From: ANNAOTTO1@aol.com Date: Sat, 7 Aug 1999 04:27:50 EDT Subject: NEW "Nostalgia" by Anna Otto (1/1) Source: xff Nostalgia By Anna Otto Email: annaotto1@aol.com This is a sequel to Priorities universe. I know. It's a surprise for me, too. Everything so far can be found on http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto Rating: PG-13 Classification: SA Archive: Please, ask me first Disclaimer: I lay no claim to any of the characters that you recognize. I certainly don't treat them better than Chris Carter. Summary: What kills can rejuvenate. What seems an end is only an opportunity for the new beginning. Warning: You know what Priorities universe means. I don't have to tell you anything more. To everyone who lives on the Dark Side. Nostalgia "I want to outrace the speed of pain For another day." Marilyn Manson, "The Speed of Pain" "When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create No trouble in thy breast. Remember me, but ah! forget my fate!" Henry Purcell, "Dido and Aeneas" Life doesn't end when the heart ceases to beat, or when the lungs interrupt their cycle. It ends when the body conquers the spirit - when its needs and frailties outweigh the man's passion and intellect. From the first step we take as children, we're instinctively afraid of death, but no one teaches us to fear the slow decline that accompanies old age, the infirm body that traps the mind inside. Had the bullet hit a centimeter to the left, I would not be faced with a prospect of the inevitable descent of both body and mind. Death is merciful when it comes unexpectedly, but it takes revenge when cheated. I wonder what punishment awaits me, for now I have deceived it twice. The pain streams outward from its epicenter, colliding with the walls of my organs, with the bones and skin, until it becomes indistinguishable from all that I am. I consciously push it away and ignore it, focusing instead on my surroundings. The room is bare, devoid of accessories, permeated by the beeps of monitors and antiseptic smell. The man who sits on the plastic chair beside my bed is somewhat anxious, even if he hides it well. His posture is erect, almost military in bearing, and his face is calm, but he doesn't know what to do with his large hands, and his eyes roam the windowless chamber haphazardly until they come to rest on my face. "Hello," he coughs to clear his throat. "I didn't know you were awake." I wait for him to continue, finding no reason to speak just yet. My silence appears to make him nervous. "You probably don't recognize me. I did some work for you a few years back - there was a man whom you found inconvenient, and..." I peel away the layers of my memory, expecting to discover his visage, and fail. He twists on the chair - it is too small for his big frame. "I needed the money very badly then, and you gave me the chance to earn it." His eyes drift toward his shoes, then face me again, reluctantly. He is guilty - all of us are - but I must still discover of what. "I didn't know it was you at first when I followed you upstairs." Laughter elevates the pain level to the dizzying new heights, but the situation seems far too comical. I wonder if that is not the first sign of senility. I'm talking to the man who aimed the gun that almost killed me. "You used to be a much better marksman," I tell him. "How much were you paid for this blunder?" "Enough to repair the damage," he replies firmly. "Enough to repay you." He is an honorable man. The concept of an honest killer-for-hire doesn't surprise me as it would others. But the notion disappoints me today - I could never ask him to finish the job he started, for he would never grant me my wish. "Your funeral is in two days," he informs me casually. I wonder if he attends the funerals of his other victims, watching the proceedings from afar and paying the last respects to the ones he departed. "Friends and family have been notified." The corner of my mouth lifts slightly. "And enemies?" "Enemies are always the first to know." The agony suddenly twists the blade in the wound on my back, but I refuse to surrender to darkness. Instead, I remind myself that my one act of martyrdom was worthwhile, that my grandson will now get better, and my son is safe - at least until he does something rash again. It works, until the man speaks again, and his words spear me with fear. "I'm still the best sniper you could ever find." I nod, conveying understanding with my eyes. We're both used to saying little, to reading between the lines, and he need not explain further. I wasn't the one he was aiming for. * * * A well worn, blue Grand Am is waiting on the curb, and I don't realize at first that this is my ride. "How conspicuous would you be in a black limo?" I shrug. "It's a good getaway car." My killer extends me a helpful hand. He doesn't trust my strength yet, and neither do I. The offer is tempting, but I refuse it stubbornly. No one must share my pain on this journey. I slam the door behind me, and hide my hands in the coat pockets, ashamed of their trembling. There is a packet of cigarettes that I never had a chance to finish before I died. It is something to hold onto, a shadow of what I used