I have not told my story, not to Scully. It remains a private part
of me that I have come to cherish yet hate with equal enthusiasm and
disdain, and the side upon which I fall changes regularly with no
apparent reason. The things that happened to me were personal,
private and despite their unlawfulness in origin, I have never
reported the crimes. They defied categorisation and classification,
and with my existing reputation, would have done little to service
any advancement in the Bureau, if any were ever likely. I mean, who
would have taken what I said seriously?
It started on a dark night eighteen months ago, when I left the
office and headed for home. I made my way from the lift to the car,
and was attacked from behind—it was neither malicious nor brutal,
but it was forceful. The cloth that covered my nose and mouth was
held in place with a strong hand, and as my eyes blinked, I remember
looking down at the fingers and thinking how full of intent my
assailant must be. He had approached from behind, and was hidden out
of sight, but the swiftness of his approach and the way in which he
immobilised me was, now that I think of it, the sign of a
professional. At the time, I had too much to contend with to notice,
but now that I know—it seems obvious.
My next memory is of waking, with a thick head, in a state of
complete undress. Leather cuffs were bound tightly around my wrists,
which were in turn held to the floor by lengths of chain. The first
coherent thought was of air against skin, and then of panic. I moved
back against the wall and pulled at the chains, assessing their
length, assessing my movement, somehow thinking that the longer the
chains were, the happier I would be. I looked around the room, but
saw nothing. Whitewashed walls, no windows, no fixtures, no fittings
at least not in the conventional sense—the sole distinguishable
feature was a door, just the one. Behind me and beneath me, an
assortment of wrought iron rings rigid in the floor and wall. A tray
of food lay in front of me, and when I reached forward, the chains
pulled tight against me, a demonstration of the extent of my
restraint. At least that's how I saw it.
I don't think that at that stage I truly comprehended what was going
on. My initial panic stemmed from not knowing where I was, who had
taken me or why. Thoughts of Bureau cases flooded through my mind,
each becoming a possibility. Years of convictions, leading to
numerous prison sentences, each varying from the others, and the
realisation that any one of these people could now be free and in
the mood for revenge. Extensive psychological training should have
given me something, but the humiliation of my naked form overwhelmed
me and I simply sat back against the wall, with my knees drawn into
my chest. It was a primitive defence, coarse in its style but it was
all I could do.
Upon the tray lay an assortment of fruit, fresh milk, and cold meat.
I picked at bits of it, not knowing when I would eat again. First
rule of survival under capture—eat whatever you can when it is
given to you, you never know when the opportunity will arise again.
And I tried. God only knows I tried, but the effects of whatever had
been used to knock me out, still clung to my veins, to my body and I
had little appetite. Beneath the food, a note was folded and placed
neatly. When I unfolded it, I realised that my captor either knew me
or knew of me, and although that narrowed the field of possible
contenders—it didn't really help as much as I thought it should.
When I started to think of all the people I had come into contact
with over the years, I realised that even given this knowledge, I
was no closer to guessing what was going on.
More than anything I felt like I had been responsible in some way
for what had happened. I could have been more alert whilst walking
to the car. I did not know whether I had been the subject of
surveillance. I was usually good at picking up on things like that,
but I realised that I could not remember any specific incident in
the previous week with the brevity my situation warranted. I could
have been careless, I could have avoided the predicament in which I
found myself, but most of all, I just hated the fact that I had been
stupid enough to allow it to happen.
That I had been left a note provided little comfort, nor did it
answer the questions that raged through my head. There were no 2 way
mirrors, there was no way I was being watched, of that much I was
certain. And yet whoever was responsible had the forethought to
leave a note for when I awoke. I surmised that first night that I
would be alone. Whoever was there would have appeared the moment I
awoke had they wanted to, and the continued absence of anyone led me
to believe that I would be alone. Naked and restrained but alone
nevertheless. I had no idea what sort of company the alternative
was, and settled quite easily for being alone. It was dark, but I
had been fed and the promise of company the following day filled me
with dread, fear, and to a lesser extent, intrigue.
I slept little that first night, snatching fractions of sleep whilst
propped against the wall, and by the time that door opened I had
been awake for what felt like hours. I guessed that it was morning,
but the absence of any natural light or a clock made it an arduous
task that lasted all the time that I was there. The body settles
into repetition when the hours are known, but remove the most basic
knowledge and the brain struggles to make sense of time. Without
alarm clocks we would wake with the sunrise and sleep with
nightfall, it is the body's natural response—but take away those
indications and we are lost.
When the door opened, I edged back against the wall, feeling my
spine crush into the plaster providing the only defense I could
think of. It was scant recompense but one side of me was shielded,
and at that point, it was at least something. I looked up at the
door opening and he walked across the room to stand before me. I
remained where I was, taking each detail in, each and every minute
detail. Standing before me was a man, and that was all I knew. It
could have been the same one that had jumped me in the car park, I
wasn't sure, but it was a man and that was all I knew. He stood out
of reach, a loose black cloak covering his entire body. It hung from
the shoulders, there was no distinct body shape, just a mass of
fabric. If it hadn't been for the anger that was welling inside me I
would have laughed. He looked like a cross between a gothic magician
and a KKK member, it was almost surreal. The hood that covered his
face reached his shoulders, and yet there was nothing to see but the
reflection of the lights in the blacks of his eyes. There was no
colour, no skin, no features and I could see no emotion nor intent
in his face because I could see nothing.
His anonymous presence did nothing to quell my fear, my mind was a
mix of what was going on in that room, and of people in my past that
could have led me here, that would have reason to. With one eye kept
in permanent touch with the light reflecting back at me, I rooted
through my history, but even his height was no indication. He could
have been skin and bones, he could have been stocky, all I knew was
that he was not obese. As for the contour of muscle on bone, I got
nothing from my continued glare. He placed the tray in front of me
and I reached out, but the chains pulled at my wrists restricting my
reach. He pushed the tray towards me and I took it, all the while I
maintained permanent contact with the eyes, with the reflection, but
there was no movement, no emotion, just a nothingness.
"Who are you?" I asked, "why have you done this to me?"
There was no response. I waited for movement, for a voice, for
anything—but there was nothing.
"What are you doing? Why did you take me? Who are you?"
