I Am Not a Mutant
A/N I own anyone with the last name of Campbell: Bonnie, Meghan, their parents, and later you'll hear about Zoe. Everyone else, including Natalie, belong to Marvel. I got the names and powers from Wikipedia's list of "Mutants with no known squad."
A couple of warnings: this is an OC-centric fanfic, with only light references to the Marvel characters you know and love. Secondly, this writing format is supposed to be as if the main character was talking aloud, which gets a little weird at times. I'd like to keep it this way, but I am open to suggestions, constructive criticism, and inquiries on clarification all the same.
In short, I am grateful to those who read and review.
It isn't quite as picturesque as those Hollywood westerns. For starters, there aren't any bars immediately visible. There is a hefty green door, with its green paint peeling in the corner. There isn't a window amongst the cream colored cinder blocks for bars to be placed, either.
Perhaps this is for the better. Western prisoners wouldn't have beds this nice. I try bouncing on the bed a little from my sitting position, attempting to convince myself the spongy bed is superior to the dirt or prickly hay of the frontier.
Alright, forget the bed. Surely I'll enjoy more privacy than the historic outlaws were given.
This argument is cut down before I can finish my thought, spying a camera peeking out discretely from the corner. I can't decide whether to be grateful or insulted by the subtly of a camera, as opposed to the straight-forward nature of having a cage anyone could view.
Instead, I slowly lay onto the mattress, trying not to shiver as I feel my body sink into its material. I stare at the smudge marks on the ceiling, and swear if you squint, it looks just like Alaska.
What about the less obvious? I won't be lynched, as was dramatized in those Westerns. Then I become conscious of the plastic bracelet that currently encompasses my left ankle, hidden from plain view by the baggy, cotton leg of the bright orange scrubs she I currently adorn.
Pulling my leg back, I gingerly trace the banding, feeling the edges and tracing the lettering indented on the side. Mutant suppressing technology, or at least that's what they said. I can't remember how long this stuff had been out. Did they have this stuff out two years ago? Ten?
I make a conscious effort to unknit my eyebrows that had become so furrowed in the course of my thoughts. Did it matter, really? I feel my face flush again. Of course it mattered, look at where it landed me now? Have I already forgotten about Natalie Wood?
I feel my heart drop, like a stone- a really heavy one, maybe like one of those boulders if you were to tip over into the Grand Canyon. It has been years since I heard from my friend. Did I stop seeing her because of the distance? New York was far away after all, not to mention winter was a pain in the ass, or was it because she was a m-
"Stop!" I shout to myself, bolting up. I startle myself with my own abruptness, dully noting the rapid pounding in my chest creep back into a quieter rhythm. …2…3…4, ….2….3….4…. and so on. My verbal protest does nothing to stop the guilt from washing over me. "It wasn't my fault," I whisper, trying to sooth myself. Really, it isn't any one's fault that my best friend in the whole world is a
Who said it was a fault, I almost growl aloud. I stand up, and try pacing. There isn't much room to pace in a six by six cell, however. I feel like one of those screen savers on the computer, where the little symbol or whatever it is bounces off the dark edges of the computer screen.
I sit back on the bed, feeling physically drained and emotionally withdrawn. Is this some of it was a side effect of the mutant suppressor, or if it was solely from emotional shock? Fleetingly, I wonder how much research had been done and made available on the consequences of these technologies when applied to humans.
"Oh, Meghan," I hear my own voice croak in the cell, and am briefly reminded of the toads I used to catch, "Why didn't I listen to you?" Because if I had, maybe I wouldn't be lying in jail, comparing my voice to a toad, and thinking that smudges resemble Alaska.
Meghan tried to warn me. She tried to show me the news, and explain how the recent so called "Mutant Uprising" would leave the population paranoid. She tried to tell me that my energy work had real results. "I'm not that good," I had tried to protest, thinking my sister was trying to pester me.
Only now do I see that my sister wasn't trying to give me idle compliments.
I learned Reiki, a type of energy work, over the summer. It is a teachable, learnable, although relatively misunderstood healing art. I had a nice teacher. What was his name? No wait, it was a her… Candice. She always wore those purple pants. How did she get so many purple pants? Did they have a market dedicated to people like Candice who feel driven always to wear purple?
They took me when I was working on Peter; he had complained of back pain. I feel bad about his door. I don't know why, but law enforcement chose to kick it down. How much does it take to repair a door? Well, you might need a new door knob.
I'm beginning to feel a loathing towards my so called "talent." Intuition is severely misunderstood, and difficult to understand, because lacks clear-cut definitions, and there is no way to put it into measurement, at least not that I know of.
So they called me a mutant instead. As they snapped the handcuffs around my wrists, the police officer said I was being charged for failing to register as a mutant.