I never thought it'd come to this.
I'd always expected that my world would end in fire and destruction or, at
least, at the end of a bullet. No fanfare, just the steady expulsion of blood as
my faltering heart pumped out that last remaining aqua vitae onto a cold
concrete floor. Ain't it a bitch when things don't turn out how you expected
them to?
But instead of dying how I lived, I'm sitting here not even going out with a
whimper. The conspiracy is dead, the Consortium is in ruins with a number of
not-so innocent bystanders catching shrapnel from the collapse, and yet here I
am. You may as well call me the Incredible Teflon Man, because somehow all the
shit seems to have slid right off me. I don't understand how it happened and I
don't know if I want to because all it's done is turn my world upside down and
left me confused and no longer knowing my place.
My life used to have a regimented kind of order to it. Survival came first, then
cause, then orders. Now there are no orders, no cause to fight for or against
and I don't even know if I need to fight for my own survival any more. What
happens when something that's kept you alive for so long is no longer needed?
Well, I can tell you that it feels like there's this big fucking void in my life
and it's left me rudderless with nowhere to turn.
That would explain the tequila, I guess. Taking a page from the ancestral tree—when you don't know what's going on, get completely shitfaced and maybe life
will make some sense. Drinking to forget is a fucking joke. All it ever does is
bring back memories, all those memories that you are trying so hard to forget.
They ambush you right when you're least able to cope with them. When your
barriers are down and your soul laid bare, they sneak in under the guise of
maudlin remembrance and pierce you once more.
I should know better than this, but I really can't bring myself to care. I don't
really care about anything anymore. I guess it's just another consequence of the
fall of this whole goddamn house of cards that so many thought was so solid. If
you'd been plotting unbeknownst to the world's population for the better part of
fifty years, you'd probably think you were home free, too. But they forgot to
factor in the intense dedication of one Fox Mulder.
All it took was a piece here, a truth there, a taunt, a challenge and off he
went, following the trail like a bloodhound, not like the vulpine he's named
after. The old smoking bastard never underestimated him, nor the Englishman, but
they were always a bit more cagey than the rest. But they still had that one
weakness. They never considered that there might be someone out there that could
play the game better than them, that was smarter than them. Fate really does
have a funny way of bringing the chickens home to roost, and then bringing the
Fox tracking in right on their heels.
And then all you can do is sit there and watch as it shatters into a million
pieces. All the plotting, all the planning falls apart and a certain FBI agent
is left sitting amongst the ruins, licking his chops with a grin on his face and
a cluster of feathers at his feet.
I never expected to see all this happen. I never expected to see who'd win. I
always expected I was going to be one of the fallen left to die by the wayside
with not a soul to mourn or miss his passing. A guy's life expectancy is pretty
limited when you've betrayed all sides and no one really trusts you anymore.
Expendability is a royal pain in the ass.
And yet I'm still here when everyone else seems to have been caught in the
crossfire.
I don't understand it.
I don't deserve it.
And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself now.
That's the worst fucking thing about this whole situation—I've no idea what to
do with the life that I now seem to have been given. All it does is stretch out
before me in a long vista of nothingness. No plans, no work, no jobs, no
nothing. On and on into the future. I hate it.
I may've been on the run from the law, hunted by one side or the other and
dodging attacks from enemies I'd made over the years, but there was always an
order to it, a security in knowing that this was my life and this was how it was
playing out. Now that's all gone, there's no rhyme nor reason to my continued
existence, no explanation as to why I'm still here while the others aren't. No
order. No purpose. No safety. No end in sight. This fucking sucks.
But I like it here, you know? This is the only place that makes sense to me
anymore. Pitiful really, that I need to be where I can feel him, to be amongst
his things to be able to find some kind of meaning to my life, but he's been so
much a part of it for so long. We've opposed each other, helped each other, and
just generally annoyed the fuck out of each other down through the years, but
he's been my anchor. I could always rely on Mulder to give me what I needed to
keep going.
It really is a sad thing to discover that it's a person, not a task or a cause,
that's given your life meaning. That this one person has been the measure by
which you've ranked your victories and your failures. Because that's what he's
been to me, my yardstick. And now that's all come to a screeching fucking halt.
Have I mentioned that I hate my life?
Maybe once I finish the bottle it won't hurt so much. At least alcohol poisoning
would give me something to look forward to.
