Subject: NEW: Four Seasons of Loneliness 1/1
From: maryilee@aol.com (Maryilee)
Date: 2 Oct 1997 13:46:36 GMT
Again, not mine, just posting for Fontaine. Send comments to her:
Saitiau@aol.com
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CATEGORY: VA
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance. Character dies.
SPOILERS: Fourth season.
RATING: PG
DISCLAIMER: I've seen so many creative ways of saying this. Unfortunately, I
can't come up with one now, so you'll have to live with a boring one. They
don't belong to me, okay?? :)
NOTES: This little something without much of a plot was inspired by the Boys II
Men song "Four Seasons of Loneliness," CD gracefully supplied by Seetow. You
got me hooked, man! Lyrics used without permission.
QUESTION OF THE DAY: Why, you ask, am I writing this instead of my essay? I
think we all know the answer.
I tell ya if the formatting is screwy it is entirely my Crappy Mac's fault.
Usually it's a Happy Mac but now it's crappy. :) Thanks as always goes to
Meredith the Superwoman. (Did I mention she was an editor too?)
Comments and criticism welcome at SaiTiau@aol.com
Four Seasons of Loneliness
by Fontaine L. (aka Orange Kat)
-------------------------------------------------
When summer burns with heat
I always get the hots for you
Go skinny dippin' in the ocean where we used to do"
-------------------------------------------------
This summer will be a long and sorrowful one, for it reminds me of past ones.
It will invariably bring back memories of you rolling up your sleeves,
complaining about the atmosphere in our stuffy office. Often you unbutton
your shirt a little and loosen your tie, the ones with brash patterns. I will
laugh gently and sometimes scold your unkempt attire, if only to get my mind
off other things.
Yesterday I declared your death, and today I shall bury you.
There's a cliche that says you don't know what you've got till it's gone. I
always knew what I had, but I never told you. How could I? It wasn't me. I
had made a mistake--I will always think that I could have saved you if I had
told you. You were such a tortured soul--was it wrong that I failed to make
you feel cherished? Was it wrong for me to bury these feelings?
I trudge along in the burning heat, watching the soles of the man before me
intently. Rhythmic, constant. I pretend those are yours, and we are walking
towards a car, a restaurant, a house. I did all these things with you. Now
that your presence is ripped away from me, the pattern is
disturbed. I feel alarmed, violated.
Outside, I am as calm as ever. I have to preserve this facade, the one thing I
have left with me. Inside I am hollow, empty. Unwhole. Do you know this? Do
you know what you have done? Yes, it was simple. Its consequences earth
shattering.
Today I am dressed in black, the heat penetrating me, moistness underlining the
cloth. I stand in this heat, listening to them retell your life, praise your
soul, bid you well. It is ironic, for I always anticipated to leave this
world first. The truth will save us both," you say.
Has it?
My name is called, and I step up in front of the meager crowd. I search the
crowd for faces we knew--I see him and your mother, standing together.
Uncharactaristically, I only crease my brow. My eyes meet with my mother's
and suddenly the tears threaten to flow. I thought I had
already exhasusted their source. My voice is shaky when I speak, when I
remember you. The speech is preposterous, formal, cold. I do not like my
tone, it betrays no emotion. Given the chance, I could have told them about
your dreams, about your nobility, your naivete. I would have screamed until
my voice evaded me for them to listen to you, to your cause. I want them to
believe you like I do, to trust you like I have. It is only fair. Instead, I
speak with a flat voice and I wear an expressionless mask. Only for them.
Deep down my soul is bare and it withers in the hot summer heat.
--------------------------------------------
When autumn sheds the leaves the trees are bare
When you're not here it doesn't feel the same"
--------------------------------------------
I hug my coat a little closer as a whisk of autumn breeze transcends me. I
enter the building, and my colleagues greet my courtly. Did I tell you I no
longer work in the basement? They promoted me to an upper echelon, as if to
compensate. Do they really care, I think bitterly, when they know I am dying
every day?
Soon, I think. No longer than it takes for the leaves to turn green again, for
the earth to awake. Then it will be my time. A peaceful, long awaited time.
My office has a desk now, clean and organized. There are no piles of a variety
of magazine clips you would give me when we are working on a particular pace.
There are no remnants of sunflower seeds that you have chewed on occasionally
when you sat in "my area." My computer password isn't "trustno1" anymore. It
is "missingyou."
I sit down and review my work for the day nonchalantly. I almost expect you to
burst in with one of your weird ideas or wacky theories, persuading me to hop
on a resented plane to somewhere, so I do not realize I am staring at the
doorway. My new partner Agent Hawks surprises me by suddenly appearing--she
asks me to do an autopsy.
You must know that I'm tired of cutting up people. What reason is there to be
found behind the death? What is our business to meddle with the dead? The
death itself is irreversible, the damage is done. So, why? Our knives and
needles will only cause disturbance. And since we cannot bring back life, why
should we bother? They could not bring you back.
Walking down to the autopsy bay, I see workmen carrying boxes. Out of one
sticks a rolled-up poster. I glare at that unfortunate man and snatch the
poster out--"I Want to Believe." The smile that curves my lips is wistful,
devoid of true happiness. I tuck the poster under my arm and head
downstairs, to the office that was once ours. I left it months ago, wanting to
give it space, to leave it in its original state for a while.
My anger builds up when I see your name plate is removed from the open door,
and I tremble like a leaf in the wind. Much of your vestige had already been
removed, the room now lonelier than ever. There aren't alien heads staring
back at me anymore from your bulletin boards. Frantically, I pull open the
filing cabinets--the X-Files are gone. I want to scream in terror, but I
cannot find my voice. What I see are sheets of useless information, mundane
cases.