They were basic questions, they almost sound simple looking back,
but open questioning was the best means of obtaining information,
and I just thought that if he could give me the most basic of
information I would work a few things out for myself. But he
remained still and silent. I picked at the food he had brought,
believing that my own silence might lead him into giving me
information, into answering my questions, but he just stood there. I
had tried to control my anger; I did not want to agitate anyone in
the position I was in. I have worked on too many cases where panic
and fear overtake rationality, and in such hostage situations,
control of emotions can be the difference between life and death. I
was naked and chained, and could do little other than work out where
he was coming from, who he was and why he had me.
"Why me? What am I doing here? Why am I naked?" I asked again and
again. I thought that my persistence would evoke a response that he
would tire of me asking, but he never did. He just watched.
I pushed the tray back towards him once I had finished eating,
perhaps I thought that instigating some sort of interaction between
the two of us would break the silence but the solitary response was
another note that he handed to me. I had to stand to reach for it,
covering myself with one hand, reaching out with the other. The
chains pulled taught just as I was within distance, and I remember
thinking at the time that it was a show of strength. A minor one,
but a reminder all the same that I could not touch him.
It became a mind game on that first morning I think. I look back and
my recollections of those few days are vivid, but some moments stand
out more than others do and that first morning is one. The
humiliation of being naked was prevalent, but the restricted
movement whilst naked took me to new depths, and the audacity of
making me stand and reach for something that was just out of grasp
was affirmation for me that this guy knew what he was doing. It was
no amateur kidnapping, it was not a chance encounter. He knew
exactly what he was doing when those chains went on, and when he
made me stand to take the note. And I hated him for it. He left soon
after, leaving me with that thought, and nothing else.
He came back some time later, carrying a bowl that he laid on the
floor in front of me. I was glad of the opportunity to wash, but
there was something wrong. He did not offer it up to me, but laid it
out of reach. If I could have seen his eyes, his expression, I would
have sworn there was a smile there as he pointed at my leg.
"Why should I? When are you going to answer my questions?" I knew it
was futile. If he was going to provide answers he would have done it
before, but it was anger at the situation I found myself in that
hurt most. That and the thoughts running through my mind. I may have
been the virginal mannequin to some, but I kind of knew what was
heading my way. Too many sadistic cases, too many porn movies, too
much time to think in the last 24 hours. It didn't really matter
which. The whole thing just felt wrong.
When he pointed to the note he had given me the night before, it
confirmed everything. The words danced before my eyes.
`The consequences will be non-consensual and potentially violent in
their nature.'
There was a pause from me then. I think I finally thought that it
was possible that I might die there. It might seem surreal now, but
my mind was racing then. I nodded and sat down, keeping my eyes on
him. There was nothing there but maybe I would find something if I
kept trying. It was too early to give up.
It seems a weird thing to say when being reflective, but all the
while I watched him move around to secure my ankles, he seemed to
glide. I tried to follow with my eyes but it felt like he was
everywhere.
"Come on! Talk to me. What are you doing? Why me?" There was not
even a flicker of recognition or response to my questions.
He handcuffed my hands behind my back and pushed me back to balance
my body weight on them. There were no jerky movements, everything he
did seemed to flow, it all seemed to be second nature. It could have
been I suppose, but I wasn't really sure who would do such things at
will, so regularly that they didn't even need to think about what
they were doing. It was like watching a bird, each movement as
effortless as the flapping of wings in flight. That someone could be
so elegant in such non consensual surroundings angered me and I
found myself not wanting to know his identity, but needing to.
I don't know whether it was my insecure persona or the investigative
me that needed to know. I looked into his eyes so fiercely that I
thought he would give me something back, the emotion I put into the
stare warranted it. But he just walked behind me as though nothing
mattered. It seemed that what he was doing was routine as he started
washing my back. The feeling of being touched so elegantly by a
complete stranger, and a man at that, was only the start. I really
should have known. I think deep down that I knew what was going to
happen, but it is often easier to stack those thoughts at the back
of the mind, and hope that their fleeting presence was an illusion.
It wasn't really for that moment that I protested, but for where I
feared it would end up.
I remember flinching as soon as he touched my cock, feeling the
luxurious warmth of soapy water trickling around the head. I
flinched because I didn't know who he was. He could have been
anyone and the lack of a face, of flesh, helped to put the act into
perspective and meant that in some ways he did not repulse me. Maybe
it was because I could feel the warm sensations deep inside,
attempting to override rationality as my cock twitched in his hands.
He could feel it happening, he had wanted it to happen and I was
powerless to stop it. He had won.
"Please, don't. Please get the fuck away from me," I pleaded with
him, but the iron mask remained.
"Stop. Get the fuck off me. What are you doing? Why are you doing
this?" I knew that it wouldn't end here, that it would continue. The
warmth and tenderness of his touch was more than I had felt for a
long time, but then people have been tortured to death by tender
hands. It matters not how light and deft the touch is, ultimately,
it's what those hands do that counts, and I suspected that a sponge
bath was only the first item on the agenda.
When he pulled a hood over my face and tugged at the drawstring
around my neck, I was grateful for the little privacy I had been
given. He licked at my nipples and I continued to cry out in
protest. I knew it was in vain, that he would not stop, but I
thought that if he only knew how much anguish I was suffering at his
hands, he might. I don't think I believed for one moment that he
would, but it was all I could do to try.
"Fuck off. Leave me alone." I rocked back, trying to escape his
mouth around my nipples. "I said fuck off. Please, stop. Don't do
this."
When he pushed me onto my back, I remember thinking of all the times
I had wanted this to happen. Not blindfolded, not with a man, but
just a nice simple bit of domination. I hated myself for giving this
man my mental participation, but as he took me into his mouth, my
body took little time react. I tried so desperately to put myself
somewhere else mentally, and doubled it up with my own verbal
reaffirmation.
"No, please stop. Don't do this."
All the time, the moist warmth of his mouth moving along and around
me took over and broke my internal restraints, and when I felt
myself coming close to giving him what he so obviously wanted, the
touch was gone. And he started all over again, only to let his mouth
draw back as he felt me near to release. I found myself needing to
end it, to give him what he wanted and what I needed so that it
could be over. In the end, he finished me off with an ever
tightening grip of delicate fingers, although I am embarrassed to
say that it didn't really take that long to coax it out of me.