He's not here. I think he's out celebrating the victory. It must be so nice to
be able to finally prove to all the nay sayers that he was right. That
everything he's been saying—about the conspiracy, the lies, the cover ups and
misinformation—that it's all true, that he's been correct all along. Toast of
the Town he is. The Man of the Hour. And I'm sure he's enjoying the kudos that
he's receiving. But I wonder what's going to happen when all of that pales and
he realises that everything that he's lived for, everything that he's fought for
and against is now gone and that the years of the future are just stretching out
endlessly in front of him.
Maybe he'll be able to look to the future, to take the time to watch his son
grow up instead of constantly having to fight against a future that threatened
the boy's very existence. Maybe he can finally have some fucking happiness in
his life instead of a never-ending morass of anxiety, doubt and guilt. Maybe he
can put the past behind him and live for himself for the first time.
Or maybe he'll end up sitting here on his couch like I am, three-quarter empty
bottle in hand, mourning a time now gone and wishing for the bad old days.
You know, at least the past made sense. I used to know what to expect. Now,
everything's in pieces and I'm pretty sure that I don't have all the shards to
make it whole again. There are bits missing and some of those are the most
important ones. So, what happens to the spy when the war is over? It's not like
there's a retirement home out there for us and our options are pretty fucking
limited.
I do know that I don't have the strength for this anymore. I don't have the
drive to keep going. That's been ripped away from me and all that's left is a
bleeding hole that's killing me, draining away the intensity of purpose that I
used to feel once. Leaving me as nothing more than a hollow shell, a wraith left
only to exist in body but not in spirit.
My gun's sitting on the coffee table, within easy reach. All it would take is to
flick off the safety, position the muzzle and with a simple pull of the trigger,
all this would be over. All the pain, all the uncertainty. The hollow ache in my
chest that feels like it is squeezing the air out of my lungs would be gone as
well. So simple. So elegant. So easy.
He's got all his answers now, all the truths that he has searched so long to
find. There's nothing else I can give him anymore and he knows it. All the lies,
all the half-truths and evasions I've told him over the years have evaporated
like mist hit by the rising sun with the exposure of all the Consortium's plans.
All my little mind games and manipulations have been laid bare for what they
were. A way in which to get his attention and keep it focused on me.
He walked away from me, you know. Just looked at me with those shadowed eyes of
his and turned away, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat and my
stomach falling towards my feet. And all I saw in the depths of his eyes was
pity—not the anger, not the hatred I was so used to seeing—just pity, as if
I wasn't worth anymore of his time. That I was something merely to be noted and
then dismissed, like some poor unfortunate not worthy of his attention.
How could he let go of all those emotions that bound us together? How could he
just let go of me?
It feels like everything that I thought I was has leeched out of me, seeping
away with the few tears that I wasn't able to blink away. There's nothing left
of me anymore, and no one to show me who I am or who I have to be. When the
thing that has kept you alive no longer needs you, there's nothing left but to
be put out of your misery, right? To continue to live, hollow and wracked with
pain is inhumane and the only charitable action is to be free of the suffering
that life now causes.
It's so easy to reach out and pick it up. The weight of it is comforting in my
hand, like an old friend clasping you with a warm handshake. It nestles in the
hollow of my palm so well. A perfect fit. The safety comes off easily. Click.
Such a little sound for such a profound action. The first step down the path to
peace. I know the first round is chambered. It always is. Always be prepared,
Alex. Never get caught flatfooted, Alex. That's what my instructors taught me.
Plus, it's pretty fucking difficult to chamber a round when you're in a hurry
and you've only got one hand.
I don't think the sound of a gunshot would even bother his neighbours. They've
heard that and so much more that I'm surprised he hasn't been kicked out of the
building yet. I guess it's something that I'll just have to mark down as one of
life's mysteries.
The taste of gun oil is bitter, like the taste of loneliness, like the taste of
despair. It reminds me of my second worst nightmare. Locked in that fucking silo
with the darkness, my own screams and the oily remains of possession as my only
companions. I never thought that anything could terrify me more. I should've
known better. Life has a way of making you see that there are worse things out
there.
My worst nightmare has finally come true.
I can't do this alone.
And I don't want to.
The war's been won, but I've lost the battle.
But at least this way I get to go out with a bang instead of a whimper.
Kenos means empty.
Kenos
by Sin
There's nothing else to lose
There's nothing else to find
There's nothing in the world
That can change my mind
Lifehouse—Hanging By A Moment