In a blinding rage, I pull out the papers and toss them about the room. That
is when I see that single drunk-red petal I left behind when I went to
Philadelphia. The tears blur my sight while white papers scatter around me
like autumn's fallen leaves.
------------------------------------------
In comes the winter breeze
That chills the aire and drifts the snow
And I imagine kissing you under the mistletoe"
------------------------------------------
Is that snow I see beginning to fall as I step out of my car? I stick out my
tongue and taste it. The chilly wetness reminds me of you, your rage and
terror during one case in the Arctic. It also brings back memories of a time
of fear and waiting, when you came back, near death, after pursuing the truth
of your sister. Resolutely, I wrap the scarf around my neck tighter, trying
to block out the memories. I cannot continue like this. I try to look
cheerful as I press my mother's doorbell.
My mother greets me with that same expression of happiness and anxiety tossed
into one. No doubt she still worries about me when I started to shut off and
hide behind doors earlier this summer. I would have talked to her, but that
would only result in two teary-eyed women. I hug her fiercely, saying in my
own way that I love her. This seems to comfort her a little, for she does not
eye me anymore. She steps out of my peripheral of vision for me to see my
family. My brothers, their families--and the omnipresent shadows of Melissa
and Ahab.
Conversations are trite, forced. Even if I know they don't blame it on me, I
cannot help but feel guilty. They miss you too, if only for what your absence
means to me. Yes, even Bill Jr. Does. Mom is trying to cheer me up, and I
comply as best as I can--but how can you pretend to be happy when you're not?
She knows it, I know it. They all know I'm just a walking and talking shadow
right now. Is this how you felt when I was gone? Only this is worse. You
are gone forever. Oh, if only you'd known.
Not long after we finish dinner, I excuse myself from a table of knowing
glances. It is time.
I arrive at your apartment -- I've decided to keep it for you. I wanted a
place where I could remember you, now that your office is gone. The poster is
there now, you know, along with all those crazy stuff you had. In the doorway
I tack a small mistletoe, and I light up and christmas tree I bought for you.
Aren't I pathetic? Here I am, hanging Christmas decorations for a dead man.
Do you know in my heart you are far from dead?
And then I sit alone in your apartment, thinking about nothing but you.
The Christmas carols drift out of the stereo, reminding me of a happier
time--when you were around. Chestnuts, stockings, snow, Santa. Childhood
objects of fantasy. I never noticed before you left--somewhere inside me, I
still believed in these things. But now I don't. Because I know no matter
how many wishes I make, how many letters I write, Santa can't give you back to
me. I won't be able to give you Christmas presents anymore. I won't be able
to call you in the middle of the night and invite you to our reunions, knowing
you are probably thinking about her.
And I will never, ever get a chance to kiss you under the mistletoe.
------------------------------------------------
When springtime makes its way here
Lilac blooms reminds me of the scent of your perfume"
------------------------------------------------
This year I celebrated my birthday alone. I'm 35 years old, and I feel like an
old woman. An old widow, to be exact. Skinner has given me an indefinite
time of leave because I could no longer function proficiently as an FBI
agent." I agree with him--partly because of my failing health and
the way I cannot get my mind off a certain someone when I'm on a case. You are
in every shadow. In every autopsy I relive the last moments of your life as
if I had witnessed them myself. In every tortured soul I see another one I
used to know that I could have saved. And in every little
girl, I see another one you never found.
I'm sorry, I've let you down. I've lost interest in the truth. It's time to
admit defeat. You will meet her there, I suppose, wherever you are. Oh, I'm
genuinely happy for you--and happy for us, for I believe my time is coming
soon even though the disease has not worsened since last December. I feel
death in the air. But how can I live without you? Just last week I've
written my last words and cleaned out my possessions. I've decided to take
the keychain you gave me with me. My nephew has the Superstars of the
Superbowls" now. I've gone over old casefiles that we've worked on together,
just to remember. I remember the conversations we've had. In the car, in the
much too often visited hospitals, on park benches, on a stranded rock. I
remember the way you had held me when I broke down. I remember your kiss on
my forehead, the way you welcomed me back. I remember your strength--and you
*had* given me strength. Only I did not
know that you were growing weaker by the moment.
Oh yes, I relived each of those vivid moments. I drink in the memories of your
touch, your gaze, your scent hungrily, for I know I cannot do so for long. I
remember those nights you had stayed here, and we had been on the heels of the
truth so relentlessly, with such fervor and naivete. All I have now is
resolution and the serenity I feel with the knowledge of seeing you soon.
I want to remember these last days of my life with you. I want you to never
regret the time we've spent together, and I never feel sorry because we
haven't found the truth. We've lost, but we had each other, for a brief,
beautiful, heartwrenching five years.
These are my thoughts about you as I sit by my window. These will be my
thoughts I want to share when I see you again. When, how, why, I do not know.
I only know that we shall meet again, with certainty.
I open my window, and I let springtime embrace me.
-------------------------------------------------
The loneliness has crushed my heart
Please let me love again
Cause I need your love to comfort me and ease my pain
Or four seasons will bring the loneliness again"
-------------------------------------------------
END (9/21/97)
Mucho gracias for reading! Comments/criticism/flames to SaiTiau@aol.com
please.
"It is time to remember who we all are. Why we joined the Bureau in the first
place. I will not compromise any longer." --Walter Skinner, "Missing Voices"
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