The Storm

by Zanne

Camelots are such fragile things.

Random violence. It was almost laughable. What had we weathered to get to where we were? Granted, our lives weren't spent facing death every day like some, such as police officers and so forth, but we had our moments. A car accident while my husband was driving home from work. It took him a year to learn to walk again. A near-miscarriage, and a premature delivery. Juliana defied all the doctors' expectations. Then there was me. Just six months ago, I'd woken from a two-month coma.

Stupid move, not bothering to don my helmet.

But it had been such a balmy day, with a light breeze. How many times had I gone horseback riding bareheaded? Too many to count. Nothing could bring back that day, the memories gone under the onslaught of trauma. But it seems I decided to jump a fallen tree -- nothing out of the ordinary for us -- and something went wrong.

But just like with every other crisis we'd faced, Tom and I came out ahead. Now we were in New York City, a place I never dreamed I'd come to -- for the reason I was here. I was competing in a horse show at Madison Square Gardens. Jumper class, with fences as high as six feet. All those hours -- and years -- of training with Sunstorm, my sorrel Hanoverian, had paid off. The competition was tomorrow.

And it was the last thing in the world I gave a damn about.

A cup of coffee sat on the table before me, growing cold, untouched. I couldn't see the booth seat across from me, silent and empty. My eyes were fixed inward, and my world -- seemingly silent but often filled with sounds brought forth from dim subconscious memories -- was filled with screams. Gunshots. And the God-awful silence that followed.

I couldn't remember where we had gone. Some Bennigans or Applebees-isque establishment. They all were the same under the first layer of frosting. It didn't really matter though. Nothing did anymore.

Nothing except the fact that I was finally a statistic. My family was a statistic. Touched by a random act of senseless violence perpetrated by a raving lunatic.

And Friends of Humanity considered Mutants a threat. How laughable. Regular humans can and still do cause more deaths daily on a worldwide basis. People apparently had forgotten about that, caught up in the 'glamor' of attacking those different from them, persecuting them -- and unjustly, perhaps.

Everything else fell between the cracks. The serial killers, the gangs, the drive-bys, they didn't make as much as mutant-related news did in headlines, so people didn't care anymore.

I didn't care anymore, until tonight.

And now, I didn't care about anything anymore. I couldn't even cry. That's when I decided I must be dead inside. How else could I explain this total sense of apathy inside? But deep down, I knew that wasn't true. I was merely in shock. This blissful state of sub-existence would fade in time. The calm before the storm. There was one building up inside of me to match the one that kept the entire day overcast and humid. I was afraid of drowning in the hurricane I knew would be unleashed inside eventually. Afraid of any more pain. My thoughts slowly crept into my purse at my side, way down through the depths to the bottom, to the pocketknife I always carried out of habit.

I knew it was sharp. I used it frequently at home on the ranch. It could slice through leather latigo straps easily.

It could also slice through my wrists.

They were gone. Everyone and everything was gone, and even if they weren't, I just didn't care anymore. My thoughts continued to hold the knife, caressing it almost lovingly, and proceeded to unfold the blade. They picked up the knife, trailing it over my arms with a touch so light, so casual, and I could see the rivers of red that emerged. Rivers that flowed toward the ocean of red not far behind my thoughts in my memories.

It was that simple.

The more I thought about it, the better it sounded. Soon, I felt my hand reaching into my purse, slipping past my billfold, keys, hairbrush, Tom's cellular phone, and other assorted items. When my fingertips brushed the cold metal of the handle, I felt a sense of ... relief? ... settle over me. My hand wrapped around it, withdrawing it, and then rested on my lap, my fingers curled around the handle.

I looked down, seeing the dark gray ends of it peeking out on either side of my small hand; and traces of red that the soap and cold water hadn't entirely scrubbed away. The overhead lights of the coffeeshop glinted on the edges of a silver blade tucked inside.

I guess it's true, every cloud does have a silver lining, I thought to myself, looking at the gleam, and felt the stirrings of a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside.

Then I nearly jumped out of my skin, my heart thudding against my sternum and my fingers tight as a vise around the knife as someone sat down across from me. I looked up, seeing two hands, one flesh and one metal, resting on the table. The flesh one was wrapped around a coffeecup.

Looking up further, my eyes met an equally mismatched pair. One an intense blue, the other faintly glowing with a golden hue. I felt scared, not of the man, not of what he could do to me, but of the fact he was likely a mutant. What if he was a telepath? Was that why he was here? That was what I was afraid of, that he knew what I intended, that he would try to stop me, try to keep me from finding a way out before the storm hit.

