Poison Apple

Chapter One: The First Taste

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, though I wish I did, nor do I own any of the Marvel characters.

A/N: I watched X-Men: First Class the other night and got very angry at the discrepancies between the movies and the comics. I even went back to the kids' show and had a silent tirade about the stupid relationship between Shadowcat and Avalanche and the lack of a relationship between Gambit and Rogue. They were always my favorite couple, and even now I seethe at the thought of the movie version of Rogue hooking up with Iceman, of all people, and not the Cajun spice.

After a few minutes of violently wishing my boyfriend had a Cajun accent, I got over my anger and decided I wanted to read the comics. Before, I only read in-depth summaries about my favorite characters, but I realized it's clearly not enough to read a few short sentences about Gambit and Rogue, because their relationship is only a small part in a big, big comic scheme. Even in their online biographies, their relationship is only mentioned every so often, which isn't enough for me.

And since I can't buy the comics or read them online, I decided to go ahead and write a version to satisfy myself.

This will be based loosely on the comics, but since my understanding of them is small, I'm guessing that the most I can promise is that they will have similar backgrounds.

But let me say, they are one tragic couple to begin with. My goal is to make someone, if not me, cry.

Forgive me if things are a little difficult to understand. I've received such criticism before, and I've gone over this chapter twice, hoping to mend it. If it isn't satisfactory, please tell me, and I'll try to fix it. And, yes, criticisms are greatly appreciated. I'm a ridiculously harsh critic, myself, so I bear no grudge on others feeling the same.

Warning: Though the story is rated T, this chapter, and the occasional other, will have an M rating for suggested themes.

-/-

She was only a kid, so the adults assumed she didn't understand.

"Bless yo hah't, sugah." They whispered to her, coddling and petting her like a doll. She might as well have been one, the way they treated her—to be seen, not heard, "Go to bed, sweethah't." "Let the adults tahk, precious."

Of course, there was the rare exception when they realized that maybe she did have something important to say, "Come here, dahling, an' tell the adults wat ya saw."

How was it that adults, who were once children themselves, failed to realize that kids were more perceptive than they realized? In fact, oftentimes, children had more insight than adults. They were foolish to think otherwise, but she had long since suspected that age bloated adults with superiority, which hindered their ability to understand. They assumed, because they were older and more experienced, that children were blind to the ways of the world. Hence, every time she tried to explain something—anything—they shushed her, patted her head, and sent her back to her room. They knew better (according to them) and weren't willing to let her intrude on their adamant belief.

Adults know, know, know better, after all.

"Wat happen'd, sugah? Tell the nice mistah policeman wat happen'd."

Yet they asked her questions. She hadn't been there, so how could she have known? If they knew everything, why didn't they know? Why weren't they listening to her?

Because adults know.

She fidgeted in her seat, the room suddenly growing cold. Was it this cold earlier? Did someone change the temperature? Maybe Bo did; she wouldn't be surprised if he played a prank like that.

Yes, Bo. He liked pranks. This was a prank, right? It must be. All a prank. So was everything that had been happening the last month. It wasn't real. It was all an elaborate game to fool her. Any moment now, Bo and Sarah were going to jump into the room, wearing big grins and yelling, "Surprise! April fools!"

But the door remained closed. No one jumped in, and she felt embarrassed that she had let herself believe miracles could happen.

She could imagine Bo right now, snickering behind her and his hot breath tickling her ear, "Ya gonna get kawt by the cops, sweetie. Yaw as innocent as Miss Maurine's apple pie, and they can smell it. Apple pie tastes good, ya know, and them cops love ta fatten themselves up wit that apple pie." Even though she was alone in the office with Missus Ruth and the officer, she smelled his chewing tobacco and heard swish of his water bottle, half full of his spit dip.

Instinctively, she held her breath. If Bo were here, he would be blowing his stinky breath in her face, knowing it revolted her.

The officer snapped his finger in her face, trying to regain her attention. For a few seconds, he had, but then she was distracted once more.

Missus Ruth said she hated dip, but all the boys knew that she kept a stash to herself, along with some whiskey and bourbon, in the second left drawer on her desk. The missus' eyes kept flicking back to the drawer, as if she needed to satisfy the craving. Lately, she had been returning to that drawer more and more often.

She imagined the tinkling of ice in a small glass, stained rich gold with liquor.

