DISCLAIMER: The characters in this series belong to me. What? Whoıs
Chris Carter? Youıre insane! Just kidding. They belong to Chris ³Surfer
Dude² Carter, his production company, the actors, and Fox Television.
Donıt sue me. I still need the money to succeed in Hollywood.
ARCHIVE: Please, but whole length intact and my name attached. Please
forward to any list . . .
CLASSIFICATION: VA
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Season 4 and Season 5, minor for rest of mythology
KEYWORDS: None.
AUTHORıS NOTES: I wrote these as a series of journal entries for my
english class, each entry weeks apart from the other (I started these in
September, '97 :). Thatıs why youıll probably find that some revelations
during Season 5 and in the movie are not addressed. I chose to not provide
any character names throughout the whole series. I think you can figure
out whoıs who easily enough. There is no plot whatsoever, only emotions
and feelings. As always, I *live* for feedback. Kindly send all to
SaiTiau@aol.com. (Yes, for those of you who care, I *am* going to finish
writing ³If Tomorrow Never Comes.² As you can see I have been going
through a period of zero creativity and 100% stress from life!) (10/14/98)
SUMMARY: Characters from the show reveal their inner thoughts through a
series of short vignettes, told in the first person. No real plot.
THANKS TO: Joe Kelly, a great english teacher,
Meredith, an extraodinary beta-reader,
and Brenda, a wonderful friend.
LIMPID
by Fontaine L. (aka OrangeKat)
I - Crossing the Line
There are days--many of them, in fact--when I question my position.
My place in the grander scheme. I have some power, an estranged wife,
and a son whom I know no better than a stranger on the street.
Sometimes, I think itıs worth it. But more often than not, the doubt is a
persistent shadow that follows me wherever I go, clinging to me like dust
clings to the corners of cloth. Who are these men, who visit my office
everyday? Who is this man, standing behind the curtains, inside hidden
doors, persistently holding a cigarette in his fingers? And most of all,
why do I play this game?
It is sad for a man like me. All the things Iıve worked for in my
life--integrity, honesty, justice--no longer matter, because my place in
the world is different now. Traditional values have vanished, time-
honored morals have become unimportant. Itıs a different ballgame now.
Iıve embarked on a journey into emptiness. I am a hollow man--like the
men in Poeıs prose. My lips move, but I do not speak; my limbs function,
but I do not feel; I speak in riddles, but I canıt hide from the truth. Iıve
made a Faustian bargain. Iıve been forced to choose, though I knew I really
had no choice but to concede, to cave in. Can she be saved? I am
uncertain, often doubtful. But this, my decision, is what I stand for.
Something I must do. Perhaps I will ultimately belong to the darkness,
beyond reach of the light I once so cherished. Light. What of it, if the
devil is not afraid of it? What if it is light that he feeds on, that he
thrives on? What if he believes he is not evil, but *righteous*?
Two men. My best agent and myself. Two men who believe in the
truth. We wonıt amount to anything, but I can only pray that we will. Itıs
what I live on, this hope. False hope, but hope nonetheless. This is my
life, this is my last chance. Nothing else matters, nothing else I feel,
nothing else I see. I attend meetings, sign reports, review files, deliver
orders. But what my hand touches I cannot feel, and what my eyes see I
cannot comprehend. My world has been narrowed down to a tunnel, and my
only goal is to reach the other end.
Perhaps then I can breathe.
II - Solving the Mystery
³You wonıt give up the search
For the ghost in the halls²
-- Sarah McLachlan
Even now, I remember something that had happened in my childhood.
No, not the light and the strange men in the middle of the night, but a
gesture from my brother. He had given me a birthday card. Other children
had laughed at me for rejoicing at such a thing, but it was no ordinary
birthday card for me. My brother had rarely been kind and loving, let alone
given me gifts. But I remember the one birthday card he had given me for
my eighth birthday. Eyes aflame, hands outstretched, he had never seemed
so excited.
In retrospect, it was as if he had known it would be his first and
last gift for me.
I guess traumatic experiences tend to have that effect: they take the
world as you know it--along with your memories, your dreams, your
identity, everything that defines who you are--and they turn it all upside-
down, inside-out. Some parts of your life resurface, some become buried
forever. My life was shaped by more than trauma. It was shaped by facts
unknown, voices unheard, and a father I never knew.
