Me and You and the Bluebells

by zara hemla :: x-files :: pg :: story 2 in the "mercy" series. spender makes a visitation.

Thanks to Nancy FF again. Do you get tired of being thanked, NFF? Nahhhh....

I've, um, only got five minutes, mom. I don't think Alex will let me have any more time. He looked at me really funny when I asked to go to the cemetery. I asked him why he had that screwed-up look on his face and he said, "Why would you want to visit your mother? She's not there." Sometimes I think Alex doesn't have anything inside him but a stomach. He eats like there's no tomorrow. I watched him wolf down a 12-inch sub yesterday during a commercial break.

Um, so I hope you're okay and everything. I'm sure if there was a Heaven to go to, you'd be there. I don't really believe in much of a Higher Good anymore, but I remember that you read the Bible to me when I was little. I guess if you believe in Heaven, you have a chance. So I hope you're floating around on the biggest cloud they have or whatever. I know things weren't very great for you in life, and at least up there you are safe from Dad.

Do you mind if I just settle down in the dirt here? My arm aches something fierce and these bandages itch. Alex says, "You're healing. Itching is good." Then he gets this smile, like he'd like to scratch me himself, with a bayonet. He is so damn annoying sometimes, mom. I swear that if I hadn't made him a promise, I'd be out of there so quick. He's always rattling on about the Syndicate. I'm sick of it. He tells me not to call him Krycek. "Call me Alex," he says, "I hate that name."

It's so peaceful here, you could almost fall asleep. Not like that stupid little apartment where Alex always has the TV on and like as not, it's surveillance videos of Mulder's apartment. Yeah, if you can believe that. I know all about Mulder's habits, the good ones and the bad ones, and after living with Alex for a month, I know which habits make his eyes light up. I hope I can get out of there soon.

You have a beautiful stone, I wish you could see it, ha ha. I wonder who paid for it? It says "Beloved wife" on it, but between me and you and the bluebells, I think you got a raw deal there. Nothing ever went right for you, did it? You married dad and the pastor said "death," and that's probably the only word that Dad heard all day. There you were under your veil, a happy bride, smiling on your best day, and he was thinking about death. In fact, I don't understand why you married the man in the first place. Not that I'm not glad to be alive, mom. But I wish that my Y chromosome could have been from some big bear of a guy who was a plumber and whose name was Rob or something. Someone who yelled at me and then hugged me afterwards or slapped me on the back and said, "Good job, son."

I'm obsessed, mom. I know. It's so peaceful here, and I meant to talk about you, but here I go with another segue into my "relationship" with my dad. Sorry, I don't mean to talk about him. It probably disturbs your rest. I know it disturbs mine. Alex wonders why I wake up screaming and sweating. He thinks I'm dreaming about some girl. I let him think that. I don't tell him much, mom. It's easier to be quiet and let him think what he wants about me. I don't tell him that I dream that my father turns into a dragon and eats me alive. I just smile when he says whatever damn thing he says. Just smile. And I don't mention that he sure has a pretty mouth, especially when he's moaning Mulder's name in his sleep.

It's kind of nasty how he lives. I mean, on the run all the time. He sweats a lot now because he has to work to make up for a lost arm. He doesn't have anything. I asked him once when he'd last seen his mom, and he backhanded me, didn't say anything, didn't turn around, just put his fist into my cheekbone. He knew exactly where I was standing and he didn't even have to turn around. That fake arm galls him because he used to be so fast. He told me that he escaped from a car he was in that had a bomb in it. He turned over the ignition and heard a click, and between one split second and the next he'd thrown himself into a ditch. Now, he says, the fake arm would get stuck in the seatbelt. He almost cries when he says it. I mean, I never thought Alex had a heart, but apparently it's in there, and it has a soft spot for its lost appendage.

Oh mom, I hope I never get into this as far as he has. He's given up everything that a normal person ever wanted, and he's trying his damndest to exchange it for power. I'm scared, I mean extremely scared, that I'm going to end up like him. I don't want power, I really don't, but sometimes it's so tempting to think of how much I could take. Alex has made lists of bank accounts. Mom, you wouldn't believe how much money he could get ahold of. Power, money, the whole nine yards. I'm already dead. I could have all of that. But what does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his own soul? Nothing, that's what. Nothing. Alex isn't anything but an inner wasteland. I don't want to be like that. I think I already am.

I wish I could contact Scully. I think that she would protect me. But about a week ago, I mentioned that to Alex and he just about killed me. He'd been singing some Russian song and I mentioned offhand, "Do you think Scully could help us?" After all, she'd been willing to listen to me before. She has a beautiful way of listening: she gives you her full attention and asks very direct questions. I love hearing her talk. But anyway I said that to Alex and he had a cocked Sig to my head before I could say two more words. And he told me not to say her name. Especially, he added, when he was drunk. He'd had a half bottle of vodka, but his fingers didn't shake. Luckily. He said, "Don't say her name to me. Ever. Don't ever say that name to me again." And I just nodded and sat down. I still want to call her. I want to hear her say, "Where are you, Jeffrey?" Want to hear her say, "I thought you were dead."

But Alex is watching me. Right now, he's sitting on a bench. I can see his fingers tapping. He's getting mad over there, but he lets it build up really good before he comes over. He thinks this is stupid, me coming here. He doesn't want me to be seen, and he doesn't think you're dead. He's seen the pictures but he always says, "That can be faked." And I guess it can. But I hope you're dead, mom, cause I'd rather think of you dead than in another white room under a white sheet. I'm sorry, mom. On top of a failed life, you got a failure for a son, too. I wanted to help you, but when it came down to the wire, I couldn't do it. I'm going to avenge you. I shall do it, upon every shred of honor I have left. But I'm afraid I can't save myself.

I'm out of the frying pan -- I survived. But the fire is charring me to the bone. Alex is watching me with flames in his eyes and I can't get free of him. But I have a gun. It has one bullet for my father, and one for me, if necessary. And the clip, I'm told, can hold at least four more. I gotta go, mom, he's coming over and he's mad. I'll be back though, and I'll bring some flowers. I love you.

the end.

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