From: Michele Connole Date: Tue, 27 Jun 2000 22:21:53 -0700 (PDT) Subject: xfc: new: Road Less Traveled (1/1) Source: xfc TITLE: Road Less Traveled (1/1) AUTHOR: Maidenjedi RATING: R. If you are easily offended by "doubting God" stories or thoughts, please read something else. CATEGORY: V, SPOV, SA EMAIL: texgoddess@yahoo.com ARCHIVE: Spooky's, Xemplary, Gossamer. Anyone else please email me first. I will probably say ok. SUMMARY: Sure I think about it now and then... SPOILERS: small ones for FTF, and an preamble to "all things". Could take place during FTF, before Scully gives her final report at the end. DISCLAIMER: Don't sue me, please. They aren't mine, and I really do know that in my saner state of mind. Thank you to Little Texas for the song that always makes me think a little too hard, the one that strikes me hard and deep in my heart. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Dedicated to two dear friends, in hopes that faith is indeed what we make of it, and that the paths we choose indeed are the right ones. This story was concieved upon rewatching FTF for about the 100th time, given the mind-blowing season finale we have all recently witnessed, and my personal penchant for the dramatic. I am in a bit of a state right now (too much Sarah McLachlan and Moby?)....please excuse any insanity I let slip out. This is personal revelation of sorts for both me and Scully. The thing about this story is that it is something of an early prelude to "all things." I think Scully's ambiguity was something that had to build up over time, and given the sincere lack of evidence in seasons 6-most of 7, this vignette attempts to capture the root of her wavering faith. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The beginning of the end. I feel it, with every step I take, every turn in my sleep. My dreams end with the cold of Antarctic snow, and when I awaken I am clutching my pillow hard and tight. I am not gripping the feathers or the cotton case...I am gripping the last thread I have in life, because there may not be a way to save me the next time. I was stopped from the end by nothing more than fate. So now I stand short of it, and by my own admission I am choosing to stand here. What I need is in front of me, day in and day out. But is it what I want? And do I have the stamina to see myself through the consequences? Another night and my pillow may have had it. I need to talk to someone, get this out. But I can't stand that someone may know how shaken I was by that simple twist of fate, how badly the "might have beens" keep me tossing and turning. So I turn to the only thing I have left. I got this rosary when I was very small. White porcelain beads, sterling silver crucifix. If he saw this, I would probably never live it down. So I keep it hidden, inside a hollow book. I bring it out now, though, in this early morning limbo, just before daybreak. "I believe in one God..." But do I? After all I've seen, do I? Is it just fate or is it... "the Father, the Almighty..." I do, I have to. Reality provides no solace, no safe haven. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name..." I know these prayers so well, as though they are old friends, my only friends in this life of uncertainity. "Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee..." She is my comfort, at last, in this series of prayers I have recited monotonously ever since I was in cable-knit stockings and a white straw hat. For my entire memory, when I could find no solace in routine, in hard facts, when I could no longer count on what I knew or trust him with my life, I would fall on this prayer, to this mother of the saints, knowing she would set my heart right and assure me I was where I should be. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners...." She is there, listening.... "Now and at the hour of our death, amen." There is no consolation today. She doesn't hear the note of desperation that colors these prayers. Prayers after prayers....the cycle is complete, and I can hear the morning birds chirping in the nearly broken day. I stand up, ever so slowly, afraid to sense how truly alone I am. I close my eyes, adding "Please God let this day pass well, keep harm at bay from us both..." But I stop, mid-sentence. My eyes fly open. It seems even the birds have ceased chirping. God isn't listening. No, that's not it.... *God* intervened, didn't he, it wasn't just fate? Was it a sign, a way to lead me down a path more suited to me, a path I was meant to take? The Antarctic snow and cold have returned, it seems. Suddenly I want to crawl under the quilt and ignore it, curl up against it. So I do. Why is it so cold? Why do I suddenly feel alone? Am I over that edge...is this the end? Do I have the stamina to face this challenge? Or am I still bound by fate, unable to want what I need? What do I need? The birds' chirping resumes, and with a start I realize morning is here, and I need to be on my way. But even as I stand to walk to the shower, the rosary is under my foot, silently reminding me...the might have beens. My hand touches my neck, uneasy and frightened. I am afraid, I realize. The future is uncertain, and did I take the right path? Will this path lead me to my future, or am I bound by fate once more, unable to stop and take in what I need, unable to touch the intangible dream? Oh, what might have been.... And the sun touches my face. I hold up my chin, I straighten my shoulders. The world is waiting. I am waiting. Perhaps he too, is waiting. It is my move, it is my faith that hangs in the balance. I can handle those things, I decide. The road less traveled is merely the road more challenging. **************** fin. Feedback anxiously devoured at texgoddess@yahoo.com The rest of my fanfic resides at my site, http://www.geocities.com/texgoddess ===== "Ginger had it easy. She had only had to do everything that Fred did, but backwards and in heels."--- anonymous How do you know you're leading a sad life? When a nymphomaniac says "Lets just be friends." http://www.geocities.com/texgoddess (the kiosk) Aries: (March 21--April 19) You will lose all credibility when it is revealed that, contrary to your claims, your life is not based on a true story. (from "The Onion")