I donıt hate him for it, for as I had said, he was a good father to me,
and he gave me everything that I have now. I had no one else in the world,
but he was there for me. He gave me a home, some semblance of a family,
education, and identity. Sometimes there would be shadows, a sudden
pang of pain, an assault of past memories. But these I grew accustomed
to. I pushed them to the periphery of my existence, barely acknowledging
them in my everyday life. I did not grow curious, I dared not ask why. If
my life was to be shrouded in mystery, so let it be. Just let me live.
But I remember my brother. I wanted so much to see him. My
brother whose face I remembered vaguely, but whose calls echod in my
sweetest dreams and darkest nightmares. My brother who had never let
me choose the TV channel, who had never let me have the last cookie. A
brother who had drawn me a birthday card with all his heart.
Last night my wish was granted--twenty-five years too late. I was
faced with a stranger whose expression I could not decipher. But his
facial features I recalled immediately, retrieved miraculously from under
layers of denial, pain, and ignorance. The sad curve of his lip, his
irregularly large nose. The way his eyes wrinkle up when he weeps. I
remember his sorrow, and I see it reflected in the guilt he wears now. I
cannot remember him any other way, for his voice reminds me of his pain
in my sleep. Someway, somehow.
He is so near, yet so far.
And we talked to each other. Really. After so long, Iıd thought we
would have nothing to say. But we talked about everything, even topics we
should have left unbreached. He told me about his work in the ³X-Files,²
his partner, and his search for me. My mind whirled and I gasped when he
told me about the supposed truth. The supposed truth. . . am I doubting my
own brother? But why did I feel self-conscious when I sat there talking
to him, my eyes averting to my father sitting outside in the car, puffing on
a cigarette like he always did? What is it that I feared? I didnıt know
what to believe anymore. Which are the lies? Which are the truths? Have
I believed in a lie for so long that it became my truth--or am I to distrust
my own brother? The weariness and bewilderment overwhelmed me as I
struggled to leave him; but he held my hand insistently, not letting go.
The lights from the bar and the passing traffic danced across his features
and just briefly, I saw the twelve-year-old in him, reaching out for me,
asking for my approval. I did not want myself to hesitate, so I pleaded
with him. I knew he would listen to me if I begged, because I begged the
night I was taken. I forced myself to leave before the tears fell.
The drive back home was uneventful in terms of communication, but
my inner turmoil was inexorable. I tried to study my fatherıs expression
in the darkness, to decipher a flicker of emotion or a sign of something
long hidden. His features seemed shrouded in secrecy, his intentions
ambiguous in the layers of wrinkles. Once in a while, a light from an
outside source would settle itself upon his countenance, but even then I
could not see anything. So we continued in silence, the cigarette stench
that has surrounded me since my birth accompanying us. The silence was
impermeable, the unspoken words suffocating.
And then I saw it. I saw where I had been blind. The truths were
there all along, and somewhere in my journey I chose to become ignorant,
passive, to close my eyes and hide. My brother couldnıt lie to me. He
wouldnıt. The man who had deceived me sat next to me, devious in his
schemes, relentless in his pursuits. And even
though now the facts still evade me, I now see who I am for the first time.
I need to return to him, to his haunted eyes, to him who has loved me like
no other. I want to tell him about this life I led, to tell him what a family
should be like. I want to show him my beloved children and the photos I
have accumulated in my wallet. I want to meet his partner whom he spoke
so fondly and tenderly of. I want all these things, things my father never
granted me. Instead, he fed me lies.
I do not hate him. I can never hate him. But tonight, Iıve made a
decision. I will see my brother again tomorrow, and together we will
solve this mystery. I owe him at least this. I owe myself this. Without it
my life would be void of meaning. Whatıs started many years ago must
come to an end.
In my dreams I still see my brother imploring me with his hazel
eyes, like he had twenty-five years ago on my eighth birthday.
It's time to go home.
III - Embracing the Danger
I am not a philosopher. I am a doer, a maker. I try not to think,
because it hurts too much. I have too much to worry about as it is. If I
thought about every damn thing I did, I probably wouldnıt be in this fucking
mess right now. I probably wouldnıt be who I am right now either. Iıd
probably be living on some big old ranch in Montana with a wife named
Annie and two kids named David and Jennifer.
Iıd probably be ³normal.²
No, I canıt think about it.
