From: "Kelly Keil" Date: Wed, 12 Apr 2000 23:54:40 -0400 Subject: xfc: NEW: Terrible Aspect (1 of 1) by Kelly Keil Source: xfc TITLE: Terrible Aspect AUTHOR: Kelly Keil EMAIL: klkeil@butter.toast.net WEBSITE: www.geocites.com/kellylyn73 ARCHIVE: You want it, you can have it. Just keep my info attached. FEEDBACK: Of course -- I'd love to hear your thoughts. SPOILERS: all things. RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: V, A, UST DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully aren't mine. You know the drill by now. SUMMARY: Mulder's ruminations. This is a companion story to Nothing and No One, but neither is dependent on the other. AUTHOR NOTES: I want to thank everyone who helped me with this story: Jodi, Lorrie, Alicia, Connie, Jood, and Robbie. I you all. For Virginia, my home away from home, and for Emily, who held my hand when I needed it most. ________________________________________________ Terrible Aspect By Kelly Keil (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) e. e. cummings With one glance she wounds me. Her eyes are deadly. One word can stop my heart, still my breath, reduce my existence to cold flesh and pooled blood. I've lost count of the times that I've rolled my soul into a ball and presented the bauble to her, my nakedness stark against her shrouded form. Sometimes she looks aside, and I am forced to limp away, my trifle scorned. At other times her eyes burn through me, her contempt a tangible thing, and I am forced to hide myself from her terrible gaze. Rarely she accepts my offering, tossing it in the air, never looking to see where it comes down. I watch my spirit as it arcs in the air; maybe she watches and maybe she examines her nails. Just before I splinter into pieces, I wake up. My head pounds as usual and I wonder if sleep is really that necessary. She tells me I don't get enough of it and there are days when I think she is subconsciously trying to torture me. She doesn't know, of course, of our nightly sojourns -- this isn't the sort of thing I could tell her casually over autopsy reports and take out food. Still, she must know. Every night she's there. Day or night she is always with me, yet between us lies permanent separation. She is behind her mask, only her terrible eyes showing, and I am behind mine. We dance our eternal dance, never quite allowed to touch, and I am damned, as I am always damned. I reach for the bottle of extra-strength painkillers without needing to look -- it is always there where my hand knows to find it. I shake four tablets into my hand, two more than the recommended dose, knowing she would disapprove and finding a mean sort of satisfaction in that thought. In the kitchen I wash them down with cold coffee. I prepare my face to meet hers. * * * She isn't listening. I'm trying my best. I'm courting her contempt. Hate is almost love but indifference is intolerable. Kick me or kiss me but don't ignore me. Maybe if I click the slides faster. Maybe if I tap my foot louder. At last she does look at me, but still doesn't see. Her eyes are turned inward, traveling along vistas where I'm not allowed to follow. She steps away from the dance and my steps falter. This time she won't play along. All the time I spent on this for nothing. I know the Mandelbrot set was made by two calculus students. That one was meant for her. Prove me wrong but don't ignore me. She slips through my fingers like sand. At the airport, en route to non-existent evidence that the universe has meaning, I call her. Through the phone I feel her eyes, turned toward me briefly in annoyance. I'm interrupting her. I'm inconveniencing her. This is all part of my plan. Curse my name but don't ignore me. I feel somehow threatened but I don't know why. In my dreams she is turned away from me, and I long for the wonderful terror of her gaze. She will not look at me. Each night she stands farther away. I wander in fields and see the wind catching her hair. She stoops and looks at bent stalks. The farmers think I'm crazy. Maybe I am. There is nothing here for me. I call to hear her voice and I think it is time to go home. That night she turns toward me, her face grave. She throws the ball into the air and my lungs collapse, expecting the shatter. Instead she catches it on the tip of her finger and there it rests, spinning. She smiles, and the smile is worth a thousand deaths. 'I'm looking for you,' she says. 'I'm looking.' It is time for me to go home. * * * She turns me around and is surprised. I am not who she expected to see. In her eyes I see puzzlement and gratitude and I wonder what she's been thinking. 'We need to talk,' she says. 'Or I need to talk and have you listen.' So speak to me. You own me. How could you not know that? We go to my place by unspoken consent. Escaping is easier for her than making me leave. This is her parley and she will end it when she's done. This is her way. We sit side by side and she opens before me. Layer by layer she peels away barriers until only the mask remains. I reach forward to lift it away but she stops me. Her eyes speak: not yet, sometime, not now, one day, not yet. She would bare her body for me but not her soul. It is not enough. She left while I was sleeping, mask and dignity firmly in place. It doesn't matter. I held her and did not dream. The terrible aspect is gone. I lie here and contemplate, hearing the drip-drip-drip of the faucet. I wonder if I was a fool not to take what was freely offered. I wonder if she is thinking of me right now. I wonder if every act of my life has led to this moment. I wonder. I will have all of her or nothing. I have died a thousand deaths; I will die a thousand more. One day I will have all of her. Someday, one day, soon. Perhaps she'll dream of me. Maybe she has all along. I smile, picturing my own terrible eyes. If she throws the ball I will catch it. Then she will be mine. End