The Golden Years

by Fancycatz

Bones creak and snap as I rise to my feet. I lean heavily on my cane as I shuffle to the door. Whoever rang the bell is now leaning on it.

"Hold yer horses," I mutter to myself.

I'm not nearly as fast as I once was. Everything hurts now. Arthritis, the doctor says. All I know is that it's hell to get old. The door appears to be miles away even though I know it's only thirty steps. I contemplate simply sitting back down and ignoring the bell. But I know I can't do that. I straighten up as best I can and slide one foot in front of the other, gritting my teeth against the pain and stiffness.

Old age never occurred to us. Being the first generation of mutants, there was no way for us to know. We sort of assumed that the powers that gave us our strength and set us apart would remain a part of us always. After a while it didn't take us long to see that being a mutant also meant we aged slower. I think we all thought we were immortal. I know I did. It didn't matter what I did to my body, it always healed. How was I suppose to know what I was doing?

It seems like I've been shuffling forward for an eon and yet the door doesn't seem any closer. I stop to rest, to catch my breath. Breathing was easy once. So easy I never even noticed it. Now I am aware of every breath I take. Each one is a gut wrenching experience, wheezing and rasping like a fish out of water and filled with pain. And if I breath too deep, I start a coughing fit that ends with phlegm, if I'm lucky, blood if I'm not. What's the most ironic is that every one of those pain filled breaths is precious. I count them and between each one I pray that the next one will come. One. Two. Three. Let there be a fourth. Four. Five. Six. Let there be a seventh. It's how I spend my days.

If I could still extend my claws I'd gut the bastard leaning on the doorbell. He knows I hate it when he does that. I asked him once how the hell he was suppose to hear me calling for help if I needed it over the buzzer ringing non-stop. He just smiled in that placating way young people do to old people who they think bitch too much.

It's bad enough to be old, but worse to be thought of as old, to be seen as nothing more than a broken down old man, sitting alone in his tiny apartment, slowly rotting until the day his body final gives up. The kid has no idea what I've seen, what I've done. But then again, most days neither do I.

I shouldn't complain. I'm doing better than most of them. At least I can live alone. Telepaths probably have it the worst. I used to make the long visit to the nursing home to see Jean, despite how painful and tiring it was but after a while I could see there wasn't any point so I stopped. Once the telepathy left, they all developed Alzheimer's. Jean doesn't have a clue where she is or who she is. Or who I am. The saddest part was the day Scott put her in the home. He didn't have any choice. For a while she drifted in and out of lucidity, but she always knew who Scott was. Then she began to forget who he was. She'd get scared and call the police, telling them there was a burglar in her home. Scott would stand beside her while she called, silently crying. After a while, the police got to know her. The last time she called, the dispatcher asked her to put the burglar on the phone. The dispatcher told him that she couldn't keep calling. He had to do something. He was sobbing. He knew, but it killed him. It wasn't just that he didn't want to put her into a home. He'd gone blind and when she was lucid, she took care of him. He knew he couldn't take care of himself. They went into the home together. But after that night she never again knew who he was. It killed him. He couldn't bear to live without her and even though her body was there, she was already gone. He slowly slipped away day by day until he, too, was gone. We buried him three years ago.

The damn door seems to be moving farther away. I look behind me and see that the couch is actually a ways back so I must be making some progress across the room. I try to raise my voice so the kid can hear me over the buzzer. "Knock it off, or I'll knock your block off!" I double over as a coughing fit seizes me. Knew I shouldn't have wasted my breath. The coughs wrack my thin frame. It feels like my lungs are on fire. I feel a lump of phlegm rising and reach for the tissue I keep handy in my pocket. I spit into the hanky and am thankful there is no blood. I wheeze slightly as I try to calm the spasms in my diaphragm. It feels like someone has stuck a red hot poker in my side and I wince as I try to straighten. I must have pulled a muscle with all the coughing. At least I didn't drop the cane. I've learned the hard way that once it's gone, it's gone. I can't bend over enough to get it and if I get down on my knees, I won't be able to get back up again without help.

God, we were so cocky, running around in our spandex, fighting the bad guys, punishing our bodies, pushing them beyond human limits. In some small part of ourselves we must have believed Magneto's crap about homo superior. If we'd stop to think about the fact that despite the mutantcy, we were still human, we might have realized what we were doing. But then again, it never occurred to us that the powers would fizzle out and we'd be left empty, hollow, burnt-out shells of human beings.

I still laugh, as best I can, when I think about the day Hank discovered what was happening to us. I don't know why, but it strikes me funny. It started with me. I was the oldest and I abused my body the worst. I'd get up and everything would ache. After a while I realized this was more than day to day living pain and went to see Hank. It took him some time to unravel it, and by then it was too late for any us. Jean had hit menopause and was starting to see some of the effects. Scott came soon after. It was like watching dominoes fall.

