From: "jhumby" Subject: Half Life 1984 - 1/1 - by Joann Humby Date sent: Fri, 3 Apr 1998 08:46:26 +0100 Title - Half Life 1984 Rating - R Classification - S, A Author: Joann Humby 22 March 98 Note to Gossamer archivists: Could be part of a series (not sure yet) called Half Life, Half Life 1974 is already on its way to you . SUMMARY: On the eleventh anniversary of Samantha Mulder's disappearance. Fox Mulder is in England with Phoebe Greene. Thanks to my trusty beta readers for edits/encouragement. Joann - jhumby@iee.org 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. ============= HALF LIFE - 1984 November 27 Normal is a much overused term. It is not, however, a term I would ever use about myself. On a good day, I know that no one is normal. Today is not a good day. Nor should it be. I'm at least smart enough to know that much about me. Phoebe has fully retractable claws. She slapped the soft velvet pads of her paws over me until I told her the origins of my descent into melancholia. She licked her lips, happy cat that had got the cream and was sated enough to enjoy it at her leisure. The story of Sam and Fox. Not Sam Fox you understood, she's a topless model who does photos that adorn the pages of the national daily newspapers over here. Which makes me smile a little, stranger in a strange land. Anyway the Sam story, let's call it that to avoid confusion and Freudian sounding but redundant parallels. Phoebe got the Sam story months ago. Stuffed a wedge under the defenses and levered the door open and all the skeletons in the closet had come tumbling out. Well, not all. Obviously, not all. I'm not that stupid and I wasn't that far gone on warm beer and hot kisses. As I say, when my nerves crumbled and my mood rolled inexorably downhill this week, she noticed. She's used to the bouncing ball, not the one that just rolls downhill. She stroked and nagged and purred and rubbed up against me. So I told her. Something I celebrate every year, whether I want to or not. Happy Anniversary. Which is fine, because I don't like Christmas, but I get forced to celebrate that. Well, watch other people celebrate it. Personally, I got out of that particular bad habit years ago. I watch other people who don't want to celebrate it, go along with it though. Path of least resistance. They do it for the family, for the children. Just like me and tonight. She's going to help me kick the habit of celebrating alone. I'm terrified. I don't have the kind of illusions about Phoebe that you're supposed to have about your loved ones. Supposed to have? Ok, this is not a paperback romance. She's brilliant and alive, with all the softness of semtex and none of the predictability. Love, like normal, is an overused and misused word. Misguided, poor benighted specimen that I am, love is not high on my list of preferred words today. Instead I'm waiting in my room, dressed to venture into the great unknown, ready for her to knock on the door. And hoping that she won't hurt me. It's time, my carriage awaits. Heralded not by the knock on the door but by the tinny clank of the half broken doorbell. Life and poetry seldom rhyme. --------------- A day of exorcising my demons, she said. Long walk along the Cherwell and then on to the Thames to watch boats padding through the locks. Are they mad? It's absolutely bloody freezing today. Who in their right mind would want to get on a boat in weather like this? What was that about normal? We talk a little. No, I talk a little. She answers like a mirror, saying nothing original, just bouncing me back on myself, urging me on. I'm not that easy, but she has patience. Little bits of me slip out and she captures them, files them away. First kiss; first time I made the basketball team; first time I realized that I was smarter than my teachers. Last time I saw Sam. The bed is creaky as she rewards me for my stories. My brain offers its own guesses at the rate of exchange. My body just chases her warmth. Her fingers in my mouth stopped me arguing when she told me that the next item on the agenda was for us to go out for the evening, get a meal. Purr of a voice. "I've been right so far, haven't I? You need this to be taken out of your hands for a while." It's a beautiful thought. Let someone else carry me for a time, tell me what to do. When to get up, when to go out. What more could a depressive ask for? Maybe she'll choose the food as well. All dressed up. Who'd have thought it? Happy anniversary. ------------------- The claws are out. She used them to hold me in place when we got to the pub and I saw the sign. The private room for the private party? I should have known. I should have known better. What did I imagine when she said it, "let's go for a meal". Dimmed lights. Gentle music. Leisurely food. Me and her and a quiet tete a tete and some soft words that we wouldn't quite mean, but which would do to get us through the night. It's Phoebe's birthday next week, what a nice coincidence. A time and place to bring together a bunch of her friends and more startling perhaps, she even sought out and invited some of mine. We are a little late, because I was a little slow, a little reluctant to get out of bed. I didn't know that I was being timed. They've been waiting here for a while, they almost applaud as we walk in. My beloved has a taste for the theatrical, she has her opening speech prepared. When she told the happy band of invited revelers that it was a combined bash, her birthday next week and my anniversary today, they smiled and assumed that she was talking about us. Me and her. She set them straight. Not our anniversary. Something special to Fox alone. Fox. That's a clue, you see. Subtlety isn't one of her strong points. On those rare occasions when she needs to use my name she calls me Mulder. Fox is the skin I'm supposed to shed. He has these problems, these anniversaries. Her claws pinch through the fabric of my jacket and I wish I'd worn leather. Or a nice shiny metal coat of armour. She's good. I'll give her that. She