This is the last fucking time I’m gonna talk about the goddamned basement arc, I swear, I just gotta get the personal shit off my chest.
Yeah, the shit in the basement arc? It happened to me. Not note for note, word for word, obviously, but almost. It was some of the first shit that hit me, first shit I remembered when I was waking up to being me again. It’s always like that for me, with memories. The pain comes back first.
It was the darkest time in my life that I can remember. The first time I was locked in a basement, when I was a boy, by the bastard who had the gall to call himself my father, I still had hope. Hope that I could escape. Hope that there were better days ahead. My time locked up in Xavier’s basement was hopeless as hell. I felt like I had reached the end of my road. Like that was probably where it ought to end.
The killing urge…. The killing urge was a part of me that was broken. Don’t get me wrong. I love killing. There’s an immense satisfaction to it, a little like sex. Kill for food/money, for territory, for revenge, for a challenge, cause somebody pissed you off. But the killing urge wasn’t about any of those things. If killing is like sex then the killing urge was like true nymphomania. Inconvenient, demanding, painful, and impossible to satisfy.
It was the brainwashing layered over the fucking abuse and trauma that did it, I’m pretty sure. Coupled with the natural instincts of my mutation. All those signals going haywire. The labcoat boys wanted me to kill, well they got a killer all right. But what happens to a gun when you stop firing it? That’s what it’s made for. Pavlovian thing. They made it feel good when I killed the targets they gave me, so I’d kill em real good. But then you got a pleasure center of the brain that’s not getting its juice punched any more.
For a while, the contract killings were enough. Kill whoever I got paid to, satisfy the urge. But when something pushes the joy button in your brain, you push it more the worse you feel. And when pushing that button pisses everyone around you off… well, the more I killed the more I wanted to kill, til I just couldn’t fucking stop. And it wasn’t even fun any more. It was just a fucking twitch response to the hurt that happened when I closed my eyes.
Psychics could help. A really good psychic could probably have helped a lot. Birdy helped a lot. (I think she actually spelled it Birdie. Or many I just couldn’t fucking spell. Can’t now, anyway.) Initially I didn’t remember her very well. Considered her just a temp who was helping me out with work, and my addiction. But the more I’ve thought about it the more fucking attached to her memory I’ve gotten, and the more pissed I am that she got killed. And how she got killed. Birdy was a good girl. She didn’t deserve that shit and I wish I hadn’t dragged her into it.
But yeah. The X-men were supposed to help me. Xavier was supposed to help me. They didn’t. They tore me apart and they locked me in a box and they made me feel like I was nothing. Like I was a failure and a monster.
All that time, all those fucking decades and I was the monster locked in the cellar again.
And the X-men were trying to beat god into me just like my daddy.
You call a man a monster enough, you get the monster.
The condescending hypocrisy of it turns my stomach. Makes me want to puke. They stood there all high and mighty and they didn’t help me at all. And they were like fuck anyone who wanted to. Poor Tabitha. That girl had it hard. Rotten daddy, like me. Wanted a big bad scary man who she could actually help. In other circumstances, we probably could have had a really awful fling.
But the circumstances were shit. They locked me in the cellar. They put a leash on me. A literal goddamn leash. Kept me like a fucking dog and didn’t have the common decency to put me down.
I wanted to die for a while then. I really did. I’m not proud of it. I’m Mr. Live Forever, outwit outplay outlast, in that life and this one. Suicide ain’t for me. But I was so goddamn tired and I did not know how to fucking put my demons to rest.
Guess I’m grateful to Logan for resetting my brainmeat with his claws. Wasn’t what he set out to do, I’m sure, but he did me a fucking favor. Helped me heal, eventually anyway. I was still fucked up for a long while. Patterns of behavior don’t just fucking disappear overnight. But I was a lot more in control of myself when X-Factor got a hold of me.
And boy was I pissed the fuck off.