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Okay. I can wait an hour. I've come this far for the truth, haven't I?
What's it they say? A thief always returns to the scene of his crime? I guess I'm willing to wait for that. I want that thieving bastard to walk through the door tonight, large as life, if only to prove the lie in these innocent hazel eyes and that pouting lower lip.
He does innocence well. Too well. He thinks a soft smile and soothing words will undo me. Perhaps he thinks I'd rather hear his lies than face the truth. He's wrong, of course. Without honesty between us, we have nothing.
I want to see those eyes widen in guilty fear as he's caught red-handed. I want to hear the cheating bastard explain *that* one to me. I want to know, really know, that this wasn't all just some terrible understanding. That it *was* just some innocent after work meeting with his boss. That when he invited Skinner up for coffee, that's *all* he served him. That everyone who claims they saw the bald bastard leaving this building this morning were mistaken.
That's what he says.
But then he would, wouldn't he?
It's hard to tell the truth from the lies now. Love does that. You see what you want to see, hear what you want to hear. Until the day comes when you just can't find a way to fool yourself any longer.
Have you ever been in love?
Fuck, I don't mean 'love'. I'm not talking about chocolate box fantasies and moonlight walks. I mean *real* love. The kind that hits you broadside when you're least expecting it and leaves you shattered in its wake. All it takes is a meeting of eyes across a crowded room and you're flayed and laid bare by the certain knowledge that this is 'the one'. It's as terrifying as it's exciting. Quickly confirmed by a sickening tension that writhes inside your guts like a rabid snake, choking the blood from your head and the air from your lungs.
It turns your life around. One minute you are the center of your own universe. The next you're just a satellite revolving in helpless orbit around someone else. They become everything. They become your sole reason for living. You lavish them with gifts, with adoration, with passion. You jump through hoops like a demented puppy for no more reward than the prize of making them happy.
Love.
It's a four-letter word.
Funny that I never understood the significance of that before. Fuck's a four-letter word too, a cruel and tasteless word to describe the joining of two lovers.
It's a good word to describe an act of betrayal though.
~#~#~#~
"Did you think about me when he fucked you?"
Although I keep my tone deliberately light, almost teasing, he flinches and drops his eyes. There's a light flush spreading over his cheekbones and, although it is evidence of his guilt, I can't avoid acknowledging to myself that the rosy tint of his flesh is a stunning contrast to his eyes.
~#~#~
He's heartbreakingly pretty.
Which is ironic, I suppose, since it's *my* heart that he has so brutally shattered.
I thought he was something special. Something pure and unsullied. Fox Mulder, overgrown boy scout and perpetual virgin. To be slowly wooed with gifts and flowers and infinite patience. To be handled with reverence like a precious and rare
artifact.
It's embarrassing to admit that I was so naïve. Makes me sound stupid, doesn't it? I thought - well, I thought that if you loved someone, *really* loved someone, they'd treat you with respect. It's not too much to ask for, is it? Just a little fucking respect?
Did you ever see that film 'The Picture of Dorian Grey"?
Good. Then you know what I'm talking about, don't you? It should show on his face, shouldn't it? His betrayal should be etched into his features. A scar for each time he plunged a knife into my heart. Don't you agree?
Or maybe I should hang a sign on his chest, like that bitch-slut in 'The Scarlet Letter", so no other poor bastard gets sucked in by his bedroom eyes.
A scarlet 'S' would be appropriate, don't you think?
S - for Slut.
That's what I get for worshipping at Fox Mulder's alter.
The wrong four-letter word.
~#~#~#~
I can see him swallowing furiously, his Adam's apple bobbing against his white shirt-collar, as more honeyed explanations gather in his throat.
I don't want to listen. I don't want to hear any more platitudes and lies. I can't trust myself not to be swayed by his clever arguments. The pathetic truth is that I want to believe him.
But I can't. I won't. Not any more. This latest and most terrible of betrayals is just the last in a line of increasingly cruel actions on his part.
As I try to explain.
"You took away all my self-confidence," I admit to him. "I mean I used to know who I was, you know? I didn't judge my life this way. I didn't look in the mirror every morning and wonder whether I measured up to someone else's ideals. You did this to me, Fox."
His eyes follow my hands as I gesture angrily down at his left wrist.
"Where's the watch I bought you?" I demand. "I missed two month's rent to pay for it and you don't even fucking wear it? Maybe it didn't mean that much to you, but it meant everything to me. *You* meant everything to me."
He shuffles uncomfortably on the sofa, his eyes wary, and despite his silence the answer is as clear as day. He took the watch off because even *he* isn't enough of a bastard to wear my gift while another man fucks his ass.
