============
Title - Funeral Masks
Rating - PG
Classification - V, A
Author: Joann Humby
SUMMARY:
Mulder at his mother's funeral. Response to a fanfic
challenge.
Joann - jhumby@iee.org
US5 Spoilers:
Redux
Legally:
The people you know in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers.
I've borrowed them for fun not profit. This story is mine and can
be distributed only non-commercially, intact and with my
name still attached
=================
FUNERAL MASKS - 1/1
Was she scared? Was she as scared of me, as I was of her?
I never knew her. I try to conjure up an image of her
in my
brain but it's fuzzy, blurred, overlaid with gossamer fine
filters. Each layer seemingly transparent. Yet together,
anything could hide below the shroud. No shivering, I know
it's not really cold.
The man in black robes standing over her coffin is
talking
about someone I never met. Someone strong, who overcame the
loss of a child to become a pillar of the community. Who
organized
fund raising for charities, who drove friends and strangers on
journeys to the hospital, who comforted the bereaved.
Stifling. The air lies heavy on my limbs, pressing me
down, limp
spirit melting and dissolving tumbling deep into the ground.
Silent screams.
Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did
she know about
Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know about Sam. Did she know
about Sam. Did she know about Sam?
And me. So gutless I couldn't even ask her if she'd
known. Five
minutes in a diner, face to face with a stranger. An unknown
woman,
yet strangely familiar. A teaser, a free gift from that man. The
cigarette smoker. The puppeteer. The dead man. Sam's father? My?
What was he to me? To Mom?
I should have run back to her. Pounded on her door.
Begged her to
tell me.
Please God. Tell me she didn't know where Sam was. I
can forgive her
for hating me. Hate's familiar. Safe. Understood. But that? That
would be beyond hate, beyond forgiveness.
I love her. Pathetic. I love her and I want to forgive
her. There's
already so much hate, so many sins unforgiven, so much poisoned
blood in my veins demanding vengeance. I can't afford any more, I
have to love her. I've got too much invested, too many years, too
many tears, too much blood spilled. If I don't love her, I die.
There's just so much of your heart you can hack away, before you
die.
She comforted the bereaved? Visited the sick. How
curious. Strangers
perhaps. Never me. Was that because I wasn't supposed to be
grieving, because there was no reason for it. Was I just a
reminder
of a lie.
I remember her face. So strong. I thought it was a
mask, a screen
protecting open wounds. Watched and learned how to build a mask
for
myself. I don't want to hear that it was real, that the mask was
all you were. I don't want to know that you didn't care.
"Fox, you're bleeding."
I hate my memory, hate the way it picks and chooses.
There must have
been good times.
I can get into the heads of the freaks, the weirdos,
the killers. I
could never get inside her head. I always thought that was a good
sign. Assumed it meant she was good and sane and honest. I don't
want to know that she was a master of disguise. I don't want to
know
that I saw only what I wanted to see, that I never really looked.
Did she love me? Like I love her.
Swallow it down. Mom's big boy. See how well I
learned, Mom. You'd
be so proud of me.
And Dad. Maybe he'd be able to look at me. Without
loathing, without
contempt. Without me knowing I'd failed again.
Tears, unnecessary and unwelcome. Why were they
unnecessary? Mom?
Dad? Because you knew, knew who'd taken her? Knew things that I
mustn't be told.
Was she supposed to come back? Is that what happened.
Did the deal
fall through? Is that why you split up?
You know Mom, I was so stupid that I actually thought
you left him
because of me. Isn't that funny? I thought it was my fault you
got
divorced. So arrogant. I thought you were rescuing me from his
darkness. Don't laugh Mom. Did you die laughing?
I'm laughing. Oh, don't worry, I'm wearing my mask.
Somber demeanor.
Good charcoal suit. Sorry, I can't wear black, Mom. Too many
jokes
about men in black and my life's a joke already.
So arrogant, so selfish, I want something in my life
to be real.
I want to look at your picture and see a victim, a survivor, a
kindred spirit. You were real, weren't you Mom?
I learned so much from you. How not to touch. How not
to be touched.
How to avoid asking awkward questions, how to evade giving
difficult
answers. How not to hear the screams. If you weren't real, then
nor
am I.
