Temporary A self promise from and to Alex Krycek is no exception to this. Every time
after I wake up with a pounding head, and zero or little memory of the previous
night, I swear off the vodka, of course. This has never lasted longer than two
days.
Which is why I'm currently seated on the floor, back up against the side of
the bed, watching the diminishing level of liquid in my bottle of Stoli. I don't
know how long it's been—well, I do, two-and-a-half bottles—but I've been
drinking for a while now. Since I got back home from venturing out this morning.
I only went out in order to stock up, which is the usual reason, I suppose.
There were so many crowds, and I wandered aimlessly, eventually giving up and
coming home again. I hate attention.
It may sound strange, but I really do. I can't stand it. Good attention is
all right, I suppose... but usually it's not good, you can see the mocking
faces, laughing inwardly at you.
Maybe I'm drunk. Again. Wouldn't be surprising. I'd say the majority of my
alcohol consumption takes place at this time of the year, Christmas and
immediately afterwards. I don't know where I get the money for it. I just find
money in various places, around... in banks, in wallets that don't usually
belong to me..
Okay, so I don't go in for petty theft unless I'm really desperate. However,
such a statement suggests that it happens often. I suppose it does. I don't like
doing it... but hell, I often do things I don't like, or don't go in for... I
don't have a choice.
I lie down, head on my leather jacket, looking across the floor. Those blood
stains are getting damn annoying. Some would say that they add character
to my apartment... I have enough character of my own, thank you very much. I
don't need dried blood to add to this mess.
My mother would probably have hated my apartment. From what I was told about
her, she had a keen aesthetic sense. I suppose it's where I get it from... not
from my goddamn father, that's for sure. She would have come by, packed my bags
and probably taken me back to Russia. I smile a little at the thought.
On a whim, I get up and go over to the one table in the place, where I have
the one photo I've ever kept. It's of my mother and I—as a very small child—and she looks seriously beautiful. It may sound conceited, but as I pick it up,
I realise that we share a lot of the same features. Eyes, nose, mouth shape,
hair colour... unsurprising, I must be practically a clone of her, I look
nothing whatsoever like my father did.
Suddenly getting an idea, I gently tuck the photograph inside the pocket of
my sweats, and pick my leather jacket off the floor.
Screw Mulder. If he hasn't found my address by now, he's not going to. Screw
him.
I look around at the apartment again, wondering why the hell I ever decided
to live here. It sucks, I hate it, I've never liked it, it's not even cheap...
But, oddly enough, it carries with it a lot of emotional baggage. I've lived
in this apartment, although on a very irregular basis, for three years.
I used to lie on the bed, when I was a Good Little Agent of the FBI, and
think about Mulder, loosen my belt, slip my hand inside, and work myself. That
lower lip, his wit, everything... his eyes, the way he looked at me...
After I left the Bureau, the apartment became a place to come and lick my
wounds. Every time something went wrong, I'd come back here and think about it,
berate myself, get drunk over it...
The only time I didn't come here after a major blow was after Russia, with
Mulder. That set me back too far; I went home.
Pretty loosely used word, in this case. My father didn't recognise me; I got
a vodka bottle hurled at my head, and several curses directed at me. So I
crawled away, found a hospital, did everything following up that was required,
and made my way back to America.
I suppose some of the bloodstains are probably mine.
This place doesn't even have a television. Hell, I don't need one that bad.
Knowing my luck, if I got one, they'd probably be having a marathon of "The
Fugitive". Luck doesn't exactly smile upon me.
I walk over to the 'kitchen'—the size of a closet, individualised only by
lino and a small stovetop which I could probably fit two vodka bottles on—and
look around. Nothing of any value.
I step back out into the main room. There's nothing. Screw Mulder.
Completely clear in my mind, I pick up the box of matches which rests on my
bed, strike one, and light the bed. If he does come, he'll be in for a surprise.
I leave, shutting the door behind me, closing a chapter in my life I'd prefer
to forget.
22/12/98
Moods VII
by Fleur
As usual, nothing lasts forever.