can drain the blood and not leave any visible scars She lulled me, hypnotized me. Mouse that I am. She convinced me that she was merely playful, not predatory. I just take it, like that means I'm tough, like that means I can handle it, handle her. Sure. We all believe that, me and her both. Yessir, I just stand here in the middle of a crowd of the semi drunk and the heading that way. I let her grip my arm, announcing her ownership. The itch, to push her away and run, burns. But I'm too well trained, too aware of the need not to show weakness. Smile at your friends Mulder, Fox has an anniversary. If it wasn't for the fact that I know Phoebe's thesis is on the 'Menstrual Cycle as a Predictor of Female Criminal Activity', then I would assume that I was actually her case study. Not just her hobby. Her little recreational lab rat. Push the buttons, see him jump. Good little lab rat that I am, I learn fast. She smiles with delight as I allow the muscles in my arm to slacken. She kisses me on the cheek and squeals an over-exuberant "well done" into my ear. She relaxes her hold and goes off to play her role as party host. "What's the anniversary?" Happy smiling face in front of mine. "Nothing." I say. And bite the flesh inside my cheek to add emphasis to the mental thump that hits me hard in the stomach. So I try again. "A family thing. It's." It's what? Come on genius. "It's personal." After all, I don't want to spoil the party. Not when everyone's having such a good time. The questioner walks away, looks puzzled. He's probably trying to work out what sort of anniversary you celebrate with your girlfriend and a bunch of drunken guests but which can't be identified. Believe me. You don't want to know. I expect they'll run a book on it later. Place your bets. Loss of virginity? Birth of first illegitimate child? Last time I wet the bed? A glass of guinness appears, as if by magic. And a vodka to chase. I don't want to, but there's no doubt about it, it's the quickest way to leave the party. --------------- The taxi takes me home. Home? The taxi takes me to the house I share in the row of turn of the century brick built flea pits. Not a fair description. Walk to the next block, street, whatever and you'll find almost identical terraced houses and they change hands for pots of money. Of course they've been yuppiefied, gone upmarket, new windows and doors and plants climbing up the walls and no parking space for the extra cars. It's not that I drank a lot. Not really. A couple of pints and a few vodkas. But knocked back fast. I never did get that food Phoebe told me we were going to eat. At least I knew to go and get a taxi. Well, actually I didn't. At least Mike knew to make me leave with him. He has to get up early to do his weight training and he stays off the drink. He's a rower, should get his blue this year, main boat for the big race against Cambridge. What the fuck am I talking about. Coffee. I read an article about that the other day, good or bad for hangovers? I mean for not getting hangovers. Can't remember the answer. Glass of milk maybe. Cup of tea. Food then. Always a good idea to eat. Fries. Chips. Sure, good idea, find a sharp knife and get to work and burn the house down when I forget to turn off the fat fryer. Safer idea, food without cooking. Should have brought some home. Maybe I can go and get some. No, way too far on too cold a night. There's got to be something in here. Cookies. Biscuits. Crackers. Whatever. When did I become a sensible drunk? Bit of a paradox there. Sober idiot. Sensible drunk. Dad would be so proud. "Phoebe." Shut up, idiot. The house may be empty now, but talking to yourself is a really bad habit. Phoebe. This was your idea. It was your theory that I wasn't supposed to be left alone today. So where are you? Why is it that it's only me and my demons huddling up together in the building. Reckon I can make it to midnight without summoning up a vision of a dead little girl? Big prize if I make it, I'll declare myself cured. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? No sirree, not me, Post-PTSD. If she's not dead then how come it's always a little kid who I conjure up in my head? Ha, ha, don't even need to study psychology to nail that one. If I try and imagine her all grown up the image gets too blurred, too unrealistic, too much like pretense. Imagine her maybe looking a bit like Mom, I mean like Mom did at that age. But Mom hadn't been dead for eleven years when she was twenty. She's dead, move on. Visualize a funeral, imagine her name on the gravestone. Easy. Dead easy. I never saw her dead. I never felt her die. If I felt it then maybe I could move on. I kid myself that's what all this is about. Makes my specialist subject a little macabre but oh so understandable. Read about killers, imagine how easy it is to squeeze the life out of an eight year old neck. Imagine it so well until I can imagine that it's not a stranger's kid. Oh fuck. Don't even think like that. Your strait jacket awaits, Sir. I hate you Phoebe, hate your cold eyes and your colder heart, hate your smiling face and your generous body. You're so sure of yourself, you and your quack cures. Get me out of my head for the night. So when Sam came knocking I wouldn't be at home. Bad idea, when Sam comes knocking, I need my wits about me. All the defenses manned and ready to repel boarders. Not standing in a kitchen without enough guts left to choose between coffee and tea. This little charade was intended as a cure wasn't it? You thought it would help didn't you? This is not just a little game you constructed for your lab rat. Is it? Trashy tinkle of broken door bell. That's good, first step and I crash into the table, the food hits the floor. Great. Drunk and clumsy and blurred vision. When did I start crying. "Hello Mulder. You ran off without saying goodbye. They were all very concerned." Smile of a predator, she doesn't bother to hide her claws. Next year. I'll get it right. END Thanks for listening - jhumby@iee.org