I don't know how long we sat there like that, our eyes locked, not saying a word. I couldn't read his expression, his eyes. At least, not at first glance. They seemed inscrutable, a careful mask. Then as I looked deeper -- or was he allowing me to see? -- I saw something that scared me even more. Sympathy. Understanding. Pain.

If you understand, then please don't try to stop me, I thought. He gave no indication he heard.

"What do you want?" My voice felt alien to my lips, as if rusty from disuse. But I had been talking ... earlier? Had it really been that morning when I last laughed?

His eyes left mine just for a moment, flickering down to a point on the table that my knife and hand were beneath. He looked back up at me, and spoke.

I blinked, and bit my lip in a sudden fit of frustration at the silence. He barely moved his lips at all. "Umm." I put the knife back in my purse, raising both hands to above the table. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that, I'm deaf. Could you please repeat?" I asked, in my usual clear, flawless voice, my fingers fluidly falling into casual motions as my spoken words were accompanied by American Sign Language.

He blinked, a bit surprised, and said something else. From experience, I guessed it was most likely an apology. He paused, and frustration knitted his white brows for a moment, then he spoke again, more clearly this time. "I said, that's not the answer."

It took me a few heartbeats for my mind to decipher what was said -- Lip-reading was more of a game of fill in the blanks than anything else, then my eyes narrowed a bit.

"I don't recall giving you carte blanche to interfere in my life," I retorted, picking up my coffee and taking a sip. I tried to keep from making a face. It was cold, and plain. The man motioned for a waitress to bring a fresh cup, then looked back to me.

"Maybe so, but I've always done what I thought was right, regardless to the opinions of others."

"Good. So now maybe you'll understand to shut up and leave me alone."

"First, tell me why you want to kill yourself."

I smirked, feeling my wall of apathy cracking. I desperately tried to pull up a wall of anger and hostility to keep the storm at bay. "Gee, and how'd you come to that conclusion? You a mutant?" I asked, feeling the bitterness inside boiling into my tone. "A telepath?"

His expression darkened, and his eyes grew distant. "Not anymore," he replied quietly.

"Then how do you know if that's what I intend?"

His eyes focused on me, his expression wry, and I thought I saw a trace of humor flicker for just an instant. "I'm still capable of seeing what's right in front of me, and I've seen books harder to read than you."

Everything you think gets written all over your face, my mother told me once, a lifetime ago.

"Lets look at the facts. You're covered in blood, and most people don't use that as a fashion statement. Your eyes are shell-shocked. You're holding a pocketknife. I saw you pull it out of your purse. It doesn't take a genius to do the math."

"What difference does it make to you?" I asked him.

That question seemed to startle him almost, and he looked thoughtful. "No difference, I guess," he replied truthfully. "But suicide's never the answer. Even when nothing seems to matter, there's always more reasons for living, no matter how bad the pain is."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed the sugar jar, dumping in a generous amount. "Don't try to talk to me about pain," I snapped, still pouring the sugar. His eyes left mine and widened slightly as the coffee level actually moved upward almost to the brim. I slammed the jar down, and started stirring carefully. "You have no idea what my life has been like. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of hurting, and even more, I'm sick of having moments of happiness doled out onto my plate by some miser, feeling like Oliver Twist begging for more food, feeling like I have to pay with a day of pain for each minute I'm happy. And you have no idea what today's been like, so don't presume to lecture me about pain!"

He raised his hand, motioning for me to lower my voice as he looked around the coffeeshop. Then he looked back at me, and his gaze was hard enough that I flinched. "You want to talk about pain?" he asked, his eyes hard as steel. "You want to make comparisons? I don't think you do."

"I just watched my husband and our baby girl get gunned down in front of me tonight," I said softly. "I...." My voice cracked as my shield of anger started to crumble. Desperately, I yanked it back up. "Do you have any idea what that's like?" I snapped.

This time, his eyes weren't hard, but sympathetic. "Do I?" he asked. "I held my wife as she died, a huge gaping wound in her chest" -- his eyes were distant, looking through me, past me, for a moment -- "and our son was kidnapped, raised by a man who hated me. He grew up trying to kill me. Finally, someone had to kill him before he hurt any more people. So ... tell me. Do I have any idea what that's like?" He broke his gaze away from mine and I would have sworn I saw him swallow hard and blink a bit as he looked out the window, raising the coffeecup to his lips.

