the pearl

Five. Three. One.

Five. Five senses in a little girl's body. A little girl's body, and several men's memories, filling her mind with the lives she could never lead.

Five then three. Three men, holy trinity of masculinity. Boy. Father. Elder.

Three then one. One young woman, just barely old enough to bleed.

Odd numbers for odd chromosomes, DNA strands slowly slinking through her body, zipping and unzipping in the spiral dance, odd numbers matching together to create prime.


Five senses in the human body.



Her hearing was always good, the curse of the only child in the large house, didn't want Mama to start yellin', no ma'am. When she was reborn on top of cold copper and steel, she could hear everything, the sounds of the city below her right against her tender ears.

At night, she discovered that her bunkmate ground her teeth almost imperceptibly. The sound of tooth against tooth kept her awake for three nights, rattling in her head. When she began to ignore the grinding, she could hear the soft moans of her professors down the hall, the two sharing a bed, reminding her of the night when she first touched him. She began wearing earplugs.


Food tasted better once you have been dead. Rich flavors slipped against her tongue in her quest for things that reminded her of her childhood — or his childhood. Or his. Or his. Marzipan and fla-vor-ice for afternoon snacks. Lamb and french fries for dinner. Sneaking sips of beer when no one was looking, and revelling in the taste against her lips.


The soft scent of teenage boys repelled her, all soap and cheap cologne. She caught herself sitting in the locker room after practice sessions, inhaling the rich bread-like smell of young girl, of sweat under sports bras, of slippery slickness that she could smell from a distance, but never up close. The scent of lust, the scent of anger, the scent of confusion playing over her as she simply sat and inhaled.


No one would notice the quiet one in the corner, wrapped in secrecy and layers of clothing. She hid, and watched. Her eyes glittered as she saw the dramas played out, the romances, the denials, the rage. Unable to participate, she could view them as if it were a television drama. As if she wasn't a part of it at all.


The crush of velvet, the constriction of lycra, the roughness of leather. Denim, wool, polyester, cotton. Fabrics were the only thing that touched her body, save her own hands, scrabbling their way down, nails scratching angrily.





Tear her skin with her own hands, slide her fingers down there while no one's looking, touch her cheeks with the tears sliding down afterwards. Only touching she'll ever feel.

Except for the lightning burn of that single second touch, the power just comes from them, slamming into her body with a strength greater than all the single handed orgasms she can manage. She yearns for that touch again, scraping at her body when the urge rises again.


Five senses. Three men. One girl. Prime numbers, odd numbers, one body, Rogue.

This X-Men story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at