In my personal darkness for those seconds, I was blinded. Even with
the hood, I experienced a flash, something. I don't know what. The
softness of his tongue on me afterwards, licking at what I had let
go, hit me hard. I had never known any act like that to be performed
out of hate or humiliation, only out of affection. It puzzled me. As
he took my hood off, I knew that my humiliation was complete. I
couldn't see his reaction—he had replaced his own mask, and I
didn't let my eyes meet with his. I was embarrassed, not for what
had happened, but because of my own inability to stop his invasion
and to stop my own reaction.
I don't really remember much else that day, I'm not really sure that
anything else happened. I just kept thinking back to how I had
allowed my body to take over my mind and how, for a fleeting moment,
I had not regretted what he was doing. When the note that evening
asked me to be accepting of my sexuality, it never really dawned on
me the inference he was making. I was more concerned that he had
Emailed work on my behalf and had arranged absence for me. With the
prospect of no one missing me, I sulked like a baby, curled up
against the wall. It was all I could think to do.
I became resigned to his lack of communication in the end. I kept
going, or at least as much as I could will myself to, it was
important to do so, in case he broke his vow of silence. Each time
he entered the room, I would look up and over to the door in
anticipation. For him, the anticipation no doubt lay in what he
would do to me that day, although in all that time I never saw him
show it. For me, the anticipation was to see whether I would see his
face, his body, or hear his voice. Anything. The bare walls provided
no comfort and the blackness of the cloth he wore was a stark
contrast, but ultimately, neither gave me the visual stimulation I
craved.
It was a lesson in basic survival of the soul and I think I was
determined to win, I was driven but knew that the one point of
failure would be my body. It always had been. The touch of flesh
against flesh. It was a basic reaction, but for me, the sensuality
had always driven me. He was not to know that the merest touch could
ignite warmth, that far from being the male stereotype, I was tender
and sought nothing more than contact to arouse me. I put it down to
a lack of contact or emotion from my own father, and a deep desire
to just be wanted. By anyone. I would never overtly flaunt such
inadequacies, but as I sat there, the problem raged inside me.
By the time the needle entered into my nipple, the pain was
instantaneous. It was brutal and coarse. I gritted my teeth and
tried to remain still, fearing not what he was doing, but the damage
I would do to myself if I moved. The ice cube had hurt, had made me
back away, but the restraints had been more severe that morning, and
I had little room to manoeuvre. I thrashed my head from side to side
when the ice cube touched me, but the needle had been different. It
had been a warm pain that burnt through each cell of my body. When
he threaded the ring through, I clenched my teeth and managed to
bite my lip. The warm metallic taste of blood in my mouth. It struck
me as ironic. So fucking ironic, but at the same time, it signified
the breaking of a promise he had made.
"You fucking bastard. You said you weren't going to hurt me!" My
anger was muted by the hood, but became apparent when he took the
hood from me. But when he left the room, I feared the worst. It must
be some warped individual who abducted to perform body piercing and
blowjobs. I watched the door and wondered what else I could add to
that list.
When he returned, he stood closer than he had previously. I think he
understood the pain that movement caused and I stood holding the
chain tightly against the wall, giving myself as much slack as
possible. He had a tube of antiseptic in his hand, and when he
brought his finger up to my face, I stared at the reflections of the
lights. It was a mind game, a bad one. He rubbed his finger along my
lip and I let him. I was caught in a gaze that I could not fathom,
that I could not really see and I sensed that the man who would harm
me, would heal me too.
The only saving grace that night was that there were no restraints
around my wrists. I lay down and held the chain tightly against the
wall, allowing myself to lie in relative comfort as long as I didn't
move. It was a long uncomfortable night. Each time I turned, my
chest burned and woke me. I would look around in the darkness, not
knowing how long I had been asleep, or how long I would have until
he returned again. He had said in his note last night that I needed
to find out about myself. The funny thing is that I think by then I
was starting to get an idea, as I rubbed the antiseptic gel on my
nipple and turned the ring.
The following day he seemed more cautious when he came into the
room. I sat before him with chain gathered in front of my chest and
he seemed to stall momentarily. At the time, I remember being
uncertain as to why. It signaled either further suffering, which I
feared most, or guilt at the discomfort that must have been
imprinted on my face. Either way, that beat in his step had been the
first thing he had given me. I had hoped it to be the latter of the
two options, but as the day went on, I guessed that it had been the
former.
He had washed me in the same way each day by then, taking no
apparent pleasure as he forced a reaction from me, taking his time
and playing on each movement I made. I was still embarrassed that I
had so little control over myself and that each time he placed that
hood over me, the removal of one sense just stimulated my reaction
to his touch. Each connection of his flesh with mine was
unanticipated and the not knowing but simply reacting was hard to
control. I tried to block it out, to see though the darkness and
take myself off somewhere, but he would pick another spot, one more
tender and responsive than the last.
When he turned me over that day and propped me up with a pillow, I
thought I knew what was coming and prepared mentally, if one ever
can, for what I would have described at the time as rape. I was firm
in my head on the point, and knew that physical resistance would be
futile. I was in no position to fight against whatever he did, but
mental preparation might resolve the emotional scars. But when he
finally made contact, it was with his mouth.
I had been expecting to be split, to be torn and to be ravaged, and
the warmth and flexibility of the flesh that probed into me drew
involuntary pleasure, it was nothing more than a physical reaction
to what was being done. There was no mental willingness on my part,
and I tried to protest verbally, but my words were turned into
nothing more than noises from deep within my throat as the physical
and emotional waged war against each other. The combination of the
attention his tongue gave in rhythm with his hand on my cock, broke
me. In every way. It was the moment when I could no longer reconcile
my rejections and my pleasure. The two were at odds with each other.
I was tiring with the continual mental resistance, and finding
myself slipping so easily into a darker, more accepting state.
When dinner arrived there was no note. I had almost come to
anticipate their presentation to me, it was the only form of
communication that he seemed to be willing to give, and each new
note bore new words. The themes were the same but the words were
always different. I sat in darkness propped up against the wall and
mused about what would be next. I felt my cock becoming hard and was
ashamed of myself for slipping like that with no physical contact.
My only company was the thoughts that raged through my mind,
twisting and churning what lay deeply hidden, eliciting it from the
its resting place. That night was my turning point. It was a lonely
sombre experience filled with self-loathing at how weak willed I had
become. I was pensive most of that night, propped against the wall
once more, unwilling to allow myself the luxury of complete rest.
