Summary: The same thing, Mulder writing in his journal, post "Brand X"
1. Addiction
A constant in my life. Addicted to my obsessions, addicted to the thought of finding Samantha, addicted to the conspiracies that I thought were determining my life. Addicted to pain. Addicted to solitude.
Addicted to this love.
Never to alcohol. Never to drugs. And now there's a package of cigarettes lying in front of me on the desk, and the colours seem so tempting. I know what it will taste like, I know how the smoke will fill my lungs, I know the poison will give my mind the illusion of rest. So many illusions, so many addictions, what does one more matter? Compared to all the other ones, this is harmless. Millions of people all over the world share this. I won't be alone.
How many cigarrettes will it take to numb the loneliness? How many packages? Will I have to start with the booze, too, to make her image fade? I could do it, I could drink myself to death, starting today. It wouldn't take too long, I've never been a heavy drinker, my liver would collapse just like that. Or cocaine, speed, end it all in one big rush.
Or I could shoot myself through the head. Self-pitying jerk.
The truth is (since I decided to write the truth - I did decide that, didn't I? can't remeber...)- the truth is I miss her. I want her. I want her naked again, I want to make love to her again, and this time I want to make her feel it, make her feel that I'm there. I want to hold her back. If I could have her, if I could have one more night (and yes, I do sound like a fucking Phil Collins song), she would stay, if I had to tie her to the bed she would stay.
Hey, there's an idea. I could keep her in my bedroom, fuck her and feed her, and I'm sure in time she would come to love me just as much as I love her, and we would live happily ever after.
Great. Now this book has evolved from the book where I lied to myself to the book where I go crazy. Fun. I can write it all down, and the day I reach the last page I'll donate it to science and jump from a big rock.
The truth, the truth. Stick to the facts. Fact is, my throat is sore as hell, my lungs still feel as if they were filled with rusty wires, I can still *feel* the little goddamn bugs crawling inside. Fact is, I hate this job more than ever. Fact is, she hasn't talked to me since that night. It has been strictly work. I knew she was going to walk circles around me, I knew that's the way she wanted it, but knowing and believing are two very different things. The story of my life. I knew it would hurt but man oh man.
I'm dying here, and I don't care if it makes me sound like a self-pitying jerk.
But she was in pain too, I could see it in her face when she was at the hospital. That stupid banter, when she took my hand and I said "must be bad", why did I do it? Why did I allow us to slip back to where we were, to where it's comfortable for both of us? I don't want to be comfortable anymore, I want to be loved, rejected, pissed, mad, extatic, anything but comfortable. But I gave in, because I could read the fear in her eyes.
Well damn her, and damn her fear! I am afraid too. I should have talked, I should have said something, anything, I should have used the five fucking seconds of breathing air I had left to confront her with my feelings. How long would it have taken to say "why did you leave?" or "you hurt me" or "I love you". And I don't care what she would have answered, at least she would have known that I meant it. She would have known.
But she does know. That's the worst of it. She knows that I'm sitting here thinking about her, missing her, aching for her body. I can feel her eyes on me, not for the first time, she is breathing right beside me.
So why is she doing it? Does she enjoy making me suffer? Or is she the one who is suffering the most? Is it more a question of why are we doing this to each other?
What's taking us so long?
1. Addiction
A constant in my life. Addicted to my obsessions, addicted to the thought of finding Samantha, addicted to the conspiracies that I thought were determining my life. Addicted to pain. Addicted to solitude.
Addicted to this love.
Never to alcohol. Never to drugs. And now there's a package of cigarettes lying in front of me on the desk, and the colours seem so tempting. I know what it will taste like, I know how the smoke will fill my lungs, I know the poison will give my mind the illusion of rest. So many illusions, so many addictions, what does one more matter? Compared to all the other ones, this is harmless. Millions of people all over the world share this. I won't be alone.
How many cigarrettes will it take to numb the loneliness? How many packages? Will I have to start with the booze, too, to make her image fade? I could do it, I could drink myself to death, starting today. It wouldn't take too long, I've never been a heavy drinker, my liver would collapse just like that. Or cocaine, speed, end it all in one big rush.
Or I could shoot myself through the head. Self-pitying jerk.
The truth is (since I decided to write the truth - I did decide that, didn't I? can't remeber...)- the truth is I miss her. I want her. I want her naked again, I want to make love to her again, and this time I want to make her feel it, make her feel that I'm there. I want to hold her back. If I could have her, if I could have one more night (and yes, I do sound like a fucking Phil Collins song), she would stay, if I had to tie her to the bed she would stay.
Hey, there's an idea. I could keep her in my bedroom, fuck her and feed her, and I'm sure in time she would come to love me just as much as I love her, and we would live happily ever after.
Great. Now this book has evolved from the book where I lied to myself to the book where I go crazy. Fun. I can write it all down, and the day I reach the last page I'll donate it to science and jump from a big rock.
The truth, the truth. Stick to the facts. Fact is, my throat is sore as hell, my lungs still feel as if they were filled with rusty wires, I can still *feel* the little goddamn bugs crawling inside. Fact is, I hate this job more than ever. Fact is, she hasn't talked to me since that night. It has been strictly work. I knew she was going to walk circles around me, I knew that's the way she wanted it, but knowing and believing are two very different things. The story of my life. I knew it would hurt but man oh man.
I'm dying here, and I don't care if it makes me sound like a self-pitying jerk.
But she was in pain too, I could see it in her face when she was at the hospital. That stupid banter, when she took my hand and I said "must be bad", why did I do it? Why did I allow us to slip back to where we were, to where it's comfortable for both of us? I don't want to be comfortable anymore, I want to be loved, rejected, pissed, mad, extatic, anything but comfortable. But I gave in, because I could read the fear in her eyes.
Well damn her, and damn her fear! I am afraid too. I should have talked, I should have said something, anything, I should have used the five fucking seconds of breathing air I had left to confront her with my feelings. How long would it have taken to say "why did you leave?" or "you hurt me" or "I love you". And I don't care what she would have answered, at least she would have known that I meant it. She would have known.
But she does know. That's the worst of it. She knows that I'm sitting here thinking about her, missing her, aching for her body. I can feel her eyes on me, not for the first time, she is breathing right beside me.
So why is she doing it? Does she enjoy making me suffer? Or is she the one who is suffering the most? Is it more a question of why are we doing this to each other?
What's taking us so long?