untitled
'PASSING
ON THE RITUAL TORCH'
He once
told me of a ritual; a ritual that he'd desperately relied upon
for the entirety of his childhood simply because it had offered
the tiniest thread of Hope that one day he would walk into his
bedroom to discover that Samantha had never been abducted - that
her disappearance had been nothing more than a bad nightmare.
It had sustained him, but he'd said that even in adulthood he
felt, every day, as if he was still closing his eyes, holding his
breath and walking into that room.
At the time - only our fourth case since being partnered - I'd
looked upon his ritual and regarded it as something that only
helped to fire his blind, obsessional quest. In my inexperienced
eyes it was exactly the kind of thing Blevins had assigned me to
keep an eye out for.
Seven years after he first told me about the ritual, the real
truth of his sister's fate was revealed to us. He couldn't talk
to her, hug her or even thank God for her, nor could he pretend
she'd never been taken, but the news of her death had
successfully, *finally* shut and locked the door to his mental
bedroom. Closure offering contentment and the chance to aim for a
future was given, and the ritual...
The ritual, no longer of any use, was discarded and believed
forgotten.
Until two months later when I discovered he hadn't pushed it
aside or abandoned it: he'd safely tucked it away so that I could
use it, become dependant upon it.
His final gift.
You'd think me crazy if I told you how something that leaves me
in so many tears can be considered a 'gift' - I know Skinner
does, Doggett has that pitying look on his face whenever I'm
nearby that gives the impression he's fairly certain I'm not far
from insane, and my mother--...My mother doesn't know or
understand even half of what she believes she does, so when she
insists on reminding me that it's been four years since...since
we found him in those woods, and that he only ever wanted me to
be happy, it's no wonder I become so hysterical with denial. The
fact is, though, that no matter how miserable it may leave me,
the ritual gives me the same tiniest thread of hope that one day
I'll awake to discover this torturous pain that killed a majority
of my soul one-thousand-five-hundred-and-ninety-three days ago
has been nothing more than a nightmare, and if there's one thing
he ever did always give me, it was Hope.
I have you to attest that.
So, every day before I leave home I pause with my hand on the
door knob and squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as possible for
several minutes.
Pray and wish.
In my dreams I always open my eyes to find myself in his embrace
at the Bureau and able to convince him not to go back to Oregon -
sometimes with the news that I'm pregnant - or discovering him
only unconscious on the wooded ground in Montana, or getting to
Jeremiah before the ship arrived, or taking Jeremiah with me when
Skinner tells me that they've found your father.
Of course reality is nowhere near as kind, and my eyes always
open only to focus on the closed, white door in front of me - my
heart cold, bereft, robbed of every possible incarnation of love
he filled me with for almost eight years, and as guilt-ridden as
hell. When you're old enough I know you'll want to know why I
carry that weight of guilt - you'll even, so much like your
father, try to shoulder the burden yourself. But this is mine to
carry alone...Paths were taken, choices that could have been
handled differently were made, and if I ignore those, the only
things I'll be left to feel are anger for his stubbornness,
hatred for his quest, bitterness at his decision to leave me
behind while he went chasing a UFO...
And how can I feel those things in memory of a man that enriched
my life, gave me the miracle that is you, showed me nothing but
the truth? How can I hate the partner and man I loved for his
determination to keep me safe at all costs - even his own life.-
and live with myself? What kind of mother would it make me,
having already deprived you of his presence, to tarnish any
thoughts you'll ever have of the man that was, *is*, your father,
when all he ever did was good?
The ritual must go on, to teach, remind and comfort. It took him
twenty-seven years to gain his freedom from the ritual, but I
know I never will be, nor do I want to - closure and avoidance
are not an option. The only thing that can put out the torch of
ritual he passed on is for me to be able to open my eyes and find
him alive and well.
My partner. My constant. My own one-in-five-billion.
My Mulder.
----------
THE END
----------
'You know,
when I was a kid I had this ritual: I closed my eyes before I
walked into my room 'cause I thought that one day - when I opened
them - my sister would be there, just lying in bed like nothing
ever happened. You know, I'm still walking into that room every
day of my life...'
..............................~Mulder in 'Conduit' (1X04)
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Still not mine - never have been and never will be.
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