By the time he appeared the next morning, I think I had finally
begun to see what was going on. The snatches of sleep I had taken
during the day allowed my thoughts to drift in the darkness. The
continuity of everything he did adjusted my body to a state where I
expected him to suck me off first thing as he bathed me. I knew it
was coming, and the certainty of the occasion meant that by the time
he walked in that morning, I was already hard. There was little I
could do, the more I tried not to think about it, the more his
actions weighed heavily on my mind.
The more I tried to convince myself that what I felt was wrong, the
more I wondered about the man who was doing this to me, and his
reasoning. There were no threats, no ransoms demanded, it was almost
a reflection of an abduction. Apart from the restraint and lack of
communication, I was being treated to erotic thrills which at that
point in my life were unimaginable to me, even in a mutual
relationship. I was being well fed, pampered physically and as he
stood before me with a tube of lube that morning, for the first time
since my arrival, I felt no fear.
He must have known I was not gay, he must have done his research— so why was it me that he chose and why was my body overtaking my
mind and allowing the physical pleasure to win over? I don't think I
ever truly answered that question. As the luxury of each encounter
ensued with marginal protestation from me, I began to think that
maybe he had seen something in me that no one else had. Maybe even
me. And I found myself believing that the trouble he had gone to
with the whole charade must mean that in some ways, he wanted me to
be his, that he needed rewarding.
There was an initial pain as he pushed his lubed fingers into me,
edging past my tight ring of muscle, but when he teased inside of me
and tenderly allowed his fingers to move over my prostate, I felt
nothing but bliss. I was hard again. There was no brutality to his
invasion, just tender soft strokes and touches that melted me. It
was never like that in the movies. My world was full of screen stars
with exotic names shamefully parading for the camera, and I don't
think I ever once saw a film where the woman exhibited the pleasure
I derived from those soft fingers. Not honestly at least. Despite
the previous orgasms of that day, I still had little control over
myself as he quickened his strokes and took my own cock in his hand
and pumped at it with perfect rhythm. He didn't skip a beat. Not
once. I came in his hands, feeling my muscles contract around his
fingers, pulling at them, willing them. That I had been wishing it
had been his cock was a thought that remained mine and mine alone, I
had tried to be quiet, and not let go, but I had failed in some
respects. My gasps and groans were audible, and though he never said
as much nor acknowledged it, I know that he heard them all. He
thrived on them, and in some way that I could not explain, it had
started to make me feel wanted.
The following day is the one that has loomed large in my life for
the last 18 months, more in reverie at what I had and then lost,
than at what I felt at the beginning. My hate and anger had
dissipated over the past few days, eroded by the touch of a man who
chose to hide himself from my gaze, never giving me the satisfaction
of meeting him eye to eye. By that final day, I am not really sure
what I would have said anyway. Words seemed inadequate when all that
had been done to me was based on touch alone. I think that by that
stage, the only thing I could think to ask was `Who?'—but even
that word seemed best left unasked.
When he entered the room that afternoon, I stood in awe at the sight
before my eyes, and shifted my gaze to cover each and every piece of
his flesh. The hood was still there but the robes were gone— replaced by a pair of white boxers, and before me—presented for my
pleasure maybe—an array of smooth hairless flesh that curved
around his muscles with a taughtness that defined each and every
shape. I drank in that view not wanting it to end, memorising as
much as possible in the short time he afforded it to me. I should
have reverted back to my investigative state and made mental
measurements of limbs and notations of structure, but I found myself
just staring. His torso was solid, not an ounce of flesh that was
not toned, and when my eyes rested upon the scar that crossed his
abdomen I wanted to touch it, to touch him, to feel the soft flesh
that had tormented me in its absence.
Once I stopped at his scar, I found that I couldn't move on, its
uniqueness mesmerised me and told me that the scar was him, it gave
me a key with which to unlock the future. If I found that scar
again, I found him and if I found him, then maybe he would explain.
As he threw me my hood, I continued to look, not giving an inch,
even as the darkness fell upon me, and took me to what I knew would
be his finale.
It was the one thing I had thought about the previous night. There
had been no note; it didn't really need explaining. I was adjusting
to his intrusions and the rimming and the fingers had been nothing
but foreplay. The longest foreplay in history. So when I felt the
blunt end of his cock nudging inside of me, I think I was mentally
prepared for what was to come. It is difficult to justify such
acceptance given that I was still being held against my will, but
given the delicate touch he had shown me, when leading me into the
unknown—I somehow knew that it would not be a forced or a rough
encounter. That I had secretly wanted him to do it the previous day
had taught me a lot about myself. About what I had needed rather
than wanted, and that maybe he had just known. When he held my
stomach and pushed into me, the initial discomfort turned into a
sensation I could not put my finger on. The succulent warmth that
filled me, that caught me with each movement, was beyond description
and I felt like I would drown in my own breath. He rhythmically took
my guarded whispers from deep within, and as he rocked against me, I
found I could no longer control my own surge. With my eyes shut
tight and my head pushing in against the wall, my spasms released
semen over his hands and against the wall. His cock reacted as my
muscles closed in around it and I felt the warmth swim into me,
filling me with each rush.
He left me with my thoughts afterwards, allowing me to gain some
semblance of composure, and for that I was grateful. It might not
have meant much to him, but for me it was the opportunity to relive
the moment, to look to the future and figure out where I was
heading. I thought I knew, but it took those minutes of solitude to
decide. I knew that it was the end for me, and his note that night
confirmed as much. As much as they should not have been, my own
emotions towards release were mixed. Whilst freedom was welcomed
with open arms, there was a degree of sorrow deep within me that he
would be gone. I know that it should not have been that way, but it
was. His promise in the note that we would meet again filled me with
intrigue, although I did not know when that would be or where. It
was to be the anticipation that drove me and provided an impetus in
my life that had somehow been lacking before.
The final moments there were tinged with regret. Not at what I had
become, but by my ignorance of myself. How could it be that a
stranger would know me better than I know myself? When he offered
the cloth and chloroform to me, I could not bring myself to do it.
It was a cowardly show on my part and, retrospectively, was my sole
gesture to show that I was not to be the one to bring this to an
end. He had started it, and he would have to finish it.
When I awoke, I did so alone on the back seat of my car which was
parked exactly where it had been when it all started. My thoughts
were muggy at first and I lay there, not wanting to bask in the
freedom, but to take in the past. When I finally made my way back
home I did so slowly, almost nonchalantly. That night I sat in
darkness on the couch, going through each and every memory that I
had brought with me.
