12-31-2006, 05:34 AM
Hello, my name is Kitty Pryde and I carry the Mutant X Gene.
A young woman laid sprawled out on her comforted bed, her feet resting on her wooden headboard as she rested on her stomach; hand upon a ballpoint pen. In front of her was a hardcover journal, of which she was writing in with swift strokes. In spite, or perhaps because of, this handwriting the words were neat; in flawless cursive. She wrote rapidly, as if no effort was being commenced on her part; turning page after page before reached one more critical point.
Am not a monster? A Modern Prometheus that haunts every Childs dream? I can't tell, although my actions speak against it. The self perpectualism of the media is self critical in the aspect of my morality. They show us as diseased children, beings with no sense of right or wrong. When in truth we are just as mortal as they are; bound by the shackles of our own immortality. Not only this, but we must abide by fates decree; that we must wrestle with out gifts for all our existence. For some this is a plague; for others a harbinger of fortune.
Kitty paused, sighing. Sitting up on her bed the teenager grasped for the peach on the end table, taking a small nibble out of the peach, as if her teeth were caressing the fruit. Removing a rather larger chunk the female figure set it down once more, returning to her writing. Flicking her wrist against the paper the dust was removed, the point of her pen brought down on the surface. Written words flowing once more with the ease of a philosophical genius.
The media upsets me. I don?t like to believe that I need to be cured of my symbiotic heritage, nor that I should be looked down upon by every human I meet. Its infuriating. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I feel so ravaged by the effects of the populace that I think dark thoughts. Things that I shouldn?t be thinking. How I am dirty; unclean; unwashed. As if my very existence was a virus. But despite what the majority thinks there are a few I can trust with my so called *gift*. There are my close friends, Jennifer, Heather, and Nicole.
She paused, looking out the window of her room. The constellation of Orion was clear in the night sky, the belt a shiny semblance of her dreams. Smiling Kitty returned to her work, once more lost in deep thought as she relaxed on her stomach.
They have been my friends for a long time, since I was very little. We have always been there for one another, and I hope it shall always remain so.
Jennifer is the athletic one in our group, the stereotypical hard working sapient who seeks happiness in her labor. This isn?t a bad thing of course. She is far better then any one of us in sports, and she is funny to brag. She helped me through my puberty; when my powers began to manifest themselves. Jenny was my only crutch for some time, helping me explain normally unexplainable incidents without revealing the true culprit behind the incident. She is my best friend.
Heather is a rather talkative girl, always relying on her words to push her through to see the next day. Very pretty, very persuasive. While I love her dearly, her loud mouth can get me and my friends into trouble at times, resulting in the strange phenomena that are the usage of my power.
Nicole is well, Nicole. Self explanatory.
I?m considered the baby of the group. They all take care of me, and protect me. I?m the one who has the *gift* and yet, I?m the one who needs to be protected. The ironic ness of the statement does not stem from the fact that I am the one who should be protecting them, but from the fact that I am considered, or would be considered, a monster by many. And yet, here I am, protected by a blind girl, a talkative woman, and a sport addicted teenager. That is what makes me laugh.
Looking at the alarm clock she realized the time. Cursing the fact that it was a schoolnight and that her boundries on her sleeping habits were limited, she prepared for sleep.
Goodnight Diary.
Retrieving herself from her stomach Kitty sat up on her bed, turning off the lamp that was placed on her end table. Covering herself with her blankets the teenager buried herself into her pillow, finding peace in the suffocating embrace that was sleep.
A young woman laid sprawled out on her comforted bed, her feet resting on her wooden headboard as she rested on her stomach; hand upon a ballpoint pen. In front of her was a hardcover journal, of which she was writing in with swift strokes. In spite, or perhaps because of, this handwriting the words were neat; in flawless cursive. She wrote rapidly, as if no effort was being commenced on her part; turning page after page before reached one more critical point.
Am not a monster? A Modern Prometheus that haunts every Childs dream? I can't tell, although my actions speak against it. The self perpectualism of the media is self critical in the aspect of my morality. They show us as diseased children, beings with no sense of right or wrong. When in truth we are just as mortal as they are; bound by the shackles of our own immortality. Not only this, but we must abide by fates decree; that we must wrestle with out gifts for all our existence. For some this is a plague; for others a harbinger of fortune.
Kitty paused, sighing. Sitting up on her bed the teenager grasped for the peach on the end table, taking a small nibble out of the peach, as if her teeth were caressing the fruit. Removing a rather larger chunk the female figure set it down once more, returning to her writing. Flicking her wrist against the paper the dust was removed, the point of her pen brought down on the surface. Written words flowing once more with the ease of a philosophical genius.
The media upsets me. I don?t like to believe that I need to be cured of my symbiotic heritage, nor that I should be looked down upon by every human I meet. Its infuriating. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I feel so ravaged by the effects of the populace that I think dark thoughts. Things that I shouldn?t be thinking. How I am dirty; unclean; unwashed. As if my very existence was a virus. But despite what the majority thinks there are a few I can trust with my so called *gift*. There are my close friends, Jennifer, Heather, and Nicole.
She paused, looking out the window of her room. The constellation of Orion was clear in the night sky, the belt a shiny semblance of her dreams. Smiling Kitty returned to her work, once more lost in deep thought as she relaxed on her stomach.
They have been my friends for a long time, since I was very little. We have always been there for one another, and I hope it shall always remain so.
Jennifer is the athletic one in our group, the stereotypical hard working sapient who seeks happiness in her labor. This isn?t a bad thing of course. She is far better then any one of us in sports, and she is funny to brag. She helped me through my puberty; when my powers began to manifest themselves. Jenny was my only crutch for some time, helping me explain normally unexplainable incidents without revealing the true culprit behind the incident. She is my best friend.
Heather is a rather talkative girl, always relying on her words to push her through to see the next day. Very pretty, very persuasive. While I love her dearly, her loud mouth can get me and my friends into trouble at times, resulting in the strange phenomena that are the usage of my power.
Nicole is well, Nicole. Self explanatory.
I?m considered the baby of the group. They all take care of me, and protect me. I?m the one who has the *gift* and yet, I?m the one who needs to be protected. The ironic ness of the statement does not stem from the fact that I am the one who should be protecting them, but from the fact that I am considered, or would be considered, a monster by many. And yet, here I am, protected by a blind girl, a talkative woman, and a sport addicted teenager. That is what makes me laugh.
Looking at the alarm clock she realized the time. Cursing the fact that it was a schoolnight and that her boundries on her sleeping habits were limited, she prepared for sleep.
Goodnight Diary.
Retrieving herself from her stomach Kitty sat up on her bed, turning off the lamp that was placed on her end table. Covering herself with her blankets the teenager buried herself into her pillow, finding peace in the suffocating embrace that was sleep.
![[Image: chidorihp1qgrq6.gif]](http://img228.imageshack.us/img228/3382/chidorihp1qgrq6.gif)