by DarkMark

I sit here alone in the mansion, typing.  My tears flow and should make the very ink drip from the pages they repose on, leaving trails of blackness.  But I am using a word processor, so scratch that.

My beloved.  My darling.  My one and only.  My significant other.  My better half.  My anchor.  My coequal spouse.  My fellow mutie.  My sweetie.  My darling.  My poopsie-pie.

Gone.

Cancelled.

Dead, even.

I think.  It isn't easy to kill somebody off in the bunch I'm in, I know.  Look at me.  Well, not literally, because I haven't done my hair yet.  But figuratively look at me.  They thought I was dead, and I was just at the bottom of the ocean.  Like a woman encorpsed by the Mafia and sunk below the billows, never to be seen again in this lifetime.

My friends thought I was dead.  That is why they never sent sympathy cards.

In the meantime, my time was being beaten by a hussy who had Phoenix powers and who destroyed a planet of living vegetables when she had PMS.  Her sin was great.  The stench of burning asparagus filled the galaxy.  For such cookery, she was condemned to death, and she died.

And they all thought it was me.

I cry again.  Well, I haven't ever stopped, but I cry with renewed gusto.

Especially when I remember how I asked Scott how she was, and he said, "Fantastic."  I threw him out of bed telekinetically.

I pause and go for another roll of Bounty.  Now, my eyes freshly wiped, I begin again.

Death has always walked hand-in-hand with the X-Men.  Her hand is cold.  The Mimic first felt it, when he sucked gamma rays straight out of an unfiltered Hulk.  Then Thunderbird, the Indian named after Professor X's old jalopy.  He cratered Count Nefaria's aircraft, and could not be distinguished from its components in the end.  The funeral homes refused to enbalm an airplane.  We left it where it was, as a memorial.  Now, children of his tribe go there every year to try and outrace model airplanes.  This is beautiful.

Then me.  Or rather, other-me.  The woman who made a deal with me to take my place, and let me live on the bottom of the ocean.  Since I was going to be toast if I didn't, I chose the path of discretion.  She was the first to say, "Hear me, O X-Men!"  She was not the last.

She died.  They mourned her as me.

Idiots.

Then came the great time when I came back, and Scott left his dishwatery little wife for me.  Wasn't that romantic?  Even if she had to be a spoilsport about it and come back as a goblin queen.  Honestly.  Some people do not know how to lose gratefully.

Then Death took one of the New Mutants.  I can't remember which one, there's a whole passel of ‘em.  But he died by his own hand.  Oh...that's so sad...I run through the rest of the Bounty towels.

I pause, go to the bathroom, and pick up what's left of a case of Charmin.  That may hold me.

Now...NOW...NOW...

I must stop thinking of the National Organization of Women.  This is not the time for that.

Now Scott is...

Scott is...

Is...

S...

Expired.

Passed on.

Joined the bleeding Choir Invisible.

No more.  Kaput.  Finished.  Scrapped.  Obliviated.  Demolished.  Done for.  All through.  Cancelled.  Seeing Elvis.  Cowboyed.  Totalled.  Removed from the register.

Dead, even.

I sob.  I bawl.  I snivel a little.

If I do this much more, I will short out the computer.  I pause, put Charmin over the keyboard, and begin anew.

And yet...and yet...

It is probable that he is not even dead.

It is possible that he has been taken over by an evil entity which will soon turn up in his form, romance me, impregnate me, then destroy a whole planet and kill himself by reflecting his own eyebeams into his face with a mirror.  That should rate a giant-sized issue, as I did.

Then the real Scott will come back.  He damn well better not take as long as I did.

Or it may be like the competiton.  Four Scotts will come back.  One of them, a bratty teenager in dark glasses.  Another, all in metal, except for his visor.  Another, half-cyborg.  And another, the real Scott.  Only he'll be two beings: one, all-red; the other, all-blue.

Well, that'll be all right.  Threesomes never hurt.

Or it may be a continuity implant.  God, I feel like a retcon right now.

Whatever the case may be, I have faith.  Soon, one or more Scotts will walk through the door, and they'd better wipe their feet before they do, because I just finished mopping.

Until then, I will sit.

And I will cry.

I realize I'm hungry.

Gonna go fix a barbecue burger and onion rings.  When I'm done with that, I'll resume crying.

I figure I can get in a good six hours worth before I go to bed.

*******

Nope, folks, this isn't to make anyone mad.  It's just an attempt to write the Weepyfic to End All Weepyfics.  Hope you enjoyed it!

X-Men and other characters in this story are property of Marvel Comics.  No infringement is intended, no money is being made.

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