These last eighteen months have been turbulent for me as my eyes
scan each and every person in the street for a sign of recognition.
I have found myself looking at strangers with an air of anticipation
- and for each person that I meet, I ask myself whether it could be
him. I look for their height and their weight, I mentally undress
them to see if they fit. It's futile I know, but I didn't really
have that many ideas. I began to realise that even if I could not
find him, maybe I could find someone else to continue where he had
left off. That another man could be so tender, so gentle and so
erotic, was one consuming thought that drove me to seek him out. I
started going to gay bars, where I was constantly met with a wall of
possibilities. Each and every person present could be him. But as I
progressed into the community and started relationships of my own, a
pattern began to emerge. I would be interested at first but whenever
I ended up going home with someone, I would be eager to strip their
clothes from them but when their torsos were revealed, I ached as
yet another body became entwined with mine yet failed to live up to
my expectations. Those were not unhappy times; I acquired a breadth
of experience in an ever-growing repertoire, yet the touch that I
sought eluded me.
Over a period of months, this happened with alarming frequency and I
began to realise that each body I explored diluted the image I had
of him, until I it dawned on me that the memories I took with me
when I left were beginning to fade. Each body added to the tally
meant that he became more distant to me, a sea of flesh that began
to weaken the memories that had been so crisp to me the day that I
left. I still recalled the scar every day and traced it in my head,
but it began to fade with time.
I never reported what had happened to the authorities despite the
multitude of crimes that had happened. I've heard it said that
published criminal figures are only the tip of the iceberg and
account for only 10% of illegal activity. I became an unknown
statistic to the authorities, unwilling to come forward and expose
myself because I knew that it would hit me at work. I know that
Scully might have understood, she might have pushed me to report it,
but ultimately she would have supported me in whatever I chose to
do. But to go to her would have been an admittance of what I truly
felt and I had enough trouble explaining it to myself. My quest that
she so eloquently quoted back at me with regularity, became a
standing joke, and if I disappeared for any length of time I was
simply seeking the truth on my `quest'. I smiled when she said that
for the first time. How true, Scully, if only you knew how accurate
you were. She knew that I was an obsessive individual who would not
let a cause rest until the truth was found, and she told me as much.
I knew she was right, she was just way off on what I was obsessing
about.
When I started out that day, it really felt like any other day.
There was no intuition of what was to follow, nor where it would
lead me. It had just been a low key investigation where a tip off
had been received. It really hadn't been anything out of the
ordinary, nothing that would cause me to think that things would
turn out the way they have.
The archaic warehouse that housed the subject of our surveillance
was a large bland construction, the expanse of floor giving Scully
and myself little opportunity to cover it all. We had split up, and
I made my way towards the office, the apparent central point in the
building. I had been careful to edge against the wall out of sight.
I looked around eyeing for details and stood behind a pillar,
pausing for thought, keen to get a feel for what was happening ahead
of me. It was at that stage that out of the corner of my eye I
caught a glimpse of someone else entering through the very same door
that I had, and as I stood out of sight, the figure that drew near
became ever clearer.
There was an air of doubt at first, I could not see a reason for him
being there but the stealth in his step, the silence that surrounded
his every move, told me enough to know. When the light from a shot
window crossed his face, there was no mistaking the profile. An
individual who has brought chaos, hatred, disdain and despair into
the lives of everyone with whom he has ever had contact. And when I
thought about it more, I assumed he was the hit man we had been
tipped off about.
My knuckles were already white by the time he approached- an
instinctive reaction that had never been practiced. It just
happened. With my back pressed into the pillar, I kept my head
turned slightly to the right, waiting the moment when he came into
view. When it happened there was ferocity in the punch, it was borne
of pure anger that once more our paths would cross. The epitome of
all things evil. As I connected with his face, I felt his body fall
away from my fist, and I found myself stepping out of the shadows to
confront the man who lay strewn on the floor. His gun danced across
the floor, scraping the concrete as it span out of reach and his
eyes stared up and locked with mine as he tried to focus on his
assailant. I aimed my gun at the bridge of his nose, anything less
would have been an injustice.
"Krycek, you bastard. Hold it right there, or I swear I will shoot
through your fucking brains!" The venom in my voice was clear.
He looked at me, not phased by the threat nor concerned that I might
follow through, and then he stood up. I moved my aim to his chest;
it gave me a better view of his face, of the expressionless features
that walked towards me. There should have been something there; a
flicker of something, but there was nothing. He was focused,
determined and I swear the bastard was grinning as he turned his
back on me.
"Krycek, stop there or I will shoot. I don't need a reason to." I
knew that he would ignore me. If there's one thing I've learnt other
than not to trust the man, it is that he will do what he wants and
not what is expected of him. He likes to have the upper hand; he
likes to mind fuck.
"In the back? You will not shoot me in the back, Mulder, they would
hang you for it." He said it such a placid voice, not even raising
the volume despite the predicament he found himself in.
My finger remained firmly on the trigger as the words disappeared in
the air. I swear I heard him smile, there was no laughter, but there
was something in the game that he played. I pondered his words and
caught a flash of sunlight against the metal blade in his hand as it
danced before me. He held his arm out, waving the knife before my
eyes as he started edging back towards me. I could have pulled the
trigger then, maybe I should have, but something stopped me. This
was a personal battle and to take him out now would be an
anti-climax. If I was to be the one to do it, I wanted to see the
whites of his eyes and the suffering as he fell. That brief moment
of realisation dawned across his face as it registered that the
bullet was on its way. It would last only a fraction of a second,
but it had to be that way. And as only an idiot would, I let that
one thought dominate my thoughts as he came closer.
When he offered the knife to me, I leant forward to take it, like
the fool that I sometimes am, impulsive to the end. As my fingers
curled around his own, I focused on the hand with the knife, paying
little attention to the elbow that pounded into my stomach. It took
me by surprise, and as my grip on the knife tightened, the gun fell
from my other hand, crashing to the floor in front of him. My
fingers tightened around the knife and I snatched it from his grasp,
leaving him unarmed.
"Scully," I shouted. I knew she was on the other side of the
warehouse, but I had made potentially fatal mistakes already and I
knew by then that the man we sought was in my grasp. There was
little point in Scully remaining on the other side; besides, she was
infamously better at retaining her gun than I was.