Ice. Cold. The office was cold, as if someone was holding ice to her skin. But if it was so cold, then why was she sweating?

"Apple pie, hon. Like apple pie." She imagined Bo's voice again, wet and punctuated with a spit and a chew.

"Wat happened?"

She tried to clear her head and stared into the policeman's rheumy eyes. Yes, what did happen?

-/-

"Chi'ren, say hullo tah Mistah and Missus Camlin." Missus Ruth waddled her large, black bulk into the room, sweeping a fat arm behind her. Today she wore a faded blue dress that seemed too small for a woman her size; her limbs, more so today, looked like black sausages attached under her head, which was so large that it looked as if it sat on her shoulders, neckless.

Missus Ruth usually had a bad taste in fashion, but money was tight in the orphanage, and who cared for fashion, anyway? Missus Ruth had three priorities in life—herself, money, and her job. And since she maintained her job to satisfy her second priority, then technically, she had two, instead.

The man and woman behind her personified the perfect country couple. They were the stuff of orphan dreams—blond hair, blue eyes, perfect (white) teeth, tanned skin, pearls, fancy watches, and a neat suit and sundress. And smiles. Lots of smiles. When the children went to bed at night and said their prayers, these were the adoptive parents they envisioned in their mind.

But while the children dreamed and prayed and dreamed some more, most of them could see what was behind those smiles.

They had the smiles of condescending socialites who felt as if their presence here in a lower Memphis orphanage should be an honor in itself. While they shouldn't expect a fanfare and open admiration from the children, as well as lots of compliments and stares, the couple had the air of people who expected it. They were the type who invested their time, and endless money, in country clubs and charities and expensive fads, the latest of which probably entailed adopting poor, impoverished souls. And where better to adopt, without the trouble of going overseas, than in the South's Sin City, Memphis?

The kids who weren't old enough to realize this were instead distracted by the woman's lipstick, which was an obnoxious shade of red. Like the ripe, poisonous apple in Snow White, proffered to her by the evil witch. Deep, deep red. Almost blinding, yet inviting. Tempting and beautiful.

This, in their minds, was indeed the mother they always wanted.

One of the young girls, on the other hand, thought it looked cheesy. When she whispered this to Sarah, her friend giggled in agreement. Missus Ruth, thankfully, was too busy fawning over the rich couple to notice. But when the children still hadn't greeted the guests, the woman spun around with shocking speed, her black eyes glittering.

Immediately, the children uttered a clumsy, "Hullo."

Sarah was the only one with enough spunk to add a "Nice to meet'cha!"

Missus Ruth approved of Sarah's eagerness and glared at the other children for neglecting to be as welcoming. After she was satisfied that she had frightened them (which she didn't), she returned her attention to the Camlins and asked, in her rusty, greedy voice, "What kinda kid ya lookin' for, ma'am?"

She addressed the wife, having enough experience to know that the woman's opinion was all that mattered. Her husband, after all, had the bored look of a man buying his wife a puppy or a car, in hopes to sate her mood; he didn't care what the kid looked like, as long as his spouse was happy (and out of his hair).

The couple didn't take long making a choice.

Sarah.

The Camlin wife adored her "darling pigtails" and "sweet country voice." She never bothered sparing a glance at the other girl, who stood next to Sarah, wore pigtails herself, and also had that "sweet country voice." Was it because Sarah took the initiative? Was it because she was blond-haired and blue-eyed, like them? Was it because of the adorable freckles on her nose or the sweeter-than-honey personality?

She was sweet, too. Sweet like apple pie, Bo would tell her. And apple pie was really sweet. But why did they choose Sarah? The couple practically never even thought about their decision. It was almost as if they had picked the first child to catch their interest and didn't want to look any further.

In a few seconds, the Camlins had transported themselves into a different universe, where only Missus Ruth and Sarah were permitted entrance. Even though she was Sarah's best friend and stood next to her, she understood that she was excluded from their world.

She felt a stone sink in her stomach. She shouldn't be thinking such thoughts. The good Lord would punish her for them, surely. After all, Sarah was her best friend. They'd been together since the day Sarah arrived year before last. Best friends. They were best friends, right? But Sarah looked so overjoyed. So happy. Sarah had only been a resident for two years, yet didn't she, her best friend, who had been at the orphanage since she was a baby, deserve that? She had certainly been waiting long enough to deserve it.

