#charles 1

The Beheading of Charles I. Anonymous, C18th.

Carisbrooke Castle 1

This series shows the last of the photographs from the Isle of Wight last September.

The very well preserved Carisbrooke Castle is on the outskirts of Newport, the capital town in the centre of the island.  It is best known for being King Charles 1′s jail after the English Civil War.

Dear Professor X,

I hope this letter isn’t unwanted. You and I have never had a chance to meet, though I can assure you, I wish we had. I hope we still will. I would like to meet the man behind the essay in today’s Bugle. It was a shock opening the paper to see something that made sense for once. 

Agent Ross is a good man. Secretary Ross is too. But even good men can be blinded to the consequences of their actions, especially when they aren’t the ones who have to pay the price. And even good men are just plain blind sometimes.

You were kind to me, in your essay. I’m grateful, but undeserving. When I grew up, there weren’t many mutants. Most people didn’t even know they existed outside of stories. It wasn’t until I came out of the ice that I even heard of them, and by that point, so much history had passed. So many old wounds had already become scars. But I did nothing. I was an Avenger, I vowed to help those who couldn’t help themselves, to stand up to the bullies and fight for what was right, no matter the cost. But I didn’t fight for you, or your people. I don’t know what I could’ve done, or how things could be different, I only know that I never tried. 

For that, I’m sorry. 

It’s taken me a long time to understand how different things are now. And how different the world has always been, though I couldn’t see it. There have always been mutants. And there have always been those in power who fear the voice of anyone who’s different, stifling them at best, demonizing them at worst. I put a lot of faith into institutions I believed would never act that way. I believed in a country that said ‘No matter who you are or where you come -- or what you can do -- you matter.’ I suppose a part of me always knew that was just another story they told us, but it’s been a hard road accepting it. Accepting that the dream I had of this world is... just a dream. 

But I watched this documentary, about the sixties. About a man named Martin Luthor King Jr. He had a dream too, a dream that we could all one day be equals. Today isn’t that day, and sometimes I think it might still be a long ways off. Maybe equality is more complicated than someone can say in a poster or a speech or an essay -- or a letter, for that matter. But just because a dream seems far off, or hard, or even impossible, that doesn’t mean we should stop chasing it. After all, I was a skinny asthmatic who made it into the army against all the odds once. 

Again, I’m sorry if this is unwanted. We haven’t even met, and I’m telling you all this. But I read your essay, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It seemed like if anyone would understand these thoughts in my head, it’d be you. (Which makes sense, I suppose.)

It’d be an honor to hear back from you. And if there’s ever anything you need, anything at all, I hope that I can be a better man than I was before -- and be there for you. 

Sincerely,

Thank god for Josie’s. That woman did not give a single solitary shit about limits, and never cut Jessica off. At least not until the fourth broken glass. After the second tonight, Jessica figured she wouldn’t push her luck further -- she had already crossed the line from ‘buzz’ to ‘blackout’ she was sure of it. Blackout was what she was going for, and she could finish the job at home with her flask. 

But maybe she was further gone than she realized. She couldn’t feel her legs as she walked -- make that stumbled out of the bar. Her head was swimming, but at least Kilgrave’s voice was quiet and Trish’s face was blurry enough that she could pretend it wasn’t her sister. Could pretend the guilt didn’t eat her alive, drive her to drink like this. But she couldn’t pretend she was sober, not when she veered off sharp to the left and stumbled right into someone on the street. “Jesus,” she muttered, trying to focus on the face of the man. “Shit. Sorry.”

Knitted Waistcoat of King Charles I

1640-1649

England

silk

Museum of London: A27050