"It's coming back, Logan." Her voice was flat in her own ears, and she wasn't surprised when Logan stared at her.

He set down his fork, his cup of coffee, never noticing he'd spilled on the newspaper and a wet, dark ring was forming. He stared into the deadened eyes she had seen in her own face in the mirror, and for one long, endless moment, she was the little girl climbing into the back of his truck again, putting on him a burden that had never been his to shoulder.

"The touch?" he asked. Bewildered, perhaps, but sharp as ever. There was only one thing that could mean so much.

Rogue shrugged with a casualness belying her words. "Just the voices."

She was twisting in the sheets, screaming.

The stench of burning flesh drifted from the ovens of the concentration camp as needle sharp pain tatooed a number on her arm. Her limbs were too thin, getting thinner, and the sweat of her body made her feel like merely food for the ovens.

And this is what happened to God's people?

"The nightmares." She frowned and looked up at him. "Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm me or you."

She plunged her claws into the beating heart beneath her, waiting for him to die! The snarling beast's wounds healed over, faster than even her own.

"Do you even know how to kill me?"

Couldn't anyone kill her?

She woke up screaming, growling like a wild beast, without control.

Logan stared at her in horror. "Kid..."

He reached out, touched her face in a gentle caress, and she closed her eyes, fought back the urge to cry. For this. She was drowning for this.

"I'm drowning." She sank to her knees, fists balled against her sealed eyelids, as another person washed over her, became her.

"No!" she screamed, reaching out for her mother behind the closing gate, screaming as she smelled the stench of burning flesh. "No!"

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