No. No. The good Lord has His ways, and to question them invited the Devil and divine punishment, as Miss Maurine would say. She should be happy for Sarah. Yes, happy for her. Happy that it took the Camlins one second to choose Sarah, when they could've chosen her.

Because no one had ever chosen her before. Everyone wanted babies, not kids her age. What were the odds that she would get picked? Fair, at best, but no one had ever come to take the shot. Especially no one as rich and cultured and well-dressed and...she shook her head, hoping the bad thoughts would drop out her ears and sink down in the ground to Hell, where they came from and belonged.

Shake, shake, shake. She imagined the thoughts falling out, bouncing off the ground at first and then sinking. Slowly, slowly sinking. Leaving her. Going home to Hell.

Home.

"Oh gracious, I can't wait to take this little darling home!" Squealed the wife, hugging Sarah, "We'll just have to stop and get you some clothes, first, though. No child of mine should be seen in nothing but the best."

Her heart burned, and her throat felt too tight, as if the air had suddenly become stuffy.

The other kids knew this was their cue to shuffle back to their rooms. Bo, who was already sixteen and didn't expect any offers at his age (because who wanted a grown boy when a little girl was far more attractive?), passed her with a wicked grin.

"Come on, Apple Pie. We gotta go home, too. Do ya wanna stop by Britta's room and go shoppin'? Maybe we can find ya a nice pair o' ol' jeans she hasn't peed on, eh?" His teasing was meaner than usual today, was always meaner right after an adoption.

He knew what she was feeling. Bo knew a lot of things, and he could read the disappointment on her face like it was a neon sign. As an older, frequently-rejected orphan, not once adopted in his short but pathetic life, he empathized with her pain. But he was also bitter with hate for it. And how else to spend the pain than to shove the burden on someone who understood?

He had been waiting for this day, a day when one of the girls would watch her friend get picked instead of her. For a day when despair and jealousy would taint her sweet angel face, like his had when his best friends were picked, one by one, until only he was left. He wasn't the only boy here, but he couldn't bond with the boys his age, as he had when he was younger. Constant rejection and anger had turned him…strange, and they thought it queer how he always watched the younger girls a little too closely and teased them a little too harshly. But those boys were cowards, and they averted their eyes as his big hand grasped the young girl's arm, practically dragging her behind him. Maybe, the boys thought, they could deny what they suspected—no, knew—would happen if they ignored it.

What you can't see can't hurt you.

Sarah and the Camlins, and even Missus Ruth, paid no mind, either. They were too busy admiring each other, accepting compliments, and giving them. They tossed these between each other like a bouncing ball.

"You're such a cute darling!"

"Only a lil' sweetie fo' yo, ma'am." Gushed Missus Ruth, eager to suck up to the family. She sensed a gold mine as well as she did fried chicken or a misbehaving child (actually, she sensed the gold and chicken a lot better than the children, but she was unaware of this).

"Sarah?" She raised her free arm towards her friend, not wanting to intrude but uneasy and needing support. She had a bad feeling about Bo today, worse than usual. He liked watching her more than the other girls, and sometimes he would visit her and Sarah's room, when she was alone, and offer to help her change into her nightgown or take a bath. He said it was what big brothers did.

She suspected it was more than that, but as a child, she didn't understand, much less recognize, his ulterior motives.

She wasn't loud enough, because Sarah didn't hear her. Or didn't want to. Her friend was busy with her parents-to-be, grinning and saying, "Ya sure do have the pretties' hair, ma'am."

The adults laughed and petted Sarah's hair, calling her "precious" and blessing her sweet-as-honey heart.

She felt her heart go numb, watching their exclusive happiness, and her throat closed, unable to say anything else. She was still numb when Bo took her outside, behind the garden shed, and shared his pain—the loneliness, the abandonment, the hate—the only way a bitter, abandoned teenage boy like him knew how.

She was only nine years old, but behind the garden shed, which would become her frequent prison in the weeks to come, she grew up.

-/-

Sarah's papers were still being approved. The process was going slower than usual; Missus Ruth usually had the children out within the first two weeks. But it had been a month, now, and Bo said it was because Missus Ruth was trying to squeeze as much as she could from the Camlins.

"Oh, Ah haven't heard one word from 'em, yet, ma'am, but lil' Sarah's sayin' that she can't wait ta live wit ya. An' she also sayin' it awful col' in here, too, wit winter an' all. Heater broke o'er the summer, but Ah ain't gotta nickel to buy a 'pairman. The chi'ren are so hungry, cuz they be growin' fast, an' I had'ta buy more food ta feed 'em."