Alex Krycek is a man of many means, most of them devious and
certainly none of them honourable, but when he kicked the gun away,
I could not figure out why. His reasoning flickered only briefly
across my mind as his hand came over his shoulder towards me and
grabbed at my wrist before pulling it towards him and turning to
face me. His face was cold and even, his jaw tensed as his eyes bore
deep into mine. Their unfaltering glare chilled me, there was no
emotion there, the eyes were an expression of his soul and looking
into them, I saw nothing.
"You're losing it Mulder." The bastard smiled. A gun down each and a
knife now with shared ownership and the bastard was just smiling. As
Scully's footsteps drew close in from behind, my free hand connected
with the side of his face and sent him stumbling back. I pulled at
the knife in a vain attempt to make it mine, but he held his grip
and pulled me back a little as he reeled from my punch, turning his
back on me. I struggled to hold on. The footsteps had stopped but
there was silence, and as our bodies entwined in the fight, he
backed into me, pulling at the knife. Our proximity to each other
made an evaluation of what followed difficult but I know that from
somewhere he found the strength to wrench the knife around its
handle, with both of ours hands still embraced, past his shoulder,
pulling my arm at full length.
It was not until he let go of my wrist that I let my grip loosen a
little, and when the knife came back into my view, I saw blood
dripping from the blade. At first it did not register with me what
had happened. I was too caught up with regaining control and
maintaining some semblance of order to my thoughts, which were
racing. It was only as he came back towards me, stumbling sideways
onto the floor, that I saw his hands clutching his stomach and
realised that the blood was his.
I stood in silence and watched his T-shirt absorbed red into white,
spreading ever further with each breath that he took as he lay
before me looking up.
It is difficult to be articulate about what I was thinking at that
stage. Despite my hatred for the man, the force with which he had
pulled my arm in towards him was clear to me. It might not have been
to Scully, because her view was no doubt obscured, but I knew. He
had let go as soon as the damage had been done. He had not even
fought to overpower me but had simply taken my wrist and driven the
knife deep into his own flesh. My hand might have been on that knife
but I had not been the one inflicting damage, it had been all of his
own work.
That I had wanted to end his days was irrelevant to me at that
stage, I would like to have done it intentionally rather than under
false pretences and I found myself lamenting his actions as I stood
there. He looked over my shoulder, and I flicked my head to see
Scully standing behind me, weapon at her side, staring at Krycek as
the blood continued to seep into his T-Shirt. If I was to place his
look, it would be one of searching. I don't think he was ever able
to show her remorse, I don't think he had it in him and maybe he
realised that the gesture might have been futile in any case. His
words have never been taken at face value nor his gestures trusted.
If it had been forgiveness that he sought from her, I don't believe
it would have been forthcoming.
When he looked back at me, I thought I saw something in his eyes.
Maybe it was remorse; it could have been reason. A reason for the
act of self-mutilation. I thought about it hard. It could have been
an act of hate. My hands had been on the knife when it entered him;
maybe it was intention to fell the man whose hands they were. An act
of defiance. As his eyes began to fade I began to believe that he
had given up and that it had been his final gesture to link me into
his death. How was anyone else to know that he had been the
controlling force in his fate? Maybe past events had caught up with
him, a personal history too tarnished to live with. Too many
killings, too much deceit, and too much time spent running.
And I knew that it was not me that had driven that blade in. My
hands might have been around the handle, but they were simply there.
The wrong place at the wrong time.
With these thoughts coursing through me, I knelt down at his side
and pressed into the wound. I guess it was instinct, it certainly
wasn't planning. Everything seemed to happen so fast that I knew the
only way to give myself time to work them over in my head was to
slow it all down. And to slow it down might mean allowing him to
live. The warm blood pumped through my fingers and onto his T-shirt
with each rise and fall of his stomach, his eyelids wavered for
seconds at a time, then closed. Each time I wondered if it would be
the last, but he kept coming back with a slow laborious stare.
"Scully?" I turned to her, but she just stood there and stared at
him. Not a flicker.
"Mulder, I say leave him here." Her voice was impassive, uncaring.
I often wondered whether his motives were selfish, whether they were
dark and sinister, but as the warmth of blood ran between each
finger of mine that pressed into him, a momentary flash made me
think that maybe the man didn't even care about himself. A man whose
sole motivation had been self-preservation appeared to me an
individual void of emotion, of feeling and of self-being. And it
struck me that if that was his reason for driving the knife into his
stomach, then where was the rush to save him? Maybe that was his act
of remorse, to allow me to be the one to end it. It was a lateral
plane of thought, because he would leave me forever with the
knowledge that although I had held the knife, it had really been him
in control. And that had always been the essence of our
relationship.
I took my hands from him and sat back. My hands bore the blood of
the man who had spilt the blood of my family, and it was kind of
ironic that I found myself wanting save him so that I could deny him
the pleasure of death. I wiped the blood on my jacket and looked to
Scully, who had not moved through it all. Her eyes could be the
coldest blue; her most haunting look required little explanation. I
alternated between the two of them and took my jacket off. I was
never sure that she would understand that allowing Krycek to slip
away would give him exactly what he wanted. I searched her face for
agreement as I crumpled my blood stained jacket and looked back at
Krycek. I thought she might at least shake her head if nothing else
but I think she trusted me enough to know that I would have reasons.
She never asked what they were but I was glad of her acceptance of
my decision.
His breathing was now laboured—the irregularity evident. The rise
and fall of his chest was at odds with the beat of his heart, and as
the latter had become faster, his T-shirt became more sodden with
each beat. The blood had started to pool on the outside of his
clothing, and pushing the T shirt up his chest to get it out of the
way, I saw for the first time the wound that was mine. The blood had
started to congeal, and that which had not been able to absorb into
his clothing, trickled down his side and onto the floor below. I
wiped at the blood to clear it from the wound and across his
stomach, but as I drew the bundle of cloth back towards me, I froze.
For the first time in 18 months I saw the end.
The one person who filled me with contempt, with anger and with an
unrivaled hatred, watched intently as my gaze froze upon the four
inch scar to the side of the gaping incision I had made in his
stomach. I stared, tracing around its edges, feeling it with my
eyes, touching from a distance. I sat there for an eternity, not
wanting to let my eyes drift as the implications of what I saw sunk
in. My instinct was denial, that my personal quest could not cross
with business—the two were separate entities, there was no
crossover. That Alex Krycek could be the man whom I had wanted to
find so desperately, to feel that tender touch again- could not be
so, but when I turned my head to look at him, the smile that crossed
his face told me all I needed to know. My search was at an end.
