OK so I don't really know what's going on here/where this came from. But anyway. It's a Scully POV set somewhere in between William and The Truth, I'll let you decide where. I wasn't going to upload this because it's such a weird narrative but then I had a really weird dream last night and I just had to. Seriously, that dream was odd.
Anyway, enjoy.
You are a rock. You are an island. You are a trial and error painting made out of fingerprints. You are a grain of sand in the palm of my hand, or the crook of my arm, or my heart.
You used to tell me that every day was a good day to be alive. You used to tell me that things were probable and credible, that life was strong and indeterminable and there for the taking. You used to smile your three-tooth-showing smile and leave your jacket unzipped as we walked here and there, and tell me that everything was special. Every sight we saw, of the mundane or of the fantastical, every scene we happened across, and every bird in the night sky – all of it had a significance greater than that of our singular selves, greater than that which we could understand. You used to tell me; I would listen and, for a while at least, I believed.
Not every day is like that now. There are the good, and the bad. Every mile we drove was another mile away from the life that I knew, that I am learning to know again. Every signpost was a marker, saying here they were, here they are no longer. Every town a little graveyard of secrets whispered in the dead of night. Every motel room another reminder of the part of you that I held in my arms for a brief second before he slipped from us. Was dropped, was lost. Had once been; is not now.
You are constant. In the act of searching for you I lose myself, have lost my self along the way – scattered parts of the life I had, dating back through the years. A life on the run, with your three-tooth-showing smile for company – you are a rock; you are my rock, in your absence.
But where does the path lead when the car stops, when the towns stop passing by and the enemy stops giving chase? When everything that once was has disappeared, leaving only the life I led before? It is not a bad life. I am not unemployed, I have a house with a door that locks (padlocked of course, because the paranoia of years on the run does not leave so soon), I have a garden with flowers that are blue and pink. I go to Church in the evenings, and light a candle in my mind for you, for me, for the endless road and the motel rooms. I share my bed with a cat at night, and in my morning-confusion I still stumble to the nursery, calling his name.
Yet life goes on. Isn't that what you would say to me now, if you could speak, if I could hear? There is a precious innocence in the uncertainty of tomorrow; there is a joy to be had in spontaneous choices. Out of habit, I keep a gun in the car. When I drive to the store, I often pass it by, keep on driving, until the road is a pale hum in the back of my mind and everything is tapered to one final point: the journey. I pause in gas stations, the car ticking around me, and wait for you to nag me with directions. To demand to take the wheel, to smile your three-tooth-showing smile, to tell me that today is a good day to be alive. I drive on, in silence. I pass through the towns, leave life behind, and I look into the sky for strange lights.
You are a rock. You are an island. You are eternal; for my mind, not for my eyes.
Je suis ennuyé.
So... tell me what you thought? Pleeeease. Cookies if you do ^^;
Thanks for reading :D xx
