From: kennedy Date: 7 Apr 1999 23:06:44 -0700 Subject: Scully's Letter 1/1 Scully's Letter 1/1 Melissa Lee a.k.a. Kennedy reply to: kennedy@usit.net CATEGORY: V, A RATING: PG (Because I can't fathom doing a G rated story) SUMMARY: Scully writes a letter to Mulder. Not what you may think. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story features Mulder and Scully, but isn't really about them. The story is about me and my relationship (?) with my father. The events in this story all happened, almost verbatim. M and S are merely vehicles for purging my soul. I'll go out on a limb and say this is probably going to be the only non-MSR story I ever write. Maybe. Please read the dedication, as I owe a lot to the people mentioned therein. DEDICATION: This story is for all of the following people: Carrie, who was a big help in Malibu, and who has listened the 5 times I have called her in the 11 days I've been home. Chelsea, thanks. My seven sisters, you know what you do for me. Cyndy, for taking care of my dog while I was "working it" in LA. Mama Kim for just being you. Angie, for laughing at my antics to try and get that Gillian Anderson interview. You know how close I came babe. For Aimee and Jason who snuck me through Ryan O'Neal's house my last night before returning to Hell so I could stand in front of the deck of Gillian's house and scream "I'm not worthy." Aimee, Jason, and Carrie all deserve a big hand for not laughing at me as I scooped sand from the beach in front of her deck into little vials. And most importantly to the GOD-DESS herself for not getting a restraining order against me after I left a copy of the magazine I was supposed to interview her for in her mailbox. My mother is grateful. And finally to my Mom who, despite being extremely ill, insisted I stay in LA to finish what I had started. And for giving me her blessing to go back without guilt in June. But if the FBI knocks on her door-. Scully's Letter After driving around for hours Scully entered her apartment exhausted. Numb. Resigned. Making her way to the computer she flicked the power button and waited for the machine to spring to life. Clicking on the Word 97 icon she closed her eyes for a moment before typing. Dear Mulder, Congratulations. You hurt me for the last time today. Today, in /your/ office, sitting across from /your/ desk, I realized I no longer care. I've suspected, known really, that I don't care for a while now. I guess I just /really/ realized my indifference today. Why? Why today instead of any other day? We'd had our usual disagreement; they've become increasingly commonplace. As usual you subjected me to a litany of callous remarks, belittled me, and droned on about the injustices that have befallen /you/. As usual, I mentally removed myself from the situation. I simply watched you from vacant eyes and with a speechless tongue. Your words failed to ignite even a spark of anger. It was at this point that I wondered when my response had become "the usual." How long has it been since I cared enough to argue back? I couldn't remember. I didn't even want to try to. While my mind strayed to ponder this, you continued with your ramblings. Oblivious. I don't know what caused me to tune back in; the change in your voice; fate, dumb luck maybe, but at that moment you said it.8 words. I counted them. I'll never forget them: " I wish I could believe everything you say." Those words are your damnation. Damnation to a life without my love. I didn't realize it at that moment. No, that came later. I was-hurt. I thought I meant something to you. Before I could process the words, you had moved on. Five minutes later you had forgotten them. I hadn't. I won't. We proceeded through the rest of the day. I was stoic. You were-you. After work I drove around. I listened to that stupid South Park cd I had bought on a whim. I cried, yes cried, during Cartman's rendition of "Sail Away." That gave me a pounding headache. Then it hit me; I don't love you. I don't think I really ever have. I understand now that I've felt obligated to love you. Obligated out of a sense of duty and need. There was a time I needed, sought, your approval and love. Not anymore. Not for a long time. My next epiphany, and perhaps my greatest one came as I realized I wasn't bothered by my lack of feeling. Oh, I'm sure on some level I love you. In some way. And I'll always care about you as a person. But nothing more. I'm free; and it's ok. Scully Scully saved the letter. She considered printing it out and giving it to Mulder. She got online to send it to him in an e-mail. She did neither, instead shutting the computer down. Making her way to bed, she said to no one in particular, "Why bother giving it to you Mulder? You wouldn't understand. But I do and that's enough. For now. Fini END NOTES: If you read this far, thank you. Many of you know I like to let my stories stew for a while. In an uncharacteristic moment, I have written and posted this in the same hour. If it sucks, sorry, but it's MY life you're reading about. Try living it.Once again, this wasn't about Mulder and Scully. It was about a girl and a man she hardly knows. To all the Mulder fans out there; sorry. I can't say enough about all the people who supported me through my "Left Coast" adventure, and subsequent tragedy. They were all there for me, and have been supportive of me. Some of you know what I'm up against. I'll catch you on the flip side. Melissa Lee a.k.a. Kennedy "People, it's GOD-DESS, not goddess, when refering to Gillian Anderson. Learn it, know it, use it!"