There's nothing that I can do for myself now. It's gotten to the point at
which I no longer care. My survival instinct has finally deserted me, and it
won't be long now until I can sleep.
It's been years since I slept soundly—I haven't had a peaceful night since
I was first faced with the long, bloody road of my destiny—since I first
met that cancerous old bastard, and heard that dry-leather voice saying my
name.
I never would have imagined, then, that by the time my life bled to a close,
that I would have done such things as now stain my soul black with heart's
blood. So many betrayals—so many deaths.
I made it a practice, after my first kill, to mark myself for each life I
took—one long, smooth slice of a blade along my ribs on the left side for
each person I've killed.
Some are deeper than others. The one that I made for Mulder's father is one
of those—I almost bled to death the night I made that one.
It began as a way to keep count, a twisted way of carving notches into my
gun handle, but has become far more than that. It ensures their immortality.
Because as long as I live—no, as long as I am remembered—they too will
be unforgotten.
Because I will never forget them—not their faces, not their life stories—
yes, I know the life story of every human being I have killed, from their
first breath to their death at my hands—nor the looks on their faces when
they died.
I wear more than eighty deaths on my soul—eighty-nine, to be exact, and
every one of them lives on in scar tissue, and in the well-remembered sting
of a blade along my ribs. My left side is nothing more than row upon row of
parallel slashes, and I know a name, a face, and a life for each of them.
The loss of my arm simply served to further bare those marks to the world.
They are reminders of my skill—but also of my damnation.
Still, my self-recrimination has never kept me from doing what I must.
Not even when it concerns Mulder.
Mulder. My crimes against him burn more fiercely into my soul than anything
I have ever done. I have never marked myself for anything done against him
that does not involve death—no scar could equal the anguish I feel at
betraying him.
Because—and this is my deepest, darkest secret—I am in love with him—
as much as I can love another human being.
It's his sense of humor, I think, or perhaps those awful ties he wears, or
maybe the look in his eyes when he's doing battle for some absurd theory
that only he would consider.
We would consider, I should say, because I have always believed in him.
Always.
It was that belief that had me following him into the Tunguskan forest, that
belief that propelled me under the wire into that damned gulag—that belief
that led me to his apartment that night with a message for his ears and a
kiss for his cheek.
It was that belief that gave my life some higher purpose.
And now it has all come crashing to an end in the sound of an assassin's
bullet. He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword, or so they say.
I cough, and spit out the blood that comes to my lips. I am dying, without a
doubt. I can feel death beside me like a shadow. Like my shadow.
Death has always been my companion. That it is working against me now,
rather than with me, is no surprise. It was only a matter of time,
inevitable, like the shift of tides and seasons.
My only regret is that it came so soon.
Because I have information in my head and proof in my pocket that, combined,
would have brought the Consortium down in flames.
They would have fallen, crashing and burning so brightly that all of
Mulder's precious truths would have been brought sharply into relief.
And now... now, my proof and information will die with me, and will likely
be stolen by some unknowing sneak-thief. Life—and death—are bitches,
aren't they?
I cough again, and my mouth fills with blood. How long have I been lying
here? A minute? Ten minutes? Ten days? I don't know, although logically it
can not have been that long—the hole in my stomach would have killed me
already if it had been more than a half-hour.
I want to check my watch, but I can't seem to move my arm. It doesn't really
matter—I'm going to die anyway, no matter what time it is.
Voices echo from not far off, probably drawn by the sound of the shot. I
wish they'd come earlier—it's too late now. In my delirium, one of them
sounds like him. It can't be—but it does sound like him. Shadows cross
the greyish light of the entrance to the alleyway, flickering briefly in my
strained vision.
Someone sinks to their knees beside me, and a hand, rough and warm, is
placed on my forehead.
I'd know that touch anywhere.
I fight to open my eyes all the way, struggle to show a flippant smile. I
don't want him seeing me weak, even if I am dying. His face is creased with
worry and pain, but he is still incredibly beautiful.
"Hey," I try to tell him, but the blood in my mouth chokes me and I cough
instead.
He sits me up, trying to help me breathe, and the motion shoots fire through
my stomach. I scream. Instantly, I'm back down on the pavement, and he's
pulling up my shirt to to get a better look at my wound.
A flashlight flicks on, and I want to shout at him to turn it off.
Without my shirt, both my scarred left side and the remnants of my arm are
shockingly vulnerable.
The look in his eyes is one of nauseated horror, and he shouts for Scully
until his voice cracks. The click of her heels announces that she's running,
hurrying to him. I wonder if she'd still hurry if she knew it was me that he
wanted her to help.
I doubt it.
I can hear her voice, cool and calm, although I can not understand her
words. Snatches of what she is saying filters through to me. Things like
"self-inflicted" and "ritualistic". That must be the cuts. And her "crudely
done" is, without doubt, my arm.
She's dissecting my life's pain with a few words, trivializing and
minimizing anguish that will never heal.
But it is her comment about my stomach injury that prompts me to action.
"There's no way he can survive, Mulder. The only thing we can do is sit with
him until he dies."
The skepticism in her voice makes me wonder if they'll even do that.
Maybe they'll just leave, report it in an hour or two, after time and nature
have begun their work on my body.
But fate has sent him to me, and I will not waste this last chance of
redemption. I reach up and grasp his collar as hard as I can, and pull his
face towards mine.
"Inner... pocket," I choke out, "take the... disk. It's... proof... about the
conspiracy—" a fit of coughing overwhelms me, and he tries to quiet me.
I shake my head and glare at him.
"And about... Samantha," I finish, "where...she is." That breaks the spell,
and his other hand is moving towards my pocket before I can blink.
I shake my head again.
"Not yet... password." He looks at me, puzzled, and I grin weakly.
"Your... name. Full name."
Complete sentences are beyond me, and I can feel the last remnants of my
life draining from my body. I pull him closer, and brush my blood-stained
lips against his.
"Ya tibya libliu," I whisper, and close my eyes.
Fallen
by Broken Angel
My life was not supposed to end like this. I wasn't supposed to die in
some godforsaken alleyway, bleeding to death from a bullet-wound in my
stomach, pouring blood onto the filthy pavement. I can feel the blood on my
hand, warm and thick, thirty-seven years of life pouring out over my fingers
like water.