It seems that mutantcy doesn't last forever. The fact that it doesn't start until puberty should have been our first clue. But we didn't think. We found out the hard way that everything you gain at puberty, you lose during menopause. Everything. Like the slow winding down of the other bodily functions, our mutant powers didn't stop all at once. It was a slow, sputtering fizzle. But the powers became so unreliable we gave up trying to use them after a while. And then when the powers were finally gone, they left ruined bodies in their wake.

And then irony of irony, I was almost done in by bone loss. It never occurred to me I might develop osteoporosis. I never thought much about my nutrition. But then I started losing bone density and my bones became so brittle that the adamantium began crushing them. I had my adamantium leeched out of me once and vowed never to do it again. Even when Hank told me I'd die if I didn't, I refused. I would have rather died. Thinking back on it, I wonder if I still wouldn't rather have died. Jean and Rogue cornered me, crying, sobbing fit to be tied if the truth be known, begging me to undergo the procedure. Of course, Hank guaranteed that the procedure would be much more humanely administered than when I'd had it done before. Bullshit. There ain't no way to humanely rip a man's guts out. I gave in, of course. If I had waited much longer, I wouldn't have made it through the procedure. My healing factor gave out shortly after I finished recovering. And not too long after that, I got my first cast when I tripped and fell down the stairs. I will never forget the look on the faces surrounding me as I lay on the floor, stunned. I heard the sharp crack of my leg breaking and felt the shooting pain. They knew before I did what it all meant. I tried to get up, pushed someone, Bobby maybe, who tried to help me up. I told them I'd be fine in a minute, when my healing factor kicked in. But it never did. After several minutes, Hank had pushed through the group and knelt beside me. I saw the look in his eyes and before he even said anything I was afraid.

"Bullshit!" I had growled vehemently.

Hank shook his head.

"Bullshit!" I repeated dazedly. I tried to get up and the pain doubled me over. I was as near to crying as I'd ever been, partly from pain, partly from fear.

Hank had simply set to work, setting my leg and when he pulled it to put the bone back in, I passed out cold. From then on, it had been all down hill.

The buzzer has stopped ringing and I wonder if the kid has left. I curse to myself. If he did, then there won't be any lunch today. And better yet, the EMT's will break down the door. Social Security don't pay enough to replace doors. I try to double time it to the door without setting off another coughing fit.

Sometimes I'm glad Ororo didn't live long enough to see it all. It's better she died in battle, on her feet, in her full glory and health. Remy, most of all, would have broke her heart. He developed Parkinson's. He lost all muscle control. He would simply sit and shake. He tried to hide it for a while. But the night we played poker and he was shaking so bad he couldn't even hold his cards I knew. He had finally dropped his cards on the table with a look of despair so deep I can't even describe it. He had continued to get worse until he couldn't even feed himself. Food would spill everywhere and by the time he got the spoon or fork to him mouth it would be empty. It was the saddest thing I ever saw. What's worse is that he knew it was sad to watch. It killed him to be pitied.

When we heard the gun shot we all knew who it was. We didn't have to go upstairs to his bedroom to know he was dead. We were all in the living room downstairs and we all froze for a second when we heard it. I was the first to speak. I nodded in satisfaction and said softly, "Good for him." Jean slapped me. Hard.

It's ironic that as much as I admired him for putting an end to it, I couldn't bring myself to do the same. There was a time when every night before bed I would unwrap my sword and finger it, thinking, wishing, contemplating. Sometimes for hours. Inevitably I would wrap it up and stuff it back into the closet. Now I couldn't even lift the damn thing if I wanted to. Time is the suicidal's enemy it would seem. What's really odd is I'm much worse off now, and I never think of killing myself. I think of death often enough, wish for it even, but never consider killing myself. I don't know why that is. I'm all alone now. There's no one else left. At least, no one that visits. I don't blame them. I wouldn't visit either if I was in their place. Too painful. You'd think the tedium would drive me to tears, in the least. But I've become good at waiting. Another irony.

I sigh with relief. I've reached the door. I open the door and glare at the grinning face there. "You're an idiot, you know that?" I growl at him..

He just smiles and breezes into my apartment, carrying a wrapped container. I sniff, trying to see if I can tell what's in it. But my sense of smell is just about gone. All I can smell is the overwhelming amount of after shave the kid is wearing.

"Why you got to lean on the buzzer like that?" I snap, shuffling back across the room.

"Got to make sure you're awake, Mr. Logan." He grins again. He waits until I'm settled back in the chair. Then he takes out a napkin printed with the Meals on Wheels logo and places it in my lap. He takes off the cover and I see meat loaf, carrots, mashed potatoes, and a brownie. He opens a carton of milk and puts a straw in it. I growl.

"You can keep the damn straw."

He just grins. "Anything else I can do for you today?"

I shake my head. He grins even more widely. "See you tomorrow then." He crosses the room and I watch him go. He's so young. His muscles work so well. He seems to float when he walks. And he seems so quick. Was I ever that fast? He's gone before I can finish the thought. With a sigh I turn to my meal. It takes some effort to manipulate the knife and fork. My hands are so gnarled from the arthritis I can barely hold the utensils. I think about the sword under my bed for a minute when the knife slips from my hand. With a sigh, I pick it up again.

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