She and Sarah were playing on the swings. A distance had grown between them in the last month, but Sarah was oblivious to it, still a naïve nine year-old, sheltered from loneliness and secrets behind garden sheds. Unlike Sarah, she saw what the world was now, and had grown cold to her friend's innocence. Resentful, even. It wasn't fair. She had been at this stupid orphanage her whole life, and Sarah was getting a miracle, barely two years into this Hell.

And worst of all, Sarah didn't know she was in Hell. Was escaping Hell. But she saw it. Bo had told her so; this was Hell. Missus Ruth was the Devil, and Bo was the demon, dragging her deeper inside. And Sarah? Sarah was a lucky dimwit who got to go to Heaven.

"Ya like mah new dress?" Sarah twirled back and forth, feeling the gossamer swish, swish on her legs. The dress was yellow, decorated with daisies and sunflowers, "Mama got it fo' me. She says she's gonna get me a whole bunch o' dresses when Ah come home."

Sarah called the woman "mama." So this orphanage wasn't even her home anymore. She was already moving on, without her best friend, who had stood by her for the last two years and stood alone the years before that.

The happy-go-lucky girl leapt into the only working swing, which was made of metal and covered in rust. Sarah didn't care that rust was smearing the pretty folds of her dress. Not caring about the ugly red-brown streaks that tainted the pretty sunshine yellow.

Red-brown rust, the color of the blood bled behind the garden shed that horrible day one month prior, when Sarah had betrayed her friend.

Yes, that's what it was. Betrayal. Sarah had spoken out on purpose, knowing they'd pick her. Maybe they were going to make a different choice, maybe they weren't, but Sarah hadn't wanted that to happen. So Sarah fooled them into taking her. She ruined the hope for anyone else, for her friend. It wasn't fair. Sarah had stolen her chance for happiness. And to make it worse, Sarah was mocking her with that dress. Ruining it, because her new rich mama would buy dozens and dozens more, probably ten times prettier than that one. With diamonds stitched on the collars, maybe.

'Lookit my new dress? Ain't it pretty? Aw, it got dirty. It's okay, Mama's went an' bawt me twenty mo'. An' thay sparkle, cuz there's diamonds on tha collah.'

Not fair, not fair, not fair! It should be her! She should get the dresses and home and mother and love and diamond collars.

"Yo were makin' fun at 'em the otha' day, but now ya love that woman like she's ya real mama." She couldn't help comparing their voices, and with a sickening twist in her stomach, realized her accent was far less pronounced than Sarah's.

The woman had liked Sarah's accent.

No, it wasn't that. Sarah's was exaggerated. Yes, Sarah was exaggerating her voice. Making it sweeter and stronger, so the Camlins would like her. Sarah knew they loved those deep accents. That's why they chose Sarah. Because she was making her voice more pronounced. More "sweet country," the way her new mama liked it. And she had planned it, too. Since the day she first came to the orphanage, Sarah had done it on purpose, made her voice like that. Just so that no one would suspect the truth. Yes, that made sense.

But her friend knew the truth. She knew things now, thanks to Bo. All sorts of things, and she could see what Sarah really was.

Not a dimwit, but an evil demon sent to Earth to torture her, because that's what demons do. They make lives miserable, because they have nothing better to do.

"Shucks, Ah was only kiddin', an' yo were, too. Mama is a perfect, respect'ble lady. She ain't doin' this cuz o' some silly country club she in, like tha otha kids say. She doin' it cuz she always been wantin' a baby."

"Ya ain't no baby, an' if yo are, yor the biggest baby Ah've eva' seen."

Sarah looked confused, dumbfounded by her friend's bitterness. And this only incited her anger, making her want to hurt Sarah more. As badly as possible. Until she cried. Yes, that would make her feel better. So she pushed Sarah off her swing and walked away, hoping her former best friend got a skinned knee or something.

Sure enough, Sarah broke into tears, but from pain or surprise, her friend didn't know or care.

Amidst Sarah's wails, she heard an all-too familiar voice calling from inside the orphanage, "Apple Pie!"