I kept my eyes locked firmly with his as he lifted his arm and
slowly tugged at the bottom of my shirt, pulling it from inside my
trousers and lifting it up. He looked at my exposed chest and as his
eyes saw the ring threaded through my nipple, he looked back at me
and smiled. It was at that point I knew there was no doubt.
What he had done to me had preoccupied my thoughts without relent on
each and every day for 18 months, but the truth was hard to take.
That it could be him was nothing more than a vicious twist in a
sordid story, and one that he had perpetuated. The mask, the robes
and the lack of communication. It began to make sense. Had I known
it was him, I would have fought from the start, I would have died in
the cause to stop him. But he knew that. He had always promised
answers before but had delivered just bits and pieces of a jigsaw
that was way too big to fit together. With that smile I sensed that
he wanted some sort of conclusion.
His eyes drifted shortly after, I could sense him lapsing in and out
of consciousness, and the one answer he had given me looked in
danger of being the last.
"Scully, get an ambulance." I turned to where she stood but she
didn't move.
"Mulder, what is it?" She moved closer, peering down from above at a
man who had changed little in her eyes over the course of the last
few minutes.
"Scully, call an ambulance." My voice was more urgent than before
and she trusted me enough to make the call. Sometimes explanations
follow and the tone of my voice told her that there was no time to
debate the issue. As she turned her back and walked away from us to
make the call, he opened his eyes. A slow soulful movement that I
had not seen before. For all the times I have seen nothing but evil
and wanton destruction in those eyes, I now saw yearning
I brushed the tender underside of my thumb down the side of his
cheek smearing blood along his cheekbone. When he was conscious he
never stopped smiling once, it was more a look of fulfillment than
laughter and all the while, those eyes that had hated, appeared to
love. As he slipped away again, I spoke, knowing that he might hear
but hoping, in some ways, that he wouldn't.
"You stupid fucking bastard." It was whispered-it was tender and I
sincerely meant it. He was the most stupid bastard I had ever come
into contact with. If he had thought that I would willingly engage
in a relationship with him once his identity was known then he had
underestimated me by a big margin.
"They'll be here soon, Mulder." Scully knelt opposite me and felt
for his pulse. I took one look at her, at the streak of blood down
his face, and took my hands away from him.
"You can take over, Scully. I've got to go." I stood up and backed
away, not wanting to turn my back but knowing that I had to.
"Mulder, what is it?"
And I found myself walking away. My bloodied shirt hung outside of
my trousers, my arms at my sides and my focus ahead of me on the
door of the warehouse, and I just walked a thousand steps. I never
did look back.
"Mulder, what is it?" he asked.
I didn't know what to say, so I shook my head and looked at the
floor.
"Scully said that you stabbed Krycek."
The dusty gravel in front of my feet seemed infinitely more
appealing than conversation at that point. I looked up at Skinner,
my reflection in his glasses seeming all the more bizarre as the
lenses fisheyed it. And I just looked at him silently.
"Mulder, you can't leave. Local PD are here already, this is a crime
scene."
I knew, and I cursed Scully for calling him in the first place, but
knew that she had no option. He reached out for my arm and I whipped
it away from him. I didn't feel like having close contact with
anyone, not restraint at least. But he moved again and took it
anyway, pulling me alongside him as he walked towards the warehouse.
"We can speak later." Was all he said as we went back through the
doors, ahead of the paramedics that had just arrived. I stood by
those doors with my back to where he lay on the floor. I could hear
Scully talking to Skinner as he approached, looking down at where
Krycek lay. The words were muffled, but they could have been the
crispest, most articulated phrases that came from her mouth. I still
wouldn't have heard them. I shut out what was happening behind me
and started to drown in my disappointment. I looked only briefly
across at the door as they took him out, restrained and restricted
as he lay on the trolley. How fucking ironic. How sweet.
That night I returned home as soon as I could. The liquor store
provided sweet inspiration to blot out what had happened and as I
opened the second Pino Grigio and swigged straight from the neck of
the bottle, there was a knock at the door. And that knock is why I
find myself where I am today.
I was expecting it to be Scully, coming round to grill me for more
but I opened the door and swayed a little as the bulk of AD Skinner
grimaced at me. I turned back and sat on the couch as he made his
way in, took his coat off and sat down. We sat in silence for nearly
half an hour as I helped myself to the rest of the bottle, not even
offering any up to my guest.
And then it happened. I broke. I started off with an array of
obscure observations on life, but he sat and waited and watched. And
I began to tell him every last detail about what had happened
eighteen months previously. I told him about how my anger had
subsided into acceptance, my inquisitions into intrigue and how I
had spent eighteen months looking for the man. And all the time he
sat there, Skinner did not flinch. He did not interrupt or comment
and when I told him that I felt like I had been freed of any
inhibitions that I might previously have had—he did not judge me.
He just listened, that was until I arrived at what had happened in
the warehouse that day.
"And today you found out that it was Krycek?"
I nodded solemnly.
"And because of what happened you don't want to go on record."
I nodded again. Then we sat in silence again. I knew that he was
mulling it over in that thoughtful mind of his. He is a man of few
words and I had never appreciated it more than on that night. If he
had feelings or gut reactions to what I had told him, he never
showed it. When I left the room to make coffee for us, he remained
where he was and spoke only when I returned.
"So lets get this straight, Mulder. Not bureau stuff—personal
level," he said. "You have wanted for eighteen months to find this
man, to recapture what he gave you, but under mutual agreement."
I nodded.
"And you haven't found it with anyone else, despite trying
desperately to. You have questions that need answers, and only Alex
Krycek can give you those answers. Well, maybe he did it because it
was the only way he knew how; maybe he didn't do it to fuck with
your head. If he put his life on the line today so that you would
know it was him, then I say that its not something he's taking
lightly. Maybe he's just had his eye on you for a long long time and
you might want to look at what he had to do to get close to you—I
would call that committed. I would say that those acts were not the
mark of the man you know. But then, maybe you don't really know him
and I would say the only way you are going to find out is to go see
him."
And with that he stood up to leave.
"But, what about the fact that it's him, you're not even freaked out
by that?" I asked as he opened the door.
He turned to look at me as he put his coat on, and as he stepped
from my apartment he simply whispered in my direction, his face lit
up with a smile.