Which would make me feel better except it proves that all I've been hearing must be true.
But why does it come as a surprise? I knew that when I came here tonight, didn't I?
~#~#~#~
Do I have 'stupid' tattooed on my forehead?
I guess I must have if I'm supposed to believe there's a traffic jam at 11pm on a Saturday night.
"Well, the hour's up. He's obviously not coming, Fox."
My tone is sad and regretful, rather than triumphant. Irony again, I suppose, but it seems almost tragic that he has thrown away my love like garbage for a man so obviously unworthy of his affection.
If it were *me* outside this apartment, nothing would prevent me from racing to Fox's side. No sacrifice would be too great, no danger too daunting. It seems almost cruel to point out the error of his
judgment, but it's hypocritical to refuse to voice a truth simply because it's unpalatable.
"See? What did I tell you? " I say. "He doesn't love you, Fox. Not like I love you. No-one will ever love you like I do."
Who else would send flowers to his office *every* fucking day? Who else would phone him several times every evening just to be sure he was okay? Who else would send take-out to his apartment to make sure he ate properly? Or collect his dry cleaning and leave it on his front doorstep to save him a trip? Or pop into his apartment when he was out of town to stock up his fridge and feed his fish?
No-one. That's who.
But is he grateful? Does he appreciate me? Does he show me any fucking *respect*?
Oh no. Not Fox Mulder. He didn't even wake up and smell the damned coffee when I had two kilo's of special blend Columbian delivered to his front door.
He threw it in the garbage.
With the flowers.
And the letters.
And the take-out.
And maybe even the fucking Cartier watch!
I thought he was playing hard to get. Now I'm beginning to seriously doubt his sanity. Do you know what he said to me when I said 'I guess I'm not the only boy for you'? He actually looked me in the eye and told me he'd never seen me before in his life. That he'd had no idea *who* had been sending him the gifts.
~#~#~#~
Shaking my head sadly, I put the handset down in the receiver, cutting off the frantic garbling of the hostage negotiator on the other end of the line, and reach decisively for my gun.
His eyes flare with terror and he struggles fruitlessly against the cuffs, moaning incoherently against the gag that stretches his pretty mouth into a perfect round 'o' of surprise.
I wonder what he's trying to say to me, but not enough to remove the gag. It's undoubtedly more lies and, frankly, I can't bear to hear any more of his sick delusions.
"I told you I'd never say goodbye," I remind him. "It's better this way for both of us, don't you think?"
He doesn't seem convinced but I've given this a lot of thought. It's the best way. The only way. Of course, I would have preferred the opportunity to shoot Skinner too. It doesn't seem fair that he should be left alive when he is the catalyst that has brought me to this terrible decision. Still, realistically, that would have made this seem like an act of revenge when, obviously, it's an act of love.
As I lift my gun in his direction, aiming carefully, Fox moans and collapses in the sofa, his body folding and slumping towards the floor. I hesitate, not only because I have temporarily lost my chance of a quick, painless shot through his forehead but also because I am stunned that he would faint at all. It shatters yet another of my illusions and, somehow, his cowardice is more shocking than his betrayal.
He hits the floor with more noise than I'd expect a fainting body to make. The sound is as unexpectedly loud as a gunshot.
And, even as that thought registers, an invisible mule kicks me squarely in the back.
Pain.
Another four-letter word.
The gun drops from my suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the floor at Fox's feet with a resounding thud, and I look down at my chest at the rapidly spreading stain that is branding me with my own scarlet letter.
So that's Skinner, I tell myself, as a bald bear of a man rushes past me and drags Fox away from my swaying body. Someone in the background is screaming for a paramedic. Skinner is pulling Fox to his feet, releasing his gag, helping him to walk away.
My arms are wrenched brutally behind my back and cuffed. Off-balance, I slip in my own blood and sprawl to my knees.
Oddly, it strikes me as funny, and I laugh.
"I'm slipping on the tears you've made me cry, Fox," I gurgle, the words surfing out of my mouth in a spray of blood.
But he doesn't look back.
That's what I get for loving him.
He doesn't even fucking look back.
The End.
That's What I Get
Nine Inch Nails
Just when everything was making sense,
you took away all my self-confidence
now all that I've been hearing must be true
I guess I'm not the only boy for you
but that's what I get
that's what I get
how could you turn me into this
after you just taught me how to kiss you
I told you I'd never say goodbye
now I'm slipping on the tears you've made me cry
but that's what I get
that's what I get
why does it come as a surprise
to think that I was so naive
maybe didn't mean that much
but it meant everything to me
but that's what I get
that's what I get
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