to be. When I pull one out and search my other pockets for a lighter, the man at the wheel removes it from my fingers wordlessly. I could kill him for this kindness. Instead, I crush the remaining cigarettes, grinding the tobacco inside the thin sticks. Pale sun bleeds through the windshield, obscuring my view of the cemetery and a small crowd gathered around the fresh plot. It seems that this is the social function to be this season. I have betrayed them, and I'm about to do even more damage, but the funeral is obviously expensive and refined. Diana has always had good taste, and she didn't spare the money. Mulder stands alone, separated from the others by more than physical distance. The mourning clothes fit him well, as if he is accustomed to wearing them - and I feel the sudden sorrow for causing some of the funerals he attended in the past. For one moment when he takes off his mirrored Ray-Bans, I catch a glimpse of his tired, darkened eyes. He is genuinely grieving. Though, perhaps, it is only a trick of treacherous light. I'm at once dismayed and relieved that he hadn't brought Kyle with him - I wish I could see him again, but the boy doesn't need to participate in this grotesque proceeding. I commend Mulder mentally for not using him as a tool to gaze in the minds of conspirators gathered around this coffin, knowing that he'd made the right choice. It is hard to tear my gaze away from him. The late afternoon sunrays couldn't warm Diana's pasty skin. She wears an expression of the stoic - she is a soldier who'd lost her captain. Tomorrow, she will be a queen who inherited the place of the king, unless I lay a last claim on it. I train the muzzle of the revolver on her temple and wait for a clear shot. The succession of memories assails me, each one plunging me into agony that could never be eliminated by painkillers. Diana's generous mouth leaning in for a seductive, lazy kiss. Her elegant form buried among the blankets and pillows, her breathing even and deep. Her eyes calculating my limits, judging my weaknesses, preparing the deadly darts that would eventually destroy me. In the absolute silence of the car, my wrist shakes when she cuts through the crowd, stopping in front of Mulder. I must remind myself that there is nothing she will do here - this is a time of temporary truce, a meeting on the neutral ground. I'm the only one who doesn't play by the rules. The mounds of fresh earth fall in the grave. Diana and Mulder look away simultaneously, and walk a little further up the hill. The smell of blood is sickeningly sharp as my wound starts bleeding. My eyes blur when I realize that my gun is trained on my son, and I change the position, desperately searching for a different view. He is a shield that protects her, and I don't trust myself to take the last fatal step. "I could do this, sir," the man at the wheel suggests respectfully. "No," I cut him off abruptly. "This is my duty." This is my cross to bear, my mistake to be made. Mulder raises his eyes and focuses on the Grand Am, squinting against the sun's glare. Diana's eyes follow. The wheels screech, throwing me against the door, and the gun falls from my hand, useless as it was just a minute ago. "I'm sorry," my killer apologizes softly. I clench my teeth to contain the moan that threatens to escape. When a tear falls on the sleeve of my coat, I blink to clear my eyes. It is only a reaction to the physical pain. It has nothing to do with the image of my son clad in black, watching the fake funeral of the man who betrayed him most. It has nothing to do with my failure to protect him and Kyle. * * * The clerk of the British Airlines flashes me a brilliant smile. "Would you like a wheelchair?" she inquires cheerfully. The man beside me glances at my bloodless face, then at the hapless girl. "He will be fine," he responds firmly. I sign my gratitude and allow him to support me as I walk away from the counter, sagging under the weight of the one-way ticket in my hand. I'm a man who long ago renounced the notion of home, yet I already feel nostalgic. It is an unfortunate side effect of my profession - loss of my name, of my life, of my country. Loss of the people inexplicably ingrained in my heart. "There are other ways to dispose of unwanted people," my companion volunteers. "It's no longer in my power." The admission doesn't come to me easily. Even if it wasn't my body buried today, it was most certainly my spirit - my hope, my strength. The killer hangs his head, and at first I can barely hear his whisper. "The money you paid me three years ago was a price of my daughter's operation. She would have died without it - I would be scrambling to find the money for her funeral instead," his voice cracks, and there are tears running down his face. "I killed for her. If it helped, I would have died for her." His eyes watch me, unashamed. I ignore the call of the flight attendants when they summon my row. He inhales deeply and waits a few seconds to regain control. "I know the way a father looks at his child," he says, almost an accusation. "That's why you closed the door that night." "You're mistaken," I reply evenly. "I expected that answer," he smiles