"I don't want to face it," I whispered and my eyes started to burn. It's starting to rain, I thought, seeing droplets of water being to hit the glass windows. Damn him for breaking through the walls. He looked at me, his gaze hard again, challenging.

"Is that the only reason you want to die?" he asked. "Just to escape the pain?"

I nodded slowly.

"It's not fun, is it?" he asked. "Hurting."

I shook my head.

"Were your husband and your daughter the only two people on the face of this earth who gave a damn about you?"

Damn you. I shook my head slowly again, feeling something catch in my throat.

"Have you tried contacting any of them?" I shook my head for the third time.

"Then take a moment, and look at what you're feeling, then think about how they might feel if they find out you killed yourself without trying to turn to them first."

My voice caught and broke several times as I tried to speak, his face blurring as the burning sensation in my eyes grew worse. "Why are you doing this?" I whispered.

"I don't know," he replied. "I saw a woman sitting here, covered in dried blood, wearing an expression I know all too well, and while whatever happened to put that look on your face I couldn't prevent, I could try to stop the chain reaction. There's no pain so bad you can't live through somehow."

"You ever think about it?"

A wry expression crossed his face. "I think if the people who knew me heard me say 'yes', they'd be shocked speechless. But yes, even several times a day at one point. But back then, there was always too much to do, too many people depending on me, counting on me. Too many responsibilities. So I buried myself in what I had to do, keeping people at an arm's length, and let myself only care about the job."

"What changed that?" I asked quietly, the tears fading into the background under wall of curiosity.

"I don't know. It's like I woke up one day, and realized ... people cared about me. When my sole reason for continuing was my life's purpose, I didn't care if I lived or died. Now ... I do." He paused, sipping his coffee. "And I think that surprised the hell out of me. The fact that knowing even just one person cared, and the impact that made on my desire to live."

I nodded slowly, my mind traveling over a variety of friends -- family even -- across the States. Friendships I'd forged through AOL that had proven stronger and more stable than just about any other friendship I'd had in my life. I didn't have to think. I knew it would crush them if I died. I scared so many of them long ago when I wanted to die in a fit of severe depression.

"Why don't you go talk to someone?" he asked.

"Nobody lives close by."

"Call them?" I looked at him for a moment. "Well ... I didn't bring my TDD, but I think the hotel might have one."

He blinked. "What is that?"

"Telecommunications Device for the Deaf -- a phone of sorts where you type instead of talk. Either that, or access to the Internet." Then I stopped and shook my head. "Forget it. I'll just go home and talk to them once I get there."

"Where're you from?"

"Texas."

"Long way from home. Vacation?"

"Competition."

"What do you mean?"

"I was supposed to compete tomorrow night in a horse show at Madison Square Gardens."

"Then why don't you?"

I looked at him.

"I'm serious.

People may be dead, but you're not one of them. You don't have to stop living just because they did. My wife died a long time ago, and I just started realizing that in the past few years."

"My heart's not in it."

"Did it take work to get here? To get into this competition?" I nodded. "Do you think your husband would want to see you throw away what? Years of work?"

I sighed and shook my head. "But I don't want to now. It'll just be me and Sun. We've never won any competition if there's no one in the stands for us. Dunno why that is. Every competitor has their jinx."

"If I come, will you ride?"

I blinked and looked at him, feeling faintly amused in spite of myself. "You don't even know who I am."

He held out his hand -- the right one, the one that was flesh. "Easily taken care of. I'm Nathan."

I sighed, and felt it come suspiciously close to a chuckle, even if it was a fatigued, hysterical one, and slipped my hand in his, shaking it. "Zanne."

"And if you want, I'll help you make phone calls if you need it. Maybe one of your friends or family can come out here as well."

I looked at him for a long moment, then turned to my purse. I saw the knife setting carefully on top of everything, and I studied it. Setting my jaw, I pushed it back down to the bottom where it belonged, and pulled out the cell phone and my numbers book.

"Please?" I asked quietly, looking back up at him. A flicker of a smile crossed his face.

"Be glad to." He took the cell phone, and started dialing the number I pointed out for him.

Outside, the rain started coming down heavier, and lightning was reflected off the windows of some of the taller buildings.

"Hello? I'm calling for Zanne. Do you...," he started to ask as the phone was answered at the other end. I turned to look out the window.

I wasn't afraid of the storm anymore.

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