Disclaimer: Don't own them, using them without permission. Hoping, in good faith, that I'm not doing any harm. Just entertaining myself. It's the summer vacation, you know?
Summary: Post-"all things"- Mulder's Journal-thingy.
Comment: Been done a thousand times over, I know. No excuses there. As usual, I try to keep them as much in character as I can, and making it as romantic and angsty as I can, whitout being too sappy. Also, the usual warning: english is not my native language.
Review: It would be very helpful. As I said, I try to make it romantic and angsty, but not overly mushy, so what do *you* think? Does it work at all? If not, what do you think I could improve? Or do you think it's so bad that I should stop altogether?
Prayer
by
Miranda
She's gone. I knew she would be. I knew it even in my sleep.
This book has been full of her, lately. I've been leafing through it backwards, and then reading it straight from the beginning. I've never done that. For some reason, this seems like the right moment. The early morning sun is shining through the window, it's not yet six o'clock. Everything is still, the house is empty. The house is empty.
At first, and for a long time, the entries are short and matter of fact. The absurd attempt to account for my obsessiones in a detached and objective way. As if one could ever be detached and objective about obsessions. Only back then I couldn't admit that it *was* an obsession. I thought of it as a mission, the mission of my lifetime, maybe even my destiny... Who knows, maybe I still believe that. What do I know. What do I know of anything.
Maybe I thought that by writing it all down, from the beginning, as if it was a story, that it would come to an end, somehow, sometime, because all stories must come to an end eventually. The entries are mostly about Samantha, if and how often I had thought about her during the day, if any events had reminded me of her, if I had remembered a new detail, like did she hold her braids together with rubber bands or cloth, or the time she fell off a tree she decided to climb though I told her not to, because it was too tall. She picked herself up, and I knew it must hurt a lot, but she didn't cry, she just looked at me and said "don't be scared, Fox..."
The first note about Scully reads: "They finally assigned me a 'partner'. Woman by the name of Scully. Redhead, ugly checkerd suit, quite amazing eyes. Someone to send in the negative reports that will get me off the X-Files." After that, there are no "personal" comments on her for a while. But I begin to write about the cases I'm working at, which I never did before. Well, at first only cases involving (or which I believed involved) what I still rather pathetically call "the alien conspiracy". But soon there are notes on almost every case, and, scattered throughout, remarks about how I feel, these feelings more often than not including Scully or being directly related to her. I can't believe I didn't notice at the time, it's so obvious. Like this one: "Motel dinner with Scully. We talked about the TV shows we liked when we were kids. Not one coincidence. And yet - a sense of belonging, almost of fulfilment, even. Although, again, nothing has been proven, we didn't even get to make an arrest. How is it that so many X-Files solve themselves when the suspects conveniently disposing of themselves?"
Belonging, fulfilment... how could I write down those things, have them right before my eyes, and not stop and start, not catch my breath? Then there are things like this, dated threee years ago: "Sunday. I don't quite know what to do with myself. What *do* people do on sundays? What do *I* do on sudays?" I remember that sunday, and I remember what I was thinking. Not about my sunday, but hers. Was she visiting one of her girlfriends, was she spending it with her mother, her family, people she had neglected because she had spent so may weekends chasing little green men on one of my stupid hunches, or lying in a hospital recovering from injuries she sustained in places she never should have been, or being abducted by dark forces that shadowed her life from the moment she became associated with me? I pictured her maybe just sitting at home and reading a book, but I couldn't think of what kind of a book she might be reading, and suddenly I felt on the verge of tears, or of throwing something out of the window - maybe myself. None of this I wrote down, this book having been just another means I used to lie to myself. But the coldness and fear that gripped me are still between these pages.
Or maybe it just seems to me that way because that's how I feel right now: short of breath, close to panic, as if someone was sitting on my chest; cold sweat sticky on my back and my forehead; this painful tugging in the pit of my stomach. I know this feeling, I've been there so may times, when she was in danger, or sick, or missing. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart racing, a wild distant scream still in my ears. These dreams used to be about Samantha, but now they are about Scully almost everytime. I see her lying on a cold operating table, a white light glaring down on her, blurry shadows moving around her, I know that they are going to hurt her, but there's nothing I can do to prevent it... Or I'm just in a dark place, no way our no way in, and she's not there; not just that she's not physically there, but I have this sense that she is nowhere, that she is gone in a terribly and unimaginably *definitive* way...
Is that the way it is now? Will I ever see her again? An absurd question, I know. She will be in the office, like every day, taunting me, leading me, walking circles around me. As if nothing ever happened. She didn't say a word, but I know that's how she wants it - though I don't know why. My life seems to be slipping out of my hands so fast now, so fast... Writing this is just another absurd attempt to hold on, to make it real by shaping what has passed between us into words, the words that were not said, and that will only exist in my mind. Maybe it all took place in my mind, maybe I dreamed it, and if I tell her, she'll just shake her head and go "oh brother" all over again.
It's so difficult to write the truth. But I know it did happen, it was no dream, no fantasy. I know it in my bones, and in my heart. She came to me, she was beautiful, and naked, and scared, and while I held her I could feel her gliding farther and farther away. I can't explain it any better, it was almost as if she was celebrating a private ceremony of her own, and my part in it was insubstantial. She made me cry, and I think she cried too. I can't say for sure, she wouldn't look at me. She held me very close, but she wouldn't look into my eyes. Then she said "go to sleep now", and I did. I dreamed I was lying in my bed, and she was not there.
Now the doors are open. Now I know the things I didn't want to know, feel the things I didn't want to feel. The things that really matter. Now I can read the truth in the lies I wrote down. And a wave of pain is rolling towards me, unlike any pain I have ever known. Heaven help me. Heaven help us both.
