"You're overreacting," he says, and maybe I am, but when everything seems to
be falling down and all you have is the work, and the work is
nonexsistent, then... well.
Well.
Is the truth still out there? And do I, in my weak excuse for a life, busted
and rejected and nowhere near the Fox Mulder that ALL OF YOU are convinced I
am, do I still have a RIGHT to that truth? God, I'm alone here, alone and
burning up and I'm scared, so scared. Someone of purer heart than I would
say that it's ALL about the truth, that if I can hang on here and do my work
then it's worth it. These are the same people who believe I never murdered
Vanya in the hole that night, in the basement, who believe that I went to
Tunguska the second time to save my brothers—Aleshka from Kolyai and
Kolyai from himself. The same people that gave me the DSC when I got back,
like Eric. And Christ, I tried. But notoriety is not what I need right
now, all I want is to do good, to be innocent, Christ, remember Josh
Exley? Just playing ball. Smiling. Content in myself, not split down the
middle between who I am and the way I'm "supposed" to act.
She's out there somewhere. Even if it's in the face of some other child that
never came home, someone I might be able to save. But I'm ruining that
chance. Ruining my life. No good, the same old mantra, and it hurts so bad
but what the fuck do I do?
Caught between the myth, what you all think I should be and the reality, the
truth that I am and the desire, the love and desire and the quest for the
truth and who am I? Can I be your Fox Mulder, even with this situational
crown of thorns? Can I make the best of it and do what I can? I'm scared, so
scared, and lonely, and Scully's in bed and it's dawn and look, I'm crying.
Is the myth intact? Does anyone out there hear me? I need your help. I'm
not perfect but I try so hard, and I need to know there's still a chance
for me. That I'm still doing the right thing.
Please. God, please.
I'm sorry.
Scully. And Samantha. And all of you out there who believe in the perfect
fiction.
I'm sorry.
Fox
Desperate Letter from Mulder
Sometimes I wonder if it's all even really worth it... I sit here typing
at dawn with five stitches in my right hand and a horrid, blazing ache
somewhere beneath my ribs. Samantha. Krycek. And me, Fox Mulder, stuck
somewhere in the fucking middle and I don't even know who I am anymore. I
seem to do nothing but get into trouble... to doubt myself... to let
what everyone thinks of me get inside... and then I lie awake next to
Scully at 6:12 a.m. after sitting aimlessly on the porch for hours wondering
what do I do now? what can I do? Am I losing myself? Is the man who spent
four days writhing and screaming under Kolyai gone because I raise a little
hell unbecoming of an FBI agent? Am I that fucking paranoid, choas theory
here that every little thing I do is coming back to me, everything, that I
walk around a marked man never free to do my work, to find the truth, to
just LIVE MY FUCKING LIFE AND BE LEFT ALONE. I'm scared. God, I'm scared.
What have I become?
