All My tears Ricochet

When I wake up to your footsteps

As you get up out of bed

They make a song that sounds so simple

The cold, brisk walk outside the car made Quentin pull his hoodie closer to him. His hood was drawn up tight. The light drizzle made the dead of winter miserable. It still did not stop him from going to the graveyard where his sister was buried.

All I need to know is

Where to stop

Take my hand and show me forever

The sound of dead crunching leaves beneath his feet was the only thing the telepath heard as he held on to a single red rose. His fingers that dawned on gloves - were wrapped around the stem. The memories went by in the back of his head, threatening to make him break down before getting to the tombstone.

To this paper and this pen

And write down every letter

To every word we've ever said

His emotions felt as dull as the grayish sky above, it was a perfect scene for coming to a tombstone... It set the mood perfectly. Her face came across his vision. Her smile, her warmth, her hugs, everything that made her - the memories were forcing him to remember. Damned his thoughts, they betrayed him. Her laughter echoed in his head as he near his destination. His heart ached as he took one step after another.

Let's write our story

And let's sing our songs

Let's hang our pictures on the wall

Xavier's headache was gone. Normally, he suffered from them. Whether it be from stress or lack of sleep, it never seemed to fail. The mutant had been drinking beforehand, which became a daily ritual since his sister's passing. Anything to numb the pain of her not being there.

He stopped feet in front of the kept up the stone and drew a long-winded breath.

". . . What do you say to someone that can't hear you?. . ."

His voice quivered from the emotional guilt from not being able to save his younger sister was weighing down. He wasn't supposed to let her go, not walk the world alone - never to be without him.

"It's not supposed to be this way. We're supposed to bury the old, not the young. . . Why you'd have to leave me, Lela? Maybe if I got there sooner. Maybe if I wasn't so involved in the fucking Mystics. . ."

Large teardrops spilled down his cheeks. A mess didn't describe how he felt inside. His thoughts were scattered as he spoke. His thoughts were just as jumbled around, her remembrances were making this so hard. He didn't want to let go. It hurt too much.

"How am I supposed to live on, like you're not here anymore? I miss you. So much."

All these precious moments

That we carved in stone

Are only memories, after all

His cries just got worse. Too many pent-up emotions. Too much self-accusation. Too much remorse flowed through him. If he was there - if only he could have stopped what had occurred. Survivor's guilt was real for him.

"I'll never forgive myself for not being able to save you, but I promise you. I won't let it happen to anyone else." He swore under his breath as he went to step closer and bend down to place the rose on the ground. Quentin stayed for a few more moments before turning to leave. Still, a broken-down, jumbled disheveled mess.

"I'll be back. Promise."

You know, you gave me hope

But I've got to let go.