I always thought that sanity was a subjective state. If you think you're sane,
then you are. And it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks, because they have
no idea about the things that you have seen or have had to do to get to where
you are now. And if you believe, after all these experiences, that you're sane,
well, you're the best judge right?
I guess you're wondering why I am being so existential, aren't you? Didn't think
I had it in me, did you? Well, fuck you. Just because I've had to live on the
knife's edge of life and death with no care in the world except my own ass and
who I am going to double-cross next for the last few years, doesn't mean I'm
stupid. Doing my job well and taking pride in my work, even if it does involve
murder, betrayal and the opportunity to beat up FBI agents and play with
people's heads, doesn't mean that I'm an intellectual thug as well.
I listen. I think. I even, occasionally, take the time to read when I don't have
some alien monstrosity breathing down my neck or someone trying to blow me up.
Besides, one of the desirable criteria of my job description was a college
education. While they wanted someone malleable, they also wanted someone who
could think laterally and be flexible if things went to hell. Those last two
I've always had in spades, and they've been something that's saved my skin on
more than one occasion, especially when they've been that one little step
ahead of me. But, the first, well I've always been a perverse little bastard,
even as a kid. And while I can be manipulated and deceived into believing
something for a time, I've never been one to take anything completely at face
value. Eventually, I always have to dig deeper. It's something that they
really hate, because it causes trouble.
And not just for them.
I can't tell you the number of times that pain in the ass trait has gotten me
into strife. What, you want a list? Where do I start? The beginning, I guess.
There I was fresh faced and ready to believe the crap they were feeding me about
honour, country and patriotism, and then one single moment of clarity, of
perception, had me trying to work out the why of what they wanted me to do,
instead of just doing it.
I am such an idiot at times. You know, I forgive you for the surprise over my
philosophical bent earlier, it was probably justified. I mean, there have been
times when I must've come across as a complete incompetent. But it only lasts
for a while. I guess at heart—and I know it is still in there somewhere,
though it's probably gone into deep hiding to get away from the shit that I have
managed to inflict on it in the past few years—I'm a bit of an idealist. It
was like I said to Mulder that day, I really do want to believe. I want to
believe that there are people out there that do good and, I guess, I wanted to
be one of them. I don't know if what I do now would count as good, but I guess I
can only hope that the promise of the future that my current efforts will ensure
will be enough.
Now where was I? Oh yeah. Idealist. I'm a sucker for a good story and I believed
what they told me, that Mulder was a danger and that he needed to be reined in
before he got himself, God and Country into trouble. More fool me. I've learnt a
lot since then and I've lost whatever naivete I still possessed at the time.
God, I look back now and I can't believe what a fool I was. It's sickening
really, I was so incredibly gullible. Nona warned me that it would get me into
trouble.
What? You thought it was a case of 'poor, little Alex, abuse as a child must
have lead him to this path'? Boy, are you ever wrong. I really was telling the
truth when I told Mulder that my parents were Cold War immigrants. You know it's
surprising exactly how much truth I've told Mulder over the years. Not that he'd
actually realise that unless it hit him on the head. Then again, considering the
number of times he's suffered from head injuries that's probably not true
either. Bit him on the ass, maybe.
But anyway, my childhood. Normal childhood, actually. Mother, father, sister,
cousins, relatives, friendly neighbours, dog called Spot. Actually, his name was
Bear. He was a beautiful long-haired German Shepherd. He died when I was
fifteen, and we never did get another dog because no one could replace him. It's
been twenty or so years and I still miss him. See, I told you there was a heart
inside here somewhere.
I miss them all. My mom died when I was in my last year of college. My dad and
Tanya are still alive, though I never see them. It would put them in way too
much danger. I know that they have been tempted to use them as a bargaining
tool to bring me in, but they tried that once. The resulting carnage convinced
them that it would be an extremely bad idea to try it again. I may be on the run
from the law and involved in a global conspiracy, but I do have a couple of
friends and some markers that I can call in when I need to.
I think I mentioned Nona, right? She's not my grandmother, no matter that I call
her that. Nona's Mrs Pikarov from next door. Our next door neighbour where I
grew up. I was friends with one of her grandsons. I used to love going over to
her place because it was so completely different from what I was used to. I
mean, think about it—first generation Russian-American, living in a working
class neighbourhood with a predominance of eastern European immigrant families.
