Bonds I really hate my apartment. It's small, cramped, dirty, and god knows what
lives in the walls and under the bed, it may sound childish, but I hear noises
at night. The walls seem to be covered with inground dirt, because I can't see
any two places which have the same shade or colour.
The carpet has bloodstains all over it, and I don't think any of them are
from me. I don't tend to shoot people when they're standing in my apartment. But
the stains are in various places around the floor, impossible to tell what
they're from.
One day I might get the blood tested, to find out who the stains are from.
Could be interesting. But I don't think I can be bothered. I don't really give a
damn. I think I'll have that engraved on my tombstone, "He didn't give a damn".
If I even have a tombstone. Knowing me, I'll just have an unmarked grave
somewhere far away from here. Lying where I finally stopped running, finally got
killed. It's probably coming. I think I've been living on borrowed time for a
while now.
Most people, I suppose, are spending this holiday with their family. I think
I remember that that's what it's all about, being with your family. I can't
remember when I spent a Christmas with my family; my mother committed suicide
when I was very young, and my father, who I left back in Russia a long time ago,
spent each Christmas getting drunk.
I don't want to turn into a sob story, the product of a broken childhood,
because I really don't give a damn.
The phone half-beckons me, and I wonder why, wonder who I could call. The
Smoking Man, I'm sure he'd love to get a call from me, considering how important
I am to him and all.
I'd call Mulder, but I don't know why... he hates me, and I supposedly hate
him, and anyway he'd be visiting family.
Well, his mother, at least. It's common knowledge what happened with his
sister, and I know what happened with his father.
Right. Knowing Mulder, he'll be at home, lying on that couch of his and
watching porn. That mental picture is... interesting, to say the least. I smile,
despite myself.
I could go out, I suppose. What would the point be? No matter what my
original destination, I'll always end up in a bar, downing glasses of vodka, and
mentally complaining about the lack of quality.
The phone rings, and I startle. Moving over to it quickly, I pick it up.
"Yeah."
The voice at the other end has a distinctly Russian accent, and professional
overtone.
"Alex Krycek, please."
Suspiciously, I glance at the reciever. "This is Alex Krycek."
"I'm sorry for the delay in informing you of this, Alex," the woman begins
conversationally, "But records were very hazy, and we ended up only finding your
name and number through a book belonging to your father."
Get to the point, I mentally will her.
"Your father Ivan was found dead in his house, two days ago."
What?
What the hell?
I frown at the phone, uncomprehending. My father, dead? It's been so long
since I thought of him as a living person, that it hardly registers. I nod,
without speaking, and hang up the phone.
He's dead.
Strange, that. I'm not sad... I just feel strange. It's weird. I never
thought of my father as the dying type. I haven't thought of him as much, for a
long time now. But now he's gone, and it's just leaving me with the weirdest
feeling.
It's not that I'm disturbed by death, or not used to it, or anything else of
the sort. I haven't had any close relation die, since I've been old enough to
understand.
But now he's gone, and I don't know what reaction to have, how to respond.
I don't think I need to cry; I don't feel all that much like crying. I had
nothing to do with him, and yet, now, when he's gone, and it's Christmas Day, I
suddenly almost wish I did.
He wasn't exactly a nice person, I'm not going to lie. I didn't like the
bastard much when he was living, and I don't like him much when he's dead. But
he was a relation, my kin, and I can't deny that bond, which is now broken, for
good.
The bond in itself has never been strong, always strained, and one gets the
impression we both strained it too much, but it was always within range of
mending. Now it's not; irreversibly broken.
He didn't know the first thing about me. Wasn't there to comfort me when I
killed someone, or almost got killed, or when I lost my arm. He wouldn't have
been sober enough to, anyway.
I didn't exactly mean much to him. A name in his book, a child long
forgotten. He never bothered to find out much about me; wouldn't have known my
job, even my physical appearance; he wouldn't have even known about my arm.
I don't give a damn about him.
I move to the phone, intent on phoning someone, if only to hear a voice
that's vaguely familiar.
If I don't give a damn about him, why the hell am I crying?
The End
Moods III
by Fleur
Piece of shit apartment.
15/12/98
