Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2000
Author: Laura Castellano
Keywords: Angst, Mulder POV, Vignette
Spoilers: just tiny ones, none specific
For the one who always manages to bring me down.
by Laura Castellano
Sometimes I wonder what remains for them to take, and then I
realize--all that remains is us.
I'm sensing a pattern here.
And, at the heart of it all--for me at least--my sister.
How many times do we have to lose? Notice, we're always
"we" to me now. There was a time that wasn't so. I've
been accused more than once of thinking the world revolves
around me and my quest, but that isn't the truth.
My world revolves around her.
How I wish she could feel the same. I know she wants to. She
even tries, sometimes, but something in her died the day
Emily was buried, and I've never been able to bring that spark
in her back to life.
How arrogant, to believe that I could be the one to do the
impossible. And yet, I never give up hope that perhaps one
day, perhaps today, in fact, she will lay down the mantle of
sadness she's carried these past few years and allow herself
to relish the small joys of life.
But who am I to ask this of anyone? I, who spent most of my adult
life involving myself and her in a quest that held untold dangers?
I, who may have saved her life but was most certainly responsible
for endangering it in the first place.
Had we met under different circumstances, would we be the people
I wish now we could be, or was our fate determined before we
ever set foot upon this planet? Were we born for this, then?
And if so, was it God who condemned us to this loneliness, this
agony of frustration and angst that seems our total stock-in-trade?
Sort of reaffirms my belief about God: if He's up there, He's
far too busy to concern Himself with the likes of me. Or maybe
He just doesn't give a shit.
We give and give, both to each other and to the world at large,
and what has it gained us? Isolation, humiliation, hopelessness,
and those are the things that are easy to put into words. Less
readily expressed is the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach
that tells me my life is over already, having never really begun.
All the things I've done with my life in these thirty-nine years,
and what will be left behind me when I'm gone but bad memories?
I have no legacy.
The bartender pours me one more glass of bourbon, but I can tell
she'll be cutting me off soon. She's done it before. She takes
an interest in me, when I come in here to drink my troubles away--
it's an anesthetic I seek all too often these past months. Perhaps
she sees in me a novice who is trying desperately to cover an
enormous scar with a band-aid. Or maybe she just thinks I'm cute.
It doesn't matter, really, because I'm ruined for other women.
There's only one I want, and she makes it plain on a daily basis
that I am to get no closer than the length of my arm.
There was a time I was allowed more, but that time is far in the
past. I remember closeness, a camaraderie that existed even
when one of us was *not* on our deathbed. I remember a brilliant
smile when I opened my eyes after an injury, words she couldn't
speak because her voice would choke with emotion.
I remember those things, but they are all so long ago.
Now she's hardened, cocooned in a shell that even I am not
allowed to penetrate, and I ache for the woman I love. She's
been missing for a long time now.
My hand shakes as I raise the glass to my lips once again, and
the liquid has long since ceased burning as it makes its way
to my stomach. I will pay for this indulgence in the morning,
but for now, I continue to assuage my feelings with the artificial
emotion I find in this glass.
Fury grips me, briefly, as I wonder why a happy ending is too
damned much to ask, but I tamp it down quickly--throwing the
glass across the bar will only get me kicked out of here, and
tonight I need this.
Tonight, while she lies sleeping, I try once more to put the
demons inside to rest.
There is no fairy tale for me or we...
Laura Castellano's X-Files FanFic