agreeably. The doors of the airplane almost close before I find the courage to walk towards my bleak future. What awaits a dead man but a dead life? I don't plan to stay in one city. Paris will follow London, Rome will follow Madrid. New York Times and Washington Post will keep me appraised of the events in D.C. And each day when I open the newspaper, I will scan the articles in apprehension, cowering at the possibility that the war had finished, and the adversary's life had been lost. And each day, I will regret leaving the bloody field of the battle, and learn to accept my impotence. My punishment had already begun. * * * The spring in Europe is breathtaking - the warmth melts the ice on the asphalt, and people move with exuberance through the busy city square. I seek out the bench warmed by sun, in the least crowded spot. The anonymity I have in this part of the world is surprisingly difficult to tolerate. My presence is no longer ominous. My face is not protected by the shadows. No one wants to know my name. My only point of contact with home are the letters I receive with strange regularity from my killer. Stubbornly, he continues to give me whatever news he can find on Mulder and Kyle. "You should see how much the boy had grown up," he wrote in the last letter, unaccountably proud as if he were describing his own grandson. I used to tear these pages, burning them in the classic fashion of a true paranoiac. I kept the last letter. I haven't received another for two months now, and the emptiness of my mailbox provokes dread. Luckily, the newspapers still arrive with regularity. The second page of Washington Post presents me with a portrait of my long-lost lover. Black and white flatter Diana's aging face, smooth her sharp features into a somber mask. The article informs me of her arrest two days ago, and of what is to become the final chapter in the war that had only recently come to the forefront of my former country's daily life. There is a mention of death of an anonymous federal witness in protective custody, and my fingers can't find the obituary notices quickly enough. When I see the name of my correspondent, I stand up on unsteady legs, paying him my last respects. He was my only remaining connection to the man I used to be. I wonder if his execution was the last order that Diana gave as a queen. I wonder if across the ocean, people are celebrating the victory. "We've lost," I whisper. "Congratulations, Fox." I observe the colorful crowd, all of them unaware of the great and small tragedies that I just read about. My life's work is gone - and there is no one left to rebuild the tower. It would have been easier to die rather than to watch and participate in this destruction. But, only a lowly human, what could I do to circumvent the wishes of my heart? How could I prevent my own betrayal? Two figures watch me from afar, vividly painted against the blue sky. The tall man releases the hand of a small boy, and he tears across the square, running towards me. There is an expression of a rapturous joy on his face, an emotion that can only be experienced in childhood, when nothing matters but the present moment, and each new day is a gift. I embrace the dark-haired boy, holding him tightly until his happiness infiltrates my tired heart, as if by osmosis. "Kyle," I whisper into his soft cheek. "You really did grow up." And when I dare to open my eyes and look at his father, I catch a glimpse of bewildered amusement in his face, open and relaxed. A self-deprecating smile graces his lips, and I feel that I've been forgiven - even if the words will never be spoken aloud. The pages of the newspaper flutter away, and I can't remember why I was upset just minutes ago. Perhaps, death and I had finally settled the score. * * * A four-year-old girl laughs, watching the papers float by in the gentle spring wind. She chases after them, picking a few up, still losing a few others. She brings them to an old gray-haired man sitting on the sunny bench in the square's corner, laying them respectfully nearby. The man is smiling, although she soon realizes that the gesture is not meant for her. After receiving not even a nod for her efforts, the girl runs back to her mother, flustered. "Mommy," she tugs the skirt of a lovely woman in her thirties. "Why didn't he thank me?" Her mother frowns, watching the old man's frozen eyes, a smile seemingly painted on the wrinkled face. She gathers her child closer, wishing to protect her, yet knowing that she could never shield her from the tragedies of everyday life. "He must be blind, honey," she lies to her daughter, not allowing even herself to think of the more likely possibility. "He just didn't see you." The girl wants to smile back at the man on the bench, but something prevents her, something that she cannot understand yet. Years from now, she will think of this day again. And only then will the tears flow. The End. Ashlea, this wouldn't have happened without you. How could I possibly express my gratitude but by writing another chapter of The Fire Eaters - really quickly? And that would not be enough. Danielle and Rachel, thank you for beta-reading. You're the best. annaotto1@aol.com