From: Jessabelle <chicken_feet@mail.utexas.edu>
Date: Sun, 29 Nov 1998 17:26:08 GMT
Subject: NEW:  Spider & Eggs for Breakfast

From:  Parafin <aln1@flash.net>
Title: Spider and eggs for breakfast
Genre: vignette (an x-files one of course)
Violence content: 1 (at the most)
Rating: PG, implied violence but nothing to go to a shrink over.
Disclaimer - Of course they don't belong to me, but they've gotta work
between seasons don't they?
Summary: A short little vignette. It's not long enough for me to want
to 
	reveal anything else.
Spoilers: Mild spoilers (very mild) for the Blessing Way
Notes: This is my first fanfic so please send constructive critiscm to

<aln1@flash.net>. I pulled out of my shell long enough to actually
submit this, don't send me back!

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	Spider and eggs for breakfast, spider and eggs for breakfast.
That's what he remembers most what he focuses on afterwards.  Some
brat two tables over screeching and waving his hands.  The smell of
grease and the sound of muzac.  Muzac is just white noise; it's
supposed to dull you to the sounds of the people around you chewing
their food and clinking their silverware.  He sat there until his
hands finally stopped shaking.  White noise.  That was after the first
kill.

	First.  First holds a special prominence in your heart, he
thought.  First love, first kiss, first step, the first time you touch
yourself for pleasure.  First kill.  It's easy, they said.  Everything
is arranged.  You just have to go through with it.  The first may be
hard but we have faith in you, you will fulfill your potential.
First, he thought later, implies a next.  He went back to scrubbing
his hands and tried to think of less.  Of nothing...  The slide of
water and soap against his hands.  Muzac to dull the rumblings of
conscience. White noise.  That's better.  Spider and eggs for
breakfast, spider and eggs for breakfast, spider and-.

	The next never dulls the first.  Even when the next becomes
like second nature and you give it no more thought than you would to
putting on your shoes the first never changes.  The first scars in a
way the next can never hope too but can only echo.  He finds this line
of thought a solace, albeit a meager one.

	First love, not true love.  In love the first is rarely the
last.  Nature's first green and all that poetic nonsense.  Crowded
empty words on thin paper.  Poetry.  The first time he held a gun.
The weight, the oily smell a perfume of menace.  The first taste of
power.  Yes

	She is so light.  It is then with her in his arms he feels.
Weakness?  Regret? Love?  Or perhaps the first step off the road he
has set himself on.  Oh, that's too jedi.  It's better if you don't
dwell on it, the old man said. But he didn't carry her in his arms so
light so light he felt a stab of fear that she might float away. He
would apologize.  But apologies are futile, they're always after the
fact.  The old man could smell his indecision.  But he didn't hold
her, the beating of her heart as light and rapid as a moth's wings.

	The first you remember but the second determines you, he
thinks although he tries not too.  His is not a business that forgives
hesitance.  His hands no longer tremble.  Spider and eggs for
breakfast.  White noise.  He crouches in the darkened apartment next
to the other man.  He is better at this waiting game. Spider and eggs
for breakfast, spider and eggs-..

	He can't not remember the first time he saw her.

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