[Plot] Perchance to dream.
Chuck Palahniuk once wrote, "You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be. Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you reenlist." Me? I've never been good at choices. My very nature prevents me from doing anything with haste. I go back and forth and back and forth over any given action, wallowing in indecision until the very last possible moment. The Hamlet of the mutant world, I called myself. It was one of my more....inspired turns of phrase. Sixty-two days, it's taken me, to come to this decision. Sixty-two days, it's taken me, to make this choice. 'Cause you see, sixty-two days ago I held a gun to my head. Sixty-two days ago I wanted to die.
And sixty-two days later...that hasn't changed.
I promised Rogue a month. I gave her two. I promised Layla I would wait. I can't. Back home, I could keep and break promises simultaneously, the ultimate win-win situation. That's not an option here. That will never be an option here. They called this place a blank slate. They lied.
Jamie Madrox stood at the top of the large waterfall, his arms held rigidly to his sides. He had fashioned a makeshift harness out of some material found in the clothes box, and on that makeshift harness he had secured rocks. He had not been particularly discerning in terms of the rocks' size, but most of them were no larger than his hand. Divers wore weight harnesses to counteract the buoyancy of their diving equipment. Jamie Madrox wore a weight harness to ensure he wouldn't be breathing air again anytime soon.
Drowning wasn't exactly the first thing I considered. In fact, I've gone on record as saying it's one of the few ways I wouldn't want to go out. Fortunately, hypocrisy and I go way back. Drowning's a last resort...which is fitting, I suppose, because it's the last thing I ever intend on doing.
It's funny. A gun goes missing, people notice. A few rocks, though... Well, no one's the wiser.
Thirty years ago to the day, Jamie Madrox was born. Thirty years later to that very same day, he intended to die. There was, he thought, a certain poetry to it all. The perfect bookend to an imperfect life. And so it was that he looked down at the crashing water below and murmured an apology to a nonexistent audience.
It would all be over soon.
And sixty-two days later...that hasn't changed.
I promised Rogue a month. I gave her two. I promised Layla I would wait. I can't. Back home, I could keep and break promises simultaneously, the ultimate win-win situation. That's not an option here. That will never be an option here. They called this place a blank slate. They lied.
Jamie Madrox stood at the top of the large waterfall, his arms held rigidly to his sides. He had fashioned a makeshift harness out of some material found in the clothes box, and on that makeshift harness he had secured rocks. He had not been particularly discerning in terms of the rocks' size, but most of them were no larger than his hand. Divers wore weight harnesses to counteract the buoyancy of their diving equipment. Jamie Madrox wore a weight harness to ensure he wouldn't be breathing air again anytime soon.
Drowning wasn't exactly the first thing I considered. In fact, I've gone on record as saying it's one of the few ways I wouldn't want to go out. Fortunately, hypocrisy and I go way back. Drowning's a last resort...which is fitting, I suppose, because it's the last thing I ever intend on doing.
It's funny. A gun goes missing, people notice. A few rocks, though... Well, no one's the wiser.
Thirty years ago to the day, Jamie Madrox was born. Thirty years later to that very same day, he intended to die. There was, he thought, a certain poetry to it all. The perfect bookend to an imperfect life. And so it was that he looked down at the crashing water below and murmured an apology to a nonexistent audience.
It would all be over soon.