For ten years Iıve operated in the darkness, stumbling along, doing
heinous deeds and slowly earning the reputation of being ³scum,² while
assuring myself that I did what I did for a reason. As if that would have
made a difference. What I dumb punk I was. I was manipulated, deceived.
Toyed with. Iıd been screwed over without even knowing it. I was sitting
on top of the world (but at the bottom of society), proud as hell of myself.
It was probably all the excitement, the blood, the illusion of lawlessness.
I was the ³bad guy,² a man with dual personalities and identities, someone
with big secrets to hide. And I got off of it. I followed orders like a slave
because of my beliefs. I had gone down a path that the very object they
were trying to eliminate had been evading for years. Now I must admit
that I am in the wrong.
Iım still here, groping in the darkness. I will not even begin to
recount the physical injuries Iıve suffered during this godforsaken
journey, because they are pin pricks compared by my mental loss. Iıve lost
my identity, my sense of integrity, and what have I achieved? Nothing. I
am a worn mannequin tossed aside, a puppet whose strings are cut after
the show is over.
But if they think theyıve got me beaten down forever, theyıre wrong.
They donıt know who I am. Iıve forgotten my real name, but I know with
certainty who I want to be. I sure as hell won't sit here mourning myself
to death. Iıve vowed revenge, and I intend to stick to my vows if it takes
the rest of my life. I hate the men who used me--like they used countless
other young, hotblooded fools. I donıt hate the man who inflicted physical
pain on me because he had his reasons. Vengeance maybe. Okay, I hate
him, but not as much. But these shadow men. . . They donıt care. They
donıt even hate me. There is no passion in them. Iım but a pawn, a ³step²
in the process. I envy my nemesis, for he will find the truth Iıve so
desperately searched for in my own sick, twisted, and ultimately
unsuccessful ways.
Tomorrow, I will disappear into the crowd again. I will become
another man.
But I will remember my vows.
IV - Weathering the Pain
There is no sight more painful than the sight of my daughter crying.
I know how hard it is for to relinquish control of her tears--to her, it is
not an expression of sorrow, but a sign of weakness. Yet in the past two
years Iıve seen the tiny droplets scamper lightly down her cheeks with
unforseen rapidity and frequency. And as strong as I need to be for the
both of us, how can I remain so when the very center of my life is
crumbling before my eyes? Iıve put on a facade for too long. I need to be
weak. I need to cry into my pillow and pound my fists into the sheets. I
need to worry, fret, and hover.
I need to be a mother.
Who would have thought? Unlike her father, I approved of her career
choice. To me there is no occupation more honorable. My delight soared
higher when I met her partner, perhaps unfortunately, for seeing him
meant death or illness. Heıs been at my daughterıs side when her sister
died. Heıs searched for her even when I Lost all hope. Heıs been there, and
I am sure heıs going to be there for a long, long time. He is one to be
trusted. I can hardly blame him for encircling my daughter with his
dangerous quest, for it was she that was drawn to his desperate search as
moth to a flame. Noble spirits all yearn for the truth.
Iıve been supportive. These years have taken their toll on her, giving
her more pain than any human being should have to endure. Each day I
thank the Lord for letting my daughter still be alive, because each night I
go to bed with the unshakable feeling that tomorrow she will be gone. Itıs
a tremendous, heartgrinding pain I can neither appease nor evade. My life
revolves around it. Even more so for her and her partner. I sometimes
think there is a dark angel constantly watching over us, painting our lives
with bleak colors and sorrow.
It was only recently that God seemed to give her mercy. The disease
she had fought for so long has sunken deep into her body, hidden, inert.
Itıs still there--we know, how can we not?--but it is passive now.
Inactive. Past pains and wounds now have time to heal, a new life may
begin for her, and her faith in life and God may finally be restored. Itıs a
blessing, but why do I find it hard to rejoice? Why hasnıt worryıs clinch
on my heart loosened its grip one bit? And why is it that even now, when I
face my daughter and her partner, there are silent undercurrents between
us, inarticulate sighs that tug at our heartstrings, so that even our smiles
seem forced?
Why?
I do fear that weıve gotten used to sadness and grief, and I do fear
that fate has gotten used to toying with our lives. If my daughter cries
once more, perhaps I cannot smile for her anymore.
