Disclaimer:All characters belong to Marvel and are being used for non-profit entertainment only.
Note: I have no idea whatsoever if any of this holds any resemblance to Betsy's real past but...it works out so nicely.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?
By Magik

I stand by the window, my eyes watching the flakes of snow fall down and
collect in lazy piles on the frozen ground. My fingers press up against
the glass, drawing strange pictures in the water vapor gathered there.

As a child, my father used to yell at me when I did that to his car
windows. "It never comes off," he'd say. "It's there forever."

Yeah, Dad, the pictures stay forever but you sure didn't. You didn't
want anything to do with us, with me. So, why do I want to draw on your
windows again and bite my lip when you yell at me and then let Momma
wipe the tears away? Why do I want to step backward when forward is all
I have left?

My father didn't yell very much. He wasn't around long enough to yell.
He wasn't ever around. There were more important things he had to do,
things more important then his children, than seeing their faces on
Christmas morning. And mother wasn't much better.

So, in the end, it was always Jamie, Brian, and I huddled under the
large, decorated tree. Emma wouldn't be far off, staring at us with her
large, blue eyes, sipping on a cup of tea and prompting us, prompting
me. "Open your presents, dear. Santa brought them just for you."

The year I looked into her eyes and told her that Santa didn't exist was
the year in which I turned seven. Too early to loose all hope in the
beings of magic. Too young to be battered by the truths of the ugly
world.

Brian just looked at me, sad, knowing smile on his face. Jamie said
nothing, did nothing, for he had pulled into his own little world. And
Emma, Emma stared at me, open mouthed, before she went into the kitchen
and started bustling around with dinner. Later that night I heard her
crying.

Emma had always believed in Santa. She had to, there was nothing else
for her to believe in.

Looking back on it now, I suppose that I should have been nicer, said I
was sorry, or wrapped her in one of my childish hugs, instead of
standing at the door of her room, gazing at her with my intent eyes.
Orbs of purple fire, she always called them. Two orbs of purple fire
dancing around the room. Nevertheless, she called me unnerving a few
times too.

I hear Jean and Warren laughing in the background and it only takes a
few minutes for Scott to, reluctantly, join in. The edge of Jean's voice
whispers inside my mind, "What's wrong, Elizabeth?"

My fingers draw more pictures on the glass, ignoring her words, letting
my mind be swept back to the past. I have my own ghost of Christmas past
and he looks like an older version of my brother. He is regally tall
with graying hair and strong eyes. The very aura around him is one of
power, of intelligence, but not of gentleness.

My ghost of Christmas present is my mother. Her hair is dark, kept in a
tight bun on her head. The eyes, blue bordering on the edge of very dark
purple, swing over me, studying me and I hear her click her tongue once
or twice. Momma's presence fells like steel wire for the woman was rigid
and quite proper. She never approved of me, of the fire burning in my
veins. There was nothing gentle about her either.

They take my hands, these ghosts of mine, and show me the pictures I
have tried so hard to forget...

The tree glows and I sit under it, staring up at the glass balls each
handpainted and the delicate wooden ornaments. At the top of the tree
sits the angel, faintly shinning in the dark room. The angel's wings
spread out in beautiful white arcs, stretching across the dark green
background and the hair, real human hair, falls in blond waves around
her face. The angel, my angel.

My hands reach up, small childish hands, each finger perfect and
slightly round. I want to hold her in my hands, that majestic angel. I
want her to take me away from everything in my life. She will make
things okay. She will spread her wings and we will fly.

One of the glass balls falls to the floor and shatters, breaking my
thoughts, bringing my mother running. And her eyes have turned darker
than night's sorrow song and her cheeks flush red. There is a moment of
silence as I search the room for Brian, for Jamie, for Emma. But they
are not there. I have to deal with this myself.

We stare at each other, dark blue facing off against purple fire.
However, I break first, the tears run down my cheeks, and she just
scoffs and yells for Emma. And as Emma sweeps the glass away from my
feet I let the tears continue to fall for I will never fly.

The ghosts release my hands. They step away from me, blending into the
night that hides behind the falling snow. I reach out my hands to them,
the fingers now alien and small. "Momma. Papa," I try to stutter but the
words die on my lips and the tears fill my eyes.

There is a fleeting moment when my mother's eyes grow soft and she seems
to reach for me, almost as if she wishes to put everything in the past
behind us and start again. My father stops her hands with his own. He
pulls her back, into the snowstorm outside. They don't even say goodbye
as they disappear in the soft flakes.

I do not allow the tears to stain my flesh. Instead, I simply will them
to go, to be swallowed by the night as my ghosts have been. Because when
everything is wrapped in one package, I never saw what I should have.

I never saw that Momma tired with Jamie and had her attempts rebuffed. I
could never watch as Father took every chance to draw me into the world
he knew, his little world of magic and power, the world I so wanted.
They did try but not hard enough and I have no forgiveness left in my
torn apart heart. Maybe some other Christmas, some other year.

"What's wrong, Betts?" Warren asks as he wraps his hands around my
shoulders.

"Nothing," I explain as I lean into him, wishing I still had my
telepathy. I need his soothing, loving thoughts in my head right now.
However, I will be content to just touch him and feel him close to me.

Warren, my ghost of Christmas future, my angel.

I turn to him, my eyes still liquid from the tears. He is so beautiful,
I think, so perfect. "Promise me, Warren. Promise me that we will always
have a nice Christmas, now and forever."

He nods, those crystal blue eyes searching my face. "I promise, Betsy."

"I love you," I tell him in a whisper.

All he does is nod and squeeze my hand. Then he steps away, pulling me
gently with him. "Aren't you going to come unwrap presents?"

"In just a minute," I promise and watch as he walks away to join Scott
and Jean in front of their tree. I turn back to the window, just to
smile at the snowflakes and write one last thing on the glass.

***
The woman smiles sadly as she watches her only daughter join the others
in front of the blazing tree. She looks so happy, so peaceful. The man
holds his wife's hand as he reads her the message on the window.

"Goodbye Mother and Father. Merry Christmas. Love Elizabeth."