From: "A. R." <conspiracy13@hotmail.com>
Date: Sat, 27 Mar 1999 16:27:02 PST
Subject: I Love You

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and any other characters, 
situations, and plots that someone else feels like claiming do not 
belong to me. I don't know about the other stuff, but the characters 
above that were mentioned by name belong to Chris Carter, 1013 
Productions, and 20th Century Fox.


I Love You
by conspiracy

Rated: PG-13 (a lot of Fowl language)
Keywords: Angst, 1/2 UST ;)
Summary: none


I love you.

What the fuck is so damn special about those three little words?

What is it about that one phrase that has made people die for it, kill 
because of it, let it's meaning consume their existence?

Whatever the fuck it is, I missed out, because I never got to say it. I 
never got to fucking say it!

I don't even know where I am anymore. My apartment, work, it doesn't 
matter. No matter how familiar my surroundings, I'm always lost. I'm 
lost without you. 

And I never even told you that I fucking loved you!

I passed a couple in the street yesterday. You could tell they loved 
each other. Just one glance at their eyes as they looked at one and 
other could give it away. All I could think about was wanting to take 
out my sig and blow their heads off. They didn't have a right to be so 
happy. No one has the right to be that happy. Not after you're gone.

What the fuck did you ever do to hurt anyone? It's this kind of 
injustice, Scully, that doesn't allow me to believe in your god. A god 
that could let you die. A god that could take you away from me. Take my 
Scully away from me before I could even tell her I loved her! Ironic, 
don't you think? Too fucking ironic.

But I can't blame a god I don't believe in for something that I was the 
cause of. I can't blame anyone or anything but me. I lead you to this. 
If it hadn't been for me, you never would have been caught in the 
crossfire. 

That's exactly what it was. You were caught in the crossfire. It was my 
battle you were fighting. I'm the one who should be dead. But you took 
the bullet for me. And you weren't even given a fucking choice.

Skinner made me see a psychiatrist. He thinks I've lost it. Maybe he's 
right. What the fuck am I thinking, I know he's right. The psychiatrist 
tells me that I'm having problems with anger. She says I'm misplacing my 
grief over your loss and turning it into outrage as a way of dealing 
with it. I stood up and screamed at her: "Wouldn't you be pissed off if 
the only person in this whole fucking world that you cared about was 
gone?!" I guess I proved her theory.

So her answer to my "misplaced grief" is to write out my feelings. She 
thinks it'll help me "recover." Wouldn't she be proud of the way I'm 
dealing with my feelings in this letter. Too bad it's a suicide note.

THE END


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