Bo was looking for her. She didn't want to see him, but she didn't want to stay with Sarah, either. She directed her feet towards the woods, knowing Sarah would tell, was too good not to tell, if Bo asked. But Bo would give up once he found out. He hated working for anything, the main reason he had never been picked for adoption. Who wants that lazy, good-for-nothing boy? And though he was faster and stronger, easily capable of catching a nine year-old girl, he wouldn't go through the trouble.

She knew she would pay for it later tonight, when he would surely catch her.

Darkly, in the back of her wicked, sinner's mind, she heard the Devil whisper that maybe Bo will get Sarah instead. Bo had become incredibly aggressive in the past few days, as if the younger girl was a drug he couldn't shake from his veins. He had begun needing her in the frenzied way a sinner needed salvation. What if his need was enough that he would settle for Sarah instead?

Maybe it would happen. And then Sarah would understand that the world wasn't about yellow dresses and accents and sparkly collars.

Bo always whispered to her, behind the shed, "One mo' time, Apple Pie. Ah promise Ah won't hurt ya no more. Just gimme this one las' time. Ya would fo' ya big bro Bo, right? Right? An' yo ain't gonna tell nobody, too?"

One last fix, one last sniff, one last whimper behind the garden shed, because she knew that she was too small and weak to escape Bo. Because the secret place between her legs ached and ached, and she wasn't sure if she could stand up and run, even if her life depended on it.

"Ah won't tell nobody, Bo."

Like a drug. One last fix. One last time. But then the need kicks in, and he's dragging her back there, sloppily and desperately. As if he doesn't care if it's the middle of lunchtime and everyone might notice.

"Yo sweet like Miss Maurine's apple pie. Sweet, sweet, sweet."

She could hear him in the distance, searching. He was using the nickname he had made for her. She hated him; she was scared of him. She didn't want to get hurt again. She wanted to be safe from him, to hide in the woods until Bo gave up on her forever.

At the thought of him finding her, she trembled and wet herself. She hated her lack of control and cried into her arms, crouching behind a tree and repeatedly wiping her nose on the ugly hand-me-down she'd inherited last year from an older girl.

Within a few minutes, he had given up, much to her relief. For someone so fixated on her, he was quick to surrender. He always was and always would be. Addictions only went so far, after all.

She waited in the woods until dinnertime, when her stomach rumbled for food. With heavy feet, she reluctantly returned to the orphanage, her clothes and legs sticky with urine. She needed to change; hopefully she would get a chance before Bo reached her.

-/-

"Ah don't know nuthin', Missus Ruth. Ah was hidin' in the woods, playin' by mahself."

Lie. Not the first, and certainly not the last.

"Did Bo ever touch you, little miss?" He didn't have a Southern accent, surprisingly, but she was too nervous to notice anything else about the policeman.

Bo's words kept revolving around in her head. He had said them before the adoption, before he began dragging her out to the garden shed. He had said the words teasingly, back then, because he saw her and Sarah swiping an extra slice of Miss Maurine's famous apple pie. They begged him not to tell the cops, like he threatened he would, and he joked that the cops didn't need him to know their guilt.

"'Specially you." He jabbed her cheek with his finger, and his untrimmed nails were broken and sharp, hurting her, "Yor too sweet, like that pie. 'em cops can sniff ya out." He had never let her live it down, until the garden shed, when it had turned from jokes to a squeezing hand on her arm and a dangerous voice saying, "Don't tell nobody. No cops, or nuthin'. Yor sweet, and ya better not be sweet ta anyone but me, ya hear?"

Sweet. Sweet as apple pie, huh?

When the interrogation was over, Missus Ruth allowed her to peer out the office window. Bo was being dragged into a cop car, unconscious and bleeding from the head. He had tried to fight the cops and lost, suffering a blow from a nightstick. Behind him, two men wheeled Sarah on a gurney and into an ambulance. Her face was a bloody mess, and her freckles had disappeared under a thick mask of blood, snot, tears, and mud.

The Devil whispered in her head again, as she watched from the window, I hope her freckles never come back.

"Po' thang didn't deserve none o' that." Missus Ruth sniffed to the officer, "Ah neva' knew Bo was a bad boy! He was always so sweet."

There it was again. The word 'sweet.'

"Why would he rape an' beat that po' girl? She was 'sposed to be leavin' next week fo' her new fam'ly."

Because ya didn't want her to, Missus Ruth. Ya wan'ned her new mama and papa's money, first. T'weren't fo' ya an' she'd be in her fancy 'ome by now.