And then there was Nona, Sicilian born and bred, with all the fire and passion
of her warm-blooded ancestors.
You know, I haven't thought about her in years. But she was right. My
gullibility did get me into shitloads of trouble. I wonder if the rest of her
predictions are going to come true, because she was spot on about that one and
about a couple of other things. If she really liked you, or was worried about
you, she'd read your tea leaves to give you a guide as to what your future would
hold. She did it for me the day before I went away to school. I thought it was
complete bubkis, but it made her happy so I let her do it. Thinking back on it
now, I wonder if she had any hint of the complete fuck up I would make of my
life. And I wonder if she would understand why I've been doing the things I've
done. Would any of my friends and family? Probably not. So, I guess it's good
that I haven't seen any of them in over ten years.
You are probably wondering why I am rambling on like this, right? Well it all
goes back to the sane thing I mentioned at the being. You know, the one that
made you look at me with surprise. I've come to a conclusion about my own
personal sanity, from my own perception. I'm pretty sure that I don't fit the
bill anymore. There is no way, after all I've seen and all I've done that I can
possibly be sane.
No sane person would do the things I have done.
I don't think I realised just how out of control I was until I saw that look on
Mulder's face the last time I saw him. I know I said a person can't judge their
own sanity by someone else's gauge, or at least, it was something to that
effect, but it wasn't Mulder who made me believe that I'd finally lost it. He
only made me stop and think. Actually, it was the disbelief in his eyes that did
the stopping.
I think I've always counted on Mulder's ability to outthink me or at least to be
able to make those intuitive leaps of his and realise my plan after I've gone.
I've seen him angrily perplexed and severely pissed off at me, but I've always
been able to tell that that amazing mind of his was fitting all the pieces
together in the background. What I have never seen before, until that night, was
a confused disbelief that overrode the haunted shadows in his eyes. You know,
maybe he needs to believe in my actions the way that I have always believed in
his? It's something I should probably think about at a later date.
Anyway, I think it was that single look that hit me upside the head like a piece
of 2x4 and made me realise just how erratic I'd become. It was almost as if my
brain had switched off and I was running on autopilot, just along for the ride.
It's not a pleasant feeling, that. Been there before, literally, and I never
want to feel like that again. Recognising my own instability, I did the only
thing I could do in such an instance.
I ran away.
Well, screw you! You can stop with that look right now! I never said I was a
hero, and heroes are the only ones who don't cut and run when the chips are
down. My dad's a hero. Nona's a hero. Even Mulder is a hero. But not me. Me, I'm
just out to survive and that doesn't give you time to indulge in anything that
constitutes heroics. Besides, I didn't really run away. That would have just
been too embarrassing for words, and I do have an image to maintain, you know!
So, I did what I usually did. Fed Mulder one last cryptic comment to add to his
pile of pieces and did my damndest to make with the shadows and disappear like a
wraith. Would that I could make my mind stop worrying over that awareness of
mental instability as easily as I was able to make my body blend with the
dappled light and shadows. But, as you have probably guessed by now, I failed
miserably.
I guess that kind of brings us back to the point where we started all of this,
doesn't it? Like an ouroborus eating it's own tail, I keep coming back to this
one realisation over and over again. Yep, I can even do historical references. A
classical education is a wonderful thing.
I know this probably seems more than slightly unhinged to you—the way I've
explained this, the way I've restrained you so that you'll actually listen to me
- but I knew that if I didn't you would've either shot me or been on the phone
so quick, there would have been dust in your wake like the Roadrunner. But I
need you to do something for me. I need you to answer me honestly, because I
really need to know.
And you can stop glaring at me like that! It's not like I actually hurt you.
Okay, so maybe a few bruises and some lingering queasiness from the sedative,
but I could've just pistol-whipped you into unconsciousness, so it was a better
alternative, don't you think?
I know I'm insane, unhinged. That I've completely lost the plot and am no longer
in possession of all my faculties. I know I'm broken. But, the question that I
want you to answer for me is—do you think I can be fixed?
What do you think, Scully? Can Mulder fix me?
Kachexia
by Sin
I'm finding my way back to sanity again
Though I don't really know what i'm gonna do when i get there
I take a breath and hold on tight
Spin around one more time
And gracefully fall back to the arms of grace
"Breathing" by Lifehouse
