was strange, she mused as she ducked into the hut that was her home now. Strange to by dying at only twenty-five years old. Strange to be living with strangers in a foreign land. Strange to spend every day trying to speak a language so different from her own. Mostly, though, it was strange to know that she would live out her last days alone. Not physically alone, not really. But she wouldn’t be with her family, the people she loved. And she always thought she’d have more time…

The hut was empty inside, so she headed for her room. Sometimes she wondered where the clothes came from. Were they Gia’s? They couldn’t be the grandmother’s—they were far too big to fit her. And the food—how did she pay for it? Especially now that she had an extra mouth to feed. She’d never seen the old woman work, not once. And there were rarely visitors to their hut, though she attributed that more to her presence than anything else. (People fear what they don’t understand, after all.)

Weeks bled into months and still she didn’t understand. Didn’t know how the society worked. Didn’t know why they were so anxious about her or if they’d ever trust her. Mostly, she wondered where all the fabulous U.S. aid and military assistance was. They were in the deserts of Afghanistan. Wasn’t there a war here? If there was, she couldn’t see it. Sometimes she wondered if anything had even changed for this village when the Taliban were kicked out.

Occasionally she’d have dreams about her cousin the marine suddenly appearing. He’d be handsome in his regimentals, she was certain. Probably all business with shorn hair and a burned nose. (He was fair skinned like her, after all.) She wondered what he’d say when he saw her. If he’d recognize her. If he’d believe it was her. And what would she do? Would she hide from him or embrace him? Would it even make a difference, either way?

He never came, though. No one did. No one searched for her, no one visited. No one except the woman she’d helped. Her name was Karimah and she was a mother of two men around her age who’d run off to join the fight years before. She didn’t know if they were alive or dead, but Karimah was optimistic. That was her way. Full of hope and kind words. Always had something to say to bring up the spirits of those around her.

Even as she lay growing sicker, Karimah would visit. The grandmother, too, began bringing food into the room. It was hard to sit up. She was in pain, so much pain. There were no drugs, no help. ::I feel to die,:: she told them softly one day. ::Sorry to hurt me but more sorry if to hurt you.:: She knew full well what it was like to feel helpless. That was what it had been like in Mumbai. What it felt like as her body began failing her. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Then one day a new person came to visit her—a man. He was dressed oddly, she thought, though her pain made it difficult to open her eyes for long periods of time. The man spoke in a language she didn’t know—maybe French, she thought. He gave the grandmother something and left. Later, Karimah and the grandmother argued. She wanted to stop them but her voice wouldn’t come. Her throat barely opened wide enough to breathe.

She coughed and they stopped. Karimah brought her a bowl of broth and helped her eat. Her expression was sadder than she ever remembered seeing it before. Even the grandmother had a forlorn look on her face. She cracked a smile to ease the tension—her first in days, maybe even weeks. The pain made it hard. But the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. In fact, she felt tired. Karimah laid her head down gently and both women bowed before exiting.

That night she slept a dreamless sleep. The morning came and she didn’t wake up. She never woke up. The grandmother had her buried properly. There was only a stone to mark it—no one knew enough in the village to read her name off the items still on her person. They were stolen and sold quickly, anyway, their value being great on the black market. Soon only the rock and the bench she’d carved remained to show that she’d ever been there.

Not long after her death, soldiers came into the town. Routine check, they called it. The villagers had more colorful words. They visited several of the huts, including the grandmother’s. The bench in one of the small rooms caught one’s eye and he gave it a closer look. “Huh,” he muttered, heading to the main room. He tried speaking to the grandmother in English but she only scolded him in Arabic, clearly not understanding a word he said.

That night, one of his buddies asked him what was bothering him.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, eating his rations and dreaming of a filet minion. “There was just this bench in an old woman’s hut and it had English words carved on it. It was weird, y’know?”

The men agreed it was weird. One wanted to know what it said.

He closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the words. “There were lots of random words and sentences ‘bout strength and shit but there was one part...” He could see it in his mind now: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. “It was the Serenity Prayer. I realized I hadn’t thought ‘bout it since I last saw my cousin Dana.”

“Yeah? Been a long time since you saw her?” another soldier asked.

He glanced back down at his rations. “Yeah an’ it’ll be longer still ‘til I see her again.” The questioning looks were all it took for him to elaborate—“She died in the Mumbai attacks.” His friends muttered apologies and condolences, then they went back to eating. He lost his appetite. Cleaning up, he wondered if his cousin ever found her serenity, in this life or the next. He hoped she did. Later, before bed, he prayed for that very thing.

That night was the first sound sleep he had since coming to the desert. In the morning, he thought Dana might be smiling down on him from somewhere up above. And that made him walk just a little bit taller.

Some end thoughts:I purposely didn't name the character until after her death for two reasons--style choice and to separate her from her surroundings. She's nameless to all that know here kind of thing. Also, the ending feels a bit weak to me but I had to stop it somewhere. Maybe earlier? Also, the title feels a bit weak but I really like the serenity prayer (and that's coming from a non-Christian).

01. and guess how long it took; I can do anything that I want, 'cause look

Okay, so I spontaneously changed my mind. (Shocking.)

I've decided to Christen this my writing blog. I shall post unedited, half-finished works just because I can. Sometimes things may be finished or links may be put up to find the finished products.

Why?

Well, there is really no rhyme nor reason. It simply is. Because I can. And I'm all about doing things that I can do. Or something equally eloquent, I'm sure.

Since I doubt anyone will ever read this, I honestly don't know why I'm rambling on about this. Must be all the caffeine I don't drink. But, at any rate, here we are. Me and my crazy pants are informing the interwebz of our purpose.

So now you know, weblings. Do what you will with this kernel of knowledge. Surely it will change many a life. (Or, you know, not. Whatever.)

So on with it! Expect random spurts, little sense and basically no personal stuff. I have other journals for such things, my pretties.

Um, yes. As you were.