My mind was on something else. Mistake when you're murdering someone.
Cry me a fucking river. What was I thinking? I could ask the people I
killed, but bones don't answer. I know, anyway.
Something else. You always were that, Fox.
It fucking hurts. Going out with a bang does not preclude a few
whimpers.
I remember you growling, "I'll kill you unless you leave—and you
won't leave if it kills you."
You were only half right for once. Either way, it was not much of a
threat. Because I am the killer in this equation, you know that now,
don't you? I got sick of not belonging to you. I got tired of you
owning me.
Breaking away was a lot of breaking. A lot of breakage. I wanted you.
It was strong. It was real. Too real to joke about. Making light would
be the only thing to keep me breathing. And I can't.... Can't make
light in a black hole. You were going to kill me and I liked it. This
is better. I'm not alone in this.
We fit, you and I. In the dark.
Dark was the medium, the carrier, the wave.
Dark was the marrow of that love.
What did I just call it? I am seriously fucked up.
I wish it had been your finger on the trigger.
The shadowy trees make Rorschach shapes against the faint, ashy sky.
It looks like an exploding cage.
I've been around the block and back, oh, I've been there. I have
memories of a pastel day, the wind rose and the wind blue, and your
hands on me, Mulder. I'm staining the night purple now, I'm floating.
I'm hanging in there, in the almost dark. It's your voice. It's the
memory of your words, hatred in the night subsumed in desire. The
desperation. I could taste it on your skin, in your mouth. I could
taste it in the blood you made me draw. I didn't want to hurt you. But
it was all I had. And I wanted you so much.
The taste of blood. The pain inside. The cold. This is not so
different.
I wonder, who made you feel good? Nobody, I think. I think you didn't
know how and our bloody grappling was the closest you could come to
touch. No matter what you said. I think we were a lot alike, really.
You're just better at denial than I could ever afford to be.
Or I am fooling myself and you thought I deserved the cruelty. You'll
get no argument from me. I'm not coming back for more this time,
Mulder.
Because it was never about me. Only about everything you could not
have and thought you wanted. Funny the way that turned out. I should
have hit you back in Hong Kong. Then you would have believed I was
real, not just a cardboard cutout of a sociopath for you to beat to
mush, to remake in the image of your own hatred, your all-consuming
guilt. Convenient. Handy, to coin a phrase.
I keep thinking that if I had bopped you a couple that day, everything
would have changed. I wouldn't be here now, in this bleak park in this
bleak city, down and so far from you and going further. You would
never have been horny for me if you'd never hit me. And I wouldn't be
dying in a frozen ditch for not staying away from you when you loved
another. Loved another. So you said. Over and over you said.
You kept reminding me I'm a killer. You wanted your monster to play
with. You needed your angel to moon at. Oops. How could you of all
people know so little about monsters?
Scully cheated you of my death, Mulder. She wasn't too slow by much,
either.
And the rebels won't come for me this time. I'm not working for them
on this one. Just as well, really. How many times can a man stand not
to stay dead? It hurts when they bring you back. The light has weight
and screeches into your eyes. I didn't like it. And I'd meet you
again. That would be bad.
The nice thing about doing nasty things is that by the time you
finally go down, you're glad to go. Dun roamin.
Death can have me. He certainly had to chew awhile and break a few
teeth before my shell gave. Hope he chokes. I'm toxic, my friend.
Toxic.
I stayed, Mulder. I stayed with you, around you, close to you. Did you
think I was following orders? Huy v'zhopye. You would have been dead
on Skyland Mountain all that time ago. You and your precious Scully
both.
She hurt me. She hurts me still with how much you loved her. Too much
to risk that love to what you like when you're horny.
I was good enough for that.
I don't want to feel this. I don't want to feel anything again. The
way your eyes got when anyone mentioned her. I would have killed for
that look in your eyes. I would have, I would have killed it. If I
could. But I could not touch it, crush it, make it scream and bleed.
It was diamond. It was the sun.
It was like the thing inside me you sneered at, telling me I was going
soft.
I thought about shooting you. I thought about the heat death of the
universe, and freedom.
I even, for fuck's sake, thought about eating my gun. But that would
have been convenient for both of you. I was not going to give you
any breaks. Don't you know about sociopaths? We have no empathy.
You and me, Fox.
Yes, I understand what I did to you when I let you live. I did it on
purpose.
She didn't suffer, you know. It was a clean shot.
Please listen to me.
(I wish you'd hear it, it doesn't)
I had this dream about lying on the ground, on my back, looking up at
a very dark sky. And there was this tree growing out of my chest. This
beautiful, green tree. Sending roots all through me.
And I closed my hand around the trunk, and pulled. All the roots came
out of me with a horrible squelching sound, dripping gore. They were
waxy white and squirming and the tree opened a mouthful of teeth where
I was holding it and bit my hand and my fingers fell off. And I looked
at the hole in my chest and it was a pit of maggots and the tree was
screaming and biting higher all the time, biting my arm away. And it
was too late to let go because I had killed the last beautiful thing.
Then I woke up.
(doesn't mean a thing)
The light is all gone now.
I'm tired of this heartbeat.
I wish. It would. Stop.
Bleeding.
Living Tissue
by Wildy
I wish I could stop bleeding.