"Lets, just say that mine and Alex's paths have crossed before and
there is another side to him that I think you have only just
discovered."
I sat and watched the door close, and shut my eyes. The room still
spun. All the while I was talking, I thought I would regret the
conversation the next day. But as Skinner left, I found myself
feeling a strange warmth towards the man whom had told me more about
himself in the space of one sentence than I had managed to get in a
lifetime of sober questioning.
It took me three days to think about it. Three days in which I paced
my apartment a thousand times over, and went to my local haunt to
check out the talent. It was the first time I had been there and had
not been desperate to leave with someone. It felt strange knowing
that should I want it, I could have it on tap. But the journey to
accepting him was a tough one, and as I stood at the bar and
inspected each and every person there, I knew that they could not be
him. No matter how nice they were as individuals, his touch had
given me a profound acclimatisation to this scene, and whilst
knocking back the beers, I decided that I would try.
Skinner phoned me yesterday to say that Krycek was free to go home
today, although I had no idea where home was—I still don't. He had
simply said that Krycek, or Alex as he called him, was desperate to
see me. I went to the hospital with trepidation, not knowing how I
would leave, but more importantly, whether I would leave alone.
The room they had put Krycek in was at the end of the corridor, and
when I walked in, he was fast asleep. I didn't know whether I could
go through with it or not, and stood in silence staring as he rested
before me. I shut the blinds and locked the door behind me with a
quiet touch, not wanting to alert any of the nurses nor wake him.
I lifted back the sheets and drank in the flesh before me. It was
simple. I would repay him for what he had done either way. If I
found myself unable to overcome the reservations that I had, then I
would simply repay him and leave. It would not be much recompense
given that he had spent nearly a week working on me, but it would be
something and it would have to be enough. If something clicked in
me, I would go with it and take him home.
He still slept as I allowed my fingertips to run across the scar, a
faint touch that I hoped he would not notice in his sleep. Even when
I pulled the sheets down to his calves he did not move. I dragged my
fingers down further, across his boxers and hesitated momentarily. I
held what was there and took a step back in time to a moment when I
had not known. When I had a naïve innocence of thought, and a dream
that the perfect touch belonged to a man with whom I would be able
to share my life, not one whose history was prominent in my
thoughts.
I stroked at the tender flesh inside of his thighs and he moved
slightly, but when I looked to his face I knew he had not woken. His
smell filled me with an urge, as I leant over his body, flaring my
nostrils, allowing him to infiltrate my lungs. The smell was sweet,
and it was one I recognised. Hovering above him, I found myself
getting hard. Without any interaction, I was craving the flesh, the
touch and fulfillment that only he had ever given. It was at that
point that I realised that Skinner had been right, not to come and
see me, but to let me know that there was a different Krycek to the
one I knew. One that he had experienced, and whilst he gave little
away in the smile as he left that night, it had told me that his
memories were fond ones.
With a fragile motion, I lifted myself onto the bed and rested my
knees on either side of Krycek and looked up at the peaceful face
that showed no history, only tranquillity. With the deftest of
touches, I freed him from his boxers and took his flaccid cock in my
hand. I already knew the outcome by that stage as my own cock
strained, driven maybe by the excitement of our surroundings and
being caught, but more by the fact that I had seen the flesh and
touched it. And wanted more.
As I took him in my mouth and began to give slow delicate licks up
his shaft, he started to stir. I continued, looking to his face, to
the emerald eyes that had once been so dark to me and saw that he
was smiling. There is nothing as sweet as the soulful eyes of a
loved one giving head, allowing their eyes to meet with yours whilst
continuing to lick, to suck. It had only happened to me once but I
had never forgotten the experience and as our eyes met, my mouth
continued. His cock hardened in my mouth, though he never moved
once, nor spoke. I allowed my teeth to edge over its head, causing
him to gasp. He placed his hand on my head, caressing my hair and
massaging my scalp in rhythm to my movements. As I engulfed him and
sucked, he started to thrust beneath me, holding my head all the
while, but never forcing—simply guiding and encouraging.
I was consumed with his body as it writhed beneath my touch and
thought about my own cock as it begged for release, but this moment
was not for me. I quickened my rhythm, feeling the tensing of
muscles that combined with incoherent groans from deep within and,
as he came, I took everything that he gave and fought to swallow as
quickly as he delivered. I sucked every last drop from him and
licked at the scar before stepping down from the bed and covering
him with the sheets.
He said nothing but held his hand out to me, and I took it in my
own. I found myself lifting it to my mouth and licking along the
back of it, not freeing myself from the gaze of conclusion that was
etched across his face.
And so I find myself now driving out of the hospital car park, one
hand on the steering wheel, the other on the knee of the man to my
side. Taking him home is probably not the smartest idea I've ever
had. As intelligence goes, I feel I have been bestowed to some
extent, but what I am doing defies logic in some ways, given our
past. As plans go, mine was about the dumbest I had ever come up
with. But as I drive, the only thing that is more stupid than taking
Alex Krycek home with me, would be writing the one person who has
made a difference out of my life. Skinner was probably right about
it all, I figure. I don't know what will happen now, the whole thing
feels crazy. But no more crazy than searching for eighteen months
for an individual who fueled me with desire, and filled me with
obsession, only to walk away once I found him.
Anonymity II
by Lush Virtues
I never knew when it would happen, only that it would, and despite
the number of times I have enacted the scenario out in my head, this
ending was the one I never saw coming. The truth I strove to reveal,
the sense of realism and reason that I wanted to bring into my life
has consumed me for 18 months, and now that I have the answers, they
beggar belief. The eyes that confirmed my truth were distant, yet
now their depth of passion haunts me.
I didn't really sleep much that night. I sat huddled against the
wall, searching for reflections or movements, anything. I saw
nothing. I must have dozed off a couple of times although for
minimal periods of time. I don't really know. I was so completely
numbed by what had happened, but more so by what lay ahead. I knew
that the previous day had been the start, he would not have Emailed
my work, nor told me that I would be released if he was going to
hold me indefinitely. And that night, all I saw on those walls were
shapes that weren't there.
When I got outside, a couple of local police cars raced towards me
and, behind them in the distance, one I recognised. I kept my eyes
ahead of me, a distant stare with no focus nor purpose. As Skinner's
car approached me, he stopped and got out, leaving the door open
behind him.