Children were already more insightful than they should be, and adults took it for granted. Bo had taught her more, and she felt no longer like a child, but not an adult, either. Maybe she was in limbo, an observer to the events transpiring around her. She certainly seemed to be disconnected from reality. As if this whole world was a dream she was experiencing, and she was looking down on it from above.

Any second now, Sarah was going to jump out the ambulance doors with her big grin and yell, "Surprise! April fool's!"

But it wasn't April Fool's Day.

She could guess what had happened at the swing set between Sarah and Bo. He'd asked for her, and when Sarah wouldn't stop crying, he got impatient. Here was a girl, ready to be adopted—something he was beyond hoping to achieve—and his own girl was nowhere to be seen. He hadn't been able to stand the need any longer, and without his little girl to quench it, he used Sarah instead. And when she screamed and kicked and resisted, he beat her. He destroyed her, spending every single shred of anger and jealousy he had ever felt toward any kid with a family on her pretty face with its pretty freckles.

It had never occurred to her before to fight back; she had been too scared to resist Bo. But Sarah had dared to try and escape, and Bo had punished her for it. Looking at the retreating ambulance, she realized how delicate her imprisonment under Bo had been—if she had accidentally incurred his wrath, it would have been her in that ambulance, not Sarah.

That was scary.

The call came the next day. Sarah was dead. She was too young and weak to handle the shock, and her former best friend, crouched outside Missus Ruth's door, scoffed. She had received worse, but no one was crying for her. She hadn't died; she had been strong enough to live, but where was her funeral? Where was her candlelight vigil or fifteen minutes on Channel 3?

She closed her heart and encased it in ice, not realizing that Sarah's death had hurt her as much as Bo's abuse. Perhaps more, because she made a promise to herself that night. If anyone—anyone—dared to try and touch her like Bo had, then she would fight back. Tooth and nail, she would resist them. Unbeknownst to her, Sarah's ghost hung around her neck, weighing her down with guilt.

She lied to herself and pretended that the oath was an initiative to become stronger, not a guilt-driven death wish.

-/-

A thirteen year-old girl sat in a camp among a group of hippies. The hippies were singing to a bonfire, swaying to and fro or braiding their long hair. A few passed joints to each other, sharing the smoke. Some didn't need the pot to get high; peace and contentment was plenty enough for them. Their loose clothes hung limply on their bodies, collars slipping over shoulders either by accident or by the wandering hands of a lover. Several couples had wandered into their tents to shed their clothes altogether, but the girl didn't want to think of the act they were willingly indulging themselves.

As someone who had never been given the opportunity to choose sex, she dismissed them with a disgusted snort.

She had run away from her adoptive home last night, unable to handle to sudden shock that she had been adopted. The family never explained why they had desired a teenager, but they had chosen her after an hour of cautious deliberation. She was surprised that she was picked, and while the paperwork was being processed, she had convinced herself that it had all been a dream. Due to her troublesome past, she wasn't prepared to leave the orphanage, the closest thing she had to home, so suddenly. The thought of adoption—her adoption—was too strange to her and brought back unbidden nightmares of bloody freckles and apple pie.

So, at a gas station en route to her new home, the panic had gripped her until her whole body shook with fear. She filched two twenties from her adoptive mother's purse, jumped on a Greyhound filling for gas, and returned to Mississippi.

The hippies had been at the bus station somewhere south of Jackson, having just finished protesting the rights of some silly thing or another, waving their posters and peace signs like reverends wave their Bibles. Being lost souls themselves, they easily recognized the girl standing alone on a bench, staring into the concrete ground. After the station closed, she was still there, and they approached her, offering a safe place for the night. Granted, when they said 'safe place,' they meant a group of tents in the woods off I-55, but at least there was shelter. By then, she had considerably calmed down and was sane enough to accept their offer.

The girl was hardened by life, and caution had become a second nature to her. But she couldn't deny such a generous offer, especially when she had nowhere else to go. Besides, hippies were harmless, and seemed like good company, she convinced herself. Secretly, her other reason stemmed from desperation. The run from her adoptive family and the bus ride had left her weary. She needed rest and, more importantly, security. Somehow, she sensed these people could provide both.

The woman who had initially approached her insisted that she be called Mama Priscilla, though she was fairly young and childless. The name fit her, nonetheless, and the girl enjoyed the woman's humorous introduction, "You may call me Mama Pri'zilla. I 'ave no chil'dren, but if you need a ma'ma, I will gladly nag you all night long."