You smiled at me when I got the scholarship, when I
told you I was
going to Oxford. And now I don't even know why you smiled. Pride?
Wouldn't I like to believe that. Relief? Safety in distance.
Nothing? Just a script of celebration that you knew how to play.
Please God. Not nothing, I don't want to be nothing.
Got to breathe soon, I'm choking here. Self inflicted
asphyxiation,
nothing erotic about it. Force the air down. Swallow hard.
Shouldn't have closed my eyes. Only a few seconds but
it's a
miscalculation. My eyes sting now. Blink hard to clear the salt
water.
Neatly done. A wetness against the lashes the only
evidence of the
breech in my defenses.
Such approval in the eyes of your friends, Mom. You
should see their
sympathetic glances. Just the barest hint of a slump in my
posture,
the barest glimmer of emotion weeping from my eyes, hands
clenched
at my sides. The very model of restrained but heartfelt mourning.
Dignified. Manly. Compassionate. Oh Mom, you'd be so proud of
me. Wouldn't you?
I wonder if I would have cried at Dad's funeral? I
guess so, I was
always a disappointment to him, why should his funeral have been
any
different. I know that you didn't cry that day. Was that a choice
you made, or did you just not care. Did it matter to you when
Scully told you that I was still alive?
Just once I saw a glimmer of something more in him.
The night he
died. Isn't that ironic? Just for an instant I thought he might
love
me, might even respect me. Then he died. In my arms. While I
cried.
Amazing what you can imagine when you're high on drugs.
I saw him afterwards, you know. When I was dead, or
undead, or
choosing, or hallucinating. My fantasy father appeared and he
sent
me back to work. Was it really me who was the disappointment or
did
he see too much of himself when he looked in my eyes.
I am my father's son. Whoever my father is, was. I
don't even know
if I had a father.
Can you remember me hugging you, Mom? Tucking you into
bed
when that Sam facsimile visited? Crying at your bedside after the
stroke? I remember you slapping me across the face. I remember
you pulling away from me.
Did he make you choose? Did he choose wrong. Did you?
Did they
ignore your choice. I saw a file, Mom. Samantha's file. It had
been
my file before it became her's. Did you see Dad when you looked
in
my eyes.
You know, I can hardly believe this, even Scully got
it wrong, left
it too late. Her father died before she'd spoken to him and
received
his blessing, heard his love, had him validate her choices. Funny
thing is, she rose above it. Knew he loved her, knew that she
could
always count on him for backup.
She looks beautiful. Standing proud, by my side, self
contained and
polished. I can feel her eyes on me. Her tired eyes, just a
little
washed out, but it adds to her aura. Such a good mourner,
practice
makes perfect. So much unfinished business. If she'd died. Double
underline below a final conversation that we never had.
Cry at her funeral? Any tears left? Any more heart beats?
A funeral. A reminder of mortality. The reminder that
there is no
second chance unless the chance is taken.
Scully's mask is highly polished. Securely in place.
I'm scared to
look behind her mask. Those things never fit back quite so well
once
you've pulled them off. I've seen it slip a handful of times. An
instant, a fragment of disclosure, then quick repair and stronger
fastenings. I've watched the thin spider's web of lines
contaminate the
purity of the surface, seen the little cracks emerge that might
indicate a deeper fracture. If this was Scully's mother in that
coffin, would the mask shatter, would she? If it was me waiting
in
the coffin, ready for the hole in the ground, would she know me?
Know that she could always have counted on me for backup.
Deep breath, stand up straight, bite down hard until
it hurts my
jaw. Can I borrow your mask Mom? It's not like you need it
anymore.
Come on, Mom. It's more dangerous for me than for you. I might
actually see you. You can't see me any more, if you ever saw
me. I'm the only one who could get hurt.
I'll write a profile, Mom. Two maybe, one for you, one
for Dad. It's
what I do, slip inside someone else's head. Make myself hear
their
thoughts, feel their emotions. I've been in the minds of
monsters.
Why should I be afraid of my own parents.
I know you loved me, Mom. After all, you were my mother.
END
Thanks for visiting. Not depressing you, am I? - Joann
jhumby@iee.org