I wish she had taught me how to pray.
Summary: Post-"all things"- Mulder's Journal-thingy.
Comment: Been done a thousand times over, I know. No excuses there. As usual, I try to keep them as much in character as I can, and making it as romantic and angsty as I can, whitout being too sappy. Also, the usual warning: english is not my native language.
Review: It would be very helpful. As I said, I try to make it romantic and angsty, but not overly mushy, so what do *you* think? Does it work at all? If not, what do you think I could improve? Or do you think it's so bad that I should stop altogether?
Prayer
by
Miranda
She's gone. I knew she would be. I knew it even in my sleep.
This book has been full of her, lately. I've been leafing through it backwards, and then reading it straight from the beginning. I've never done that. For some reason, this seems like the right moment. The early morning sun is shining through the window, it's not yet six o'clock. Everything is still, the house is empty. The house is empty.
At first, and for a long time, the entries are short and matter of fact. The absurd attempt to account for my obsessiones in a detached and objective way. As if one could ever be detached and objective about obsessions. Only back then I couldn't admit that it *was* an obsession. I thought of it as a mission, the mission of my lifetime, maybe even my destiny... Who knows, maybe I still believe that. What do I know. What do I know of anything.
Maybe I thought that by writing it all down, from the beginning, as if it was a story, that it would come to an end, somehow, sometime, because all stories must come to an end eventually. The entries are mostly about Samantha, if and how often I had thought about her during the day, if any events had reminded me of her, if I had remembered a new detail, like did she hold her braids together with rubber bands or cloth, or the time she fell off a tree she decided to climb though I told her not to, because it was too tall. She picked herself up, and I knew it must hurt a lot, but she didn't cry, she just looked at me and said "don't be scared, Fox..."
The first note about Scully reads: "They finally assigned me a 'partner'. Woman by the name of Scully. Redhead, ugly checkerd suit, quite amazing eyes. Someone to send in the negative reports that will get me off the X-Files." After that, there are no "personal" comments on her for a while. But I begin to write about the cases I'm working at, which I never did before. Well, at first only cases involving (or which I believed involved) what I still rather pathetically call "the alien conspiracy". But soon there are notes on almost every case, and, scattered throughout, remarks about how I feel, these feelings more often than not including Scully or being directly related to her. I can't believe I didn't notice at the time, it's so obvious. Like this one: "Motel dinner with Scully. We talked about the TV shows we liked when we were kids. Not one coincidence. And yet - a sense of belonging, almost of fulfilment, even. Although, again, nothing has been proven, we didn't even get to make an arrest. How is it that so many X-Files solve themselves when the suspects conveniently disposing of themselves?"
Belonging, fulfilment... how could I write down those things, have them right before my eyes, and not stop and start, not catch my breath? Then there are things like this, dated threee years ago: "Sunday. I don't quite know what to do with myself. What *do* people do on sundays? What do *I* do on sudays?" I remember that sunday, and I remember what I was thinking. Not about my sunday, but hers. Was she visiting one of her girlfriends, was she spending it with her mother, her family, people she had neglected because she had spent so may weekends chasing little green men on one of my stupid hunches, or lying in a hospital recovering from injuries she sustained in places she never should have been, or being abducted by dark forces that shadowed her life from the moment she became associated with me? I pictured her maybe just sitting at home and reading a book, but I couldn't think of what kind of a book she might be reading, and suddenly I felt on the verge of tears, or of throwing something out of the window - maybe myself. None of this I wrote down, this book having been just another means I used to lie to myself. But the coldness and fear that gripped me are still between these pages.
Or maybe it just seems to me that way because that's how I feel right now: short of breath, close to panic, as if someone was sitting on my chest; cold sweat sticky on my back and my forehead; this painful tugging in the pit of my stomach. I know this feeling, I've been there so may times, when she was in danger, or sick, or missing. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart racing, a wild distant scream still in my ears. These dreams used to be about Samantha, but now they are about Scully almost everytime. I see her lying on a cold operating table, a white light glaring down on her, blurry shadows moving around her, I know that they are going to hurt her, but there's nothing I can do to prevent it... Or I'm just in a dark place, no way our no way in, and she's not there; not just that she's not physically there, but I have this sense that she is nowhere, that she is gone in a terribly and unimaginably *definitive* way...
Is that the way it is now? Will I ever see her again? An absurd question, I know. She will be in the office, like every day, taunting me, leading me, walking circles around me. As if nothing ever happened. She didn't say a word, but I know that's how she wants it - though I don't know why. My life seems to be slipping out of my hands so fast now, so fast... Writing this is just another absurd attempt to hold on, to make it real by shaping what has passed between us into words, the words that were not said, and that will only exist in my mind. Maybe it all took place in my mind, maybe I dreamed it, and if I tell her, she'll just shake her head and go "oh brother" all over again.
It's so difficult to write the truth. But I know it did happen, it was no dream, no fantasy. I know it in my bones, and in my heart. She came to me, she was beautiful, and naked, and scared, and while I held her I could feel her gliding farther and farther away. I can't explain it any better, it was almost as if she was celebrating a private ceremony of her own, and my part in it was insubstantial. She made me cry, and I think she cried too. I can't say for sure, she wouldn't look at me. She held me very close, but she wouldn't look into my eyes. Then she said "go to sleep now", and I did. I dreamed I was lying in my bed, and she was not there.
Now the doors are open. Now I know the things I didn't want to know, feel the things I didn't want to feel. The things that really matter. Now I can read the truth in the lies I wrote down. And a wave of pain is rolling towards me, unlike any pain I have ever known. Heaven help me. Heaven help us both.
I wish she had taught me how to pray.