Her husband, Owen, currently sat on a log with a guitar in his lap and clumsily strummed notes to an unidentifiable song. The girl was seated between him and Mama Priscilla, warmed by the fire and their kindness.

"Heya, lil' rogue, what brings you down to the 'Sippi bayou all by your lonesome self?" Owen had a slow, deep voice, raspy from smoking pot. His demeanor was relaxed, and his questions polite, as if he could predict the depressing answer and already sympathized. Without prompting, he shared his own experiences, which comforted the teenage girl, "Me and Mama? We eloped." He grinned, reaching over to pat his wife's slender hand, "Her parents said she wasn't good for me, but I think we know better."

"Mother and Father were a'bout to divorce, but what do zey know? Of mar'riage? Of love, e'ven?" Mama Priscilla had a dreamy French accent, cultured from the lap of luxury. A lot of hippies were like her; rich kids running away from disapproving and disagreeing parents. Owen and Mama Priscilla were no different.

There was no harm telling the truth to them, because they were the same as she—vagabonds…rogues. Though they had yet to hear her story, they already treated her as one of them, and their hospitality and compassion lulled the girl into comfort, "Ah...got adopted. An' didn't know what ta do. Ah was scared o' it all, so Ah ran away."

Owen stopped playing to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she was surprised to realize that the gesture affected her, "It's fine. We've all been scared at many times in our lives. But look at us now, huh? We're all rogues, just like you, and definitely not scared, no more. Maybe something else'll come up, and we'll be scare all over again. But you know what? We'll persevere and come out stronger, like mankind always has." Others around the bonfire nodded agreeably, though most were probably too high to understand what Owen had said.

"Ah don't feel very rogueish." She said sheepishly, holding herself tightly.

"May'be not now, chère, but it'z zere." Mama Priscilla hugged her, "Do not fret, lit'tel rogue. We are all ze same here. Oui?"

"'We' is the right word, Mama." Owen cheered, strumming once more.

Was it just her, or did music sound better? Perhaps it was a result of her lifted mood, but Owen's song had become warmer and softer, like a lullaby. His music filled her stomach and left her contented and safe.

"So, what's your name, or are we gonna be callin' you 'lil' rogue'?" Owen's fingers danced across the strings, the firelight making them look longer and otherworldly.

She sat there for a moment, feeling the warmth from the fire and Mama Priscilla's arm, draped over her shoulder, and said, "Rogue is fine. Rogue is good."

The edges of Mama's lips lifted into a smile, and a little of the darkness in the girl's heart lifted, too, "Zen, little Rogue, wood you like zome'ting to eat? Zome'ting sweet? I loved zo eat sweet zings when I was your age."

"Ah don't like sweets." The words were out of her mouth before she knew it, but saying it aloud, she knew it was the truth. Briefly, images of apple pie floated through her head, but she quenched them by concentrating on Owen's hands, which fascinated her with their fire-borne illusion.

Mama Priscilla nodded with understanding and went to her tent, returning with an unknown drink. The concoction tasted awful at first but had a wonderful aftertaste. The first sip was bitter, like her heart, and as it slid down her throat, the taste ripened into something rich and foreign. The warmth in her stomach strengthened. When she asked what it was, Mama smiled and said it was a secret.

Cuddling with Mama Priscilla and listening to Owen's warbling voice, she never noticed the tiny light in her heart—a fragile flame of hope. All she felt was Mama's slight but strong embrace and Owen's knee occasionally knocking hers as he swayed to his music. The touch felt wonderful, like a family. A real family, unlike the strangers who had adopted her. Maybe these people would be her family. Her heart was suffocated in winter, but there was a chance for spring, right? And her chest felt a little lighter, too, as if the ghost that was once there was beginning to lift to Heaven.

She sang with them, her voice naturally sliding in the chorus. A passerby might have thought the display not as ear-pleasing, but she—Rogue—felt as if she had never heard a more beautiful sound.

That night, there were no nightmares. She slept nestled between Owen and Mama Priscilla in their tent, safe and welcome. No chewing tobacco, no dresses with diamond collars, and no apple pies. Just the ethereal echo of guitar strings and a romantic French snore, along with the smell of woodsmoke and a mysteriously bitter drink.

Home.