I hear the carollers on the other side of the street, as I walk briskly
towards my apartment building. The singing children are holding candles, and
sport very rosy cheeks.
My building's only a block away, but I know it's going to take a while to get
there. The beggars are watching me, with hollowed out eyes, a few of them with
Christmas hats on, a few others with dogs. I wonder, if they're so poor, how
they can afford hats?
There is snow falling, but nothing has settled. It's Christmas Day, and it's
cold as. I shouldn't have left the warmth of my apartment just for a walk, but I
was bored.
Most people on this day would be with their families, but I am alone. I do
have family—my mother, at least—but we don't get on that well. Scully's
spending the time with her family. She invited me along, as she always does, but
I refused—I don't need to spend time feeling like a tagalong.
A lone flake has settled on my black shoes. I've stopped walking without
realising, and am now simply looking down at this snowflake. It's joined by
another, then a couple more, before I realise the snow has started getting
heavier again.
A child squeals with delight; a girl. I look up, wondering where she is, but
don't see. Perhaps it's my imagination.
Keeping my head down, I walk on. A few beggars reach out, up towards me,
"Spare some change, mister?" but I ignore them. It's not that I don't have
money, or that I don't care as such. I just don't want to get involved.
My pace becomes more clipped, and I look up to see the front of my building
has somehow appeared. The snow's coming down harder now, and I open the door in
order to enter.
The blast of warmth from the heaters hits me, and I blink a few times. The
snowflakes on my clothing are rapidly melting into water, probably those in my
hair, also.
A woman nods at me in greeting as I pass her, going into the elevator. I
press the button for my floor, and stare at the numbers lighting up until my
floor, where I get out.
There's an envelope half-under my door, and I slide it back out. In
unfamiliar block writing, my name is scrawled. The black ink has smudged a
little, I suppose from when the deliverer brought it over here, in the snow.
I ignore it for the time being, and unlock the door. Compared to the warmth
of the hallway, my apartment is cool, and I flick the lights on, then a heater.
I peel off my trenchcoat and gloves, hanging them carelessly on the rack.
Moving over to the answering machine, I find I have a message. I sit down on the
couch after pressing play.
"Mulder, it's me."
Scully. I smile a little, despite myself. There's background noise behind her
voice, which makes me think she's simply taken time out in the middle of a
family thing to call me.
"Just ringing to see how you are, Merry Christmas, you know. Hope you're
having a good day."
Yeah, right. An empty one, sure. Last night was the last time I came remotely
to enjoying myself, and that was probably only because I was drunk.
"Call your mother, Mulder, okay? Just call her."
Sure, Scully. Whatever. I don't think I'll be doing that anytime soon.
"Speak to you soon. Bye..."
I smile a little at hearing her voice again, and the machine clicks off. I
should call her back, but the conversation would be too one-sided... and I don't
want to make her feel bad by telling her how depressing my Christmas is.
Instead of reaching for the phone, I reach for the envelope.
I tear it open to find a simple card, one you buy from any bookstore. A red
border, and a Christmas tree, with presents under it, grace the cover. I flick
it open to find a simple message...
'Mulder,
Merry Christmas.
-Alex'
Alex? Alex Krycek? Alex "you should try drinking some harder stuff
sometime" Krycek?
The man must be lonely, as depressed as he looked last night, if he's sending
me a Christmas card. I wouldn't have expected to be on his list. His Christmas
card list, anyway.
Without knowing why, I walk over to the computer, and place the card beside
it. Then I look out the window, down onto the street.
The snow's started in earnest now, and I can see a couple of kids playing
around in it, running through.
I draw the curtains, unwilling to watch the outside, happy-it's-Christmas
world for any longer than I have to. I move over and collapse onto the couch.
Christmas can wait. Even if it doesn't, I don't really care.
Alex Krycek, sending me a Christmas card. What a joke.
Ignoring the incredibly sad mental picture of me, alone and pathetic on
Christmas Day, I close my eyes on the world.
14/12/98
Snow
by Fleur
"Silent Night, Holy Night..."