V - Walking the Path
I am old, frail, and brittle. No one would be less surprised than
myself if one day a breeze shattered these bones. People say youıre only
as old as you feel you are. Well, that statement is true, because I can feel
my age down to my very marrow. It exists in every step I take, every
command I issue, every movement of my body.
I am falling apart.
It is as certain as stark daylight, and I am afraid to confront it. In
this business, one must always stay agile and strong, even though age may
not permit it. The years may have given me venerability and sagacity, but
I must never, ever show weakness. I cannot falter. They expect me to go
on forever. However, I do not for one second believe that I am
irreplaceable. Important, perhaps, but I *can* be replaced. I know this
because I am powerful, and I am powerful because I know that I am not
devoid of weakness. I know how the Project works, Iıve seen how history
has been made, and I know I create the future. I know for certain that this
future is where I do not belong. My job is to ensure that this future will
arrive--but, ultimately, I do not belong there. This is my destiny, and I
will follow it, because I am older, and I know better. Young men, they
donıt know what destiny really is. They think they have their fate in their
own hands, that they can shape it as they please. I began my journey with
the exact same naivete, with the belief that I could emerge whole. Now I
am calloused, weary, nonchalant--but wiser. I know where I stand, and I
know what is bigger than me. That is how I can destroy so coldheartedly-
-I know Iım just observing my duty. This is nothing I have control over,
like the process of aging. And so with each day I can hear the wind rattle
my bones more clearly, it takes a little longer for me to light a cigarette.
This is how my life will end.
As I approach the sunset I know I will have regrets about living in
the shadows and whispering secrets. I have served my whole life for a
purpose, I am old, but I am still useful; I know I have power, but I never
forget my place. I have very few regrets.
Very few.
VI - Braving the Storm
Tonight my first son was born.
Words cannot describe how I feel.
Several times already, I have applied this pen to this paper,
attempting to capture only a morsel of the joy, the awe, and the faint
stroke of sorrow I felt, but to no avail. If only I were more adept at
expressing my emotions, if only I were more skilled in sentimental
writing. If only ...
The joy was tremendous ... the emotions overflowing ... but the
sorrow ... only a slight twinge at the edge of my consciousness, but a deep,
grey-tinted sorrow. It creates a queer sensation -- sorrow spreading like
cancer, waves of joy and happiness rushing to mingle with it. Forgive me,
I cannot find any other way of describing it. Sorrow. Spreading like
cancer. Cancer is the word. The nightmare is gone, but the shock lingers
on. Always.
And now I see the pain everywhere, even in my newborn sonıs eyes,
even in the rise and fall of my wifeıs chest as she sleeps. Everywhere, but
especially in my sister. It has come to follow her wherever she goes, as
her cross accompanies her to the far reaches of the earth. She carries her
pain like the cross that is on her chest but is actually on her back. I see
it, I feel it.
And the pain invades me too.
Not just me, though. I see the same color of emotion in my mother,
in my sisterıs partner -- though his pain is much deeper. A deeper sorrow
that not one of us can fathom. That is why I cannot bring myself to hate
him. However, I must chastise him, humiliate him, and disparage him to
protect my sister. I shall. But I cannot hate him; and only recently, have I
begun to understand his kind of sorrow. The kind that takes a part of you
away permanently. The kind that sometimes disappears into the shadows
of your subconsciousness, but never really goes away. The kind that .. I
cannot say anymore, lest I drop this pen and never return to these thoughts
ever.
Now I understand his sorrow, and I can just begin to get to know my
sister again. The sister reborn in the line of turmoil. I donıt like being
the bad guy. I donıt like having to be the big macho man who has to stand,
stern and unwavering, when all I really want to do is break down and cry
like a little boy. Funny though, because the tears rarely come. I think ... I
know itıs because Iım a fighter. Like my mother. Like my sisters. Like my
father was. And even though in my childıs eyes I see the eyes of another
that has gone away and brought even more sorrow to my sister, I cannot
fall. I donıt dare imagine what it will be like if I do.
I must go on.
THE END
-----------------
So, what do you think? E-mail me: SaiTiau@aol.com (ICQ: 7042188)
More fic at http://www.oocities.com/area51/vault/3768/fanfic.html
Personal Webpage: http://members.aol.com/saitiau/welcome.html
³Donıt ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.²
-- J.D. Salinger, ³The Catcher in the Rye²
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