A.N // I felt the need to write tragedy. I personally hate reading sad endings, but its about the only thing I can write. Written at midnight, totally random, and rather badly written. Please be kind if / when you review.

Inspiration : Evanessance

She had always believed that there was a light at the end, that it was white, that the pain vanished. She had believed wrong. The books she had read, the stories she had lived in, they were wrong. There was no peace, there was no flash of your life before death. It wasn't black, it wasn't white. No, it was nothing so painless. Instead, her eyes wide open, she watched the world go around her. She felt the blood soak the ground, she smelled the burning. She felt and saw everything, thought she couldn't react, had not the energy to do anything.

She saw him in her face, felt the tear, only one, spill onto her cheek, felt her friend crushing her hand. She felt hands pressing hard against her chest, trying to stop the rush of what she thought was blood. If she had been able, she would have yelled at them to stop. It hurt, even worse than when the bullet had slammed into her.

Of course, she hadn't felt the bullet hit her. No, she didn't feel anything. She was one moment standing, the next laying on the ground, trying to breath. A few seconds later, when the metal had stopped moving. That was when the pain started. That was when the burning overtook her, when she had let loose the one last blast of sound, when she had let last a scream of pain that was her first and last. Now she let loose not even a whimper. Her screams and sounds were done as she struggled to move.

It hurt, she thought, dimly, giving up the last hope she had of life. It hurt a lot, her heart hurt, even more than she ever believed it could. It wouldn't hurt long, she hoped dimly, hoping, now, for death. She ignored the male pleading with her to stay with them, no longer caring, only hoping for the pain to stop, only hoping for everything to be still and silence.

She closed her eyes, the pain dimming as she did so. Then it stopped hurting, or maybe she was just numb. Numb, her mind told her, her intellectual mind told her, though she didn't really care. She didn't care about anything anymore. She just wanted to sleep, to go back into the dream. She just wanted to sleep. Sleep sounded good. Rest would do her well.


He kept stroking her face, even though he knew she was gone. Her best friend, the complete opposite of her, held her gloved hand tightly, though, really, there was no need for the gloves, not anymore. She could only use her powers if she were alive. And she wasn't alive, not anymore.

He tried not to blame her for it, even though it was partly her fault. The gun had been pointed at him, and she had stepped between him and the barrel, daring the other woman to shoot, to kill. She had called bluff, she had made the gamble, and she had lost. It had cost her her life, but even more than that, it cost him his heart, for that was what she was.

His heart, his love, his reason for living. He hadn't even known it, not until she lay dying on the ground, her blood pooling around her. He had stood there, numb, until he heard the scream. Then he had rushed to her side, panic filling him, his heart breaking, in ways that he didn't know possible. He had had his share of betrayal, but nothing had ever wounded him as the woman who lay on the ground before him, dying.

His heart hurt more than ever thought possible, and he knew he wasn't the only one. Even as the thought flashed through his mind, the thought he wouldn't be mourning alone, a man dropped to his knees next to him. He heard whispers, he heard gasps, as the rest of the team arrived. He turned and glared at the person who touched his shoulder, knowing they were taking her away, were taking her away from him.

He was being irrational, he knew deep in his mind, but he didn't care. He didn't want to move, he never wanted to move again. He only wanted to kneel next to her, to mourn, to whisper for her to come back, to take him with her.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers', his lips to her own. She was still warm, still hot, but he was still cold, still numb.

He had seen his share of bodies, created a few corpses in his days before the X-Men. It didn't matter how many horrors he had seen or created. This was the worst moment of his life, this day of his love dying under him, her eyes growing dim, the pain leeching away as he watched, only to be replaced with a dull nothingness.

He turned around to snarl at the people to leave him alone, to leave them alone. Then he felt nothing, his vision going black. His last thought was that hopefully, they would kill him, though he knew they wouldn't.

They weren't that kind.