Disclaimer: I never mentioned any names so you couldn't sue me if you wanted to so haha. But I did mention situations, so I guess those situations belong to CC and 10-13. The unnamed characters too I suppose. Oh, and Linda Bowman. No infringement intended.
Author's Notes: This is my first depressing story, so give me a break. If you liked it, e-mail me. If you didn't you can too, though I prefer praise to flames. But I'll take what I can get. XScout@hotmail.com
I orginally started this diary as an open letter to you, a place to put down my feelings and thoughts so that you could know my heart. Something for you to hold on to when I was gone.
It was not supposed to be the other way around.
You're gone. Left me in this gray world where I cannot follow you as I so often have. Taken away from me, not by that secret group that has tormented us for so long, but by a madman. I never expected that. All the times I sat by your hospital bed, holding your hand and praying that you would make it through as you always did. When you were inches from that looming precipice called death, it was because of *Them*. I had accepted that one day, soon after I had fallen over that precipice, pushed by the tumor in my brain, that you would soon follow. I knew that without me there was no one to protect you from yourself, from your over-developed sense of guilt and your burning need for justice. It was a fact that They would deliver you into the hands of Death.
But then the impossible happened. I had given up hope, I can admit that now. But you - never. I am sorry to have doubted you, to have forgotten that you would do the impossible to save me. Cure me. Yes, it's true that we never knew exactly what caused my cancer go into remission, but I felt it in my heart. It was you.
And so I was cured. I no longer feared my end and by proxy, yours. Yes, even if They hadn't killed you, my death would have. Perhaps not physically, though I would not have put it past you to hold a gun to your own head, but spiritually. It is terrifying to think I had such power to destroy. Because you loved me.
I know that you did. I felt it with every gentle touch, every tender kiss placed upon my cheek as I waited to die. I saw it every time you looked at me with those beautiful hazel eyes, every time you put yourself in harm's way to protect me. I hadn't quite realized how much you had come to need me until you thought I was dead.
You were held together by such a thin thread. Hundreds of pieces, shards of a soul that was constantly shattered until the edges were sharp and painful, all wrapped up in a spider's strand that threatened to break at any moment. I don't think I ever told you, but you amazed me. From the ashes of a destroyed childhood and the rubble of a family, you rose like a phoenix - blazing and crying out in defiance. Every time you were hurt by others, you just picked up the pieces and strung them back together. Betrayed by so many yet still so full of compassion and a childish joy in discovery.
Your mind worked like no other, connecting unrelated information to form theories that often proved correct - though I would never admit that to you. For years you crawled around inside the heads of butchers, monsters only thought to be real in nightmares, and you emerged with their motives and reasoning. And you were the best, the only profiler to ever exceed a ninety percent solve rate. I heard the stories, hell, some of your cases were lectured on in my classes at the Academy. And every time you emerged from a killer's mind, you left a little piece of yourself behind. I know why you had to get out, you went too deep, you empathized too much. So you found the X-Files.
You weren't much better off. Now it was the so-called Consortium that ate away at you, dissolving your hopes and dreams with every lie and every cover up. You learned things about your family that no one should ever have to deal with, you were tantalized with information about your sister and then tortured with doubts about her well being. People called you crazy. Going through all that you did, I'm surprised you weren't. Instead, you kept retying knots in that thin cord, holding yourself together. But eventually the string wore through. How was I supposed to know that it was me holding on to that string?
You believed I was dead. Linda Bowman made you think I had shot myself in the head, right in front of you. I saw the unadulterated rage in your eyes, directed at who you thought was Linda - me. And deep in those eyes, behind the tumultuous mix of fear and anger, was sorrow. Such anguish that I could feel your pain as though it were my own. It was then that I realized that I was your sanity. Somewhere over the past five years, I became the other half of your soul.
Now *I* am incomplete.
You were always afraid of something happening to me, especially after the cancer. I can't count all the times that you put my safety before yours, taking the fall that was meant for me. When did I become so important to you that your life meant less than mine? When did I become your reason for living? Did it ever occur to you what would happen to me without you?
Damn you. That bullet was supposed to usher me from this world, not you. The bullet from the gun of a madman - not even an X-File, but a serial killer we were tracking as a favor for VICAP. I didn't see him, didn't even know he was behind me until he grabbed me. I've lost track of how many times I've had a gun put to my head. Of course, you gave up your weapon as soon as he asked, not willing to take any chances with my life. He was going to kill me anyway. But you knew that, didn't you? That's why you convinced him to trade me for you. Damn you.
I know you didn't plan on actually going all the way through with it. You intended on trading places with me and then, using your height and weight advantage, overcome the gun wielding maniac. Almost worked too. You had him on the ground and had just about wrestled the weapon away from him, when he fired. By then I had retrieved your gun and my two shots followed his, one to his chest and the other to his forehead. There is some consolation in knowing that your killer is suffering in Hell right now.
You were on your back, blood gushing from a hole in your chest as you tried to breathe, your pained gasps echoing through the warehouse. I tried, oh God, I tried to stop the bleeding, but I knew it was impossible. The bullet had ripped into your heart, bounced around inside your chest, and left through a large hole in your back. I called an ambulance, but deep down I knew it was too late. So I gathered you into my arms and held you, hoping that my presence would help diminish the pain some. You cried out as I moved you, your agonized groans tearing me apart.
It was there, cradled in my arms, that you told me what I already knew. That you loved me. I didn't try to stop you from talking, as I normally would have - I wanted to hear your voice, whispered from those full lips that defined you so well. And it was there that you died, your confession of love your last words to me.
Just before you closed those expressive eyes for the last time, I leaned down and kissed you, tasting the salty blood on your lips, feeling your shallow breath on my face. Then I said what I should have told you long ago - that I loved you. You smiled. It is rather ironic that you died with a smile on your face, something that was lacking too often during your life.
Now I am alone. Yes, I have my mother and my brothers to help me through this, but it doesn't matter. I'm only half . I thought that perhaps writing this would help fill the gaping hole in my heart, help keep you alive within me. I can't say goodbye. I haven't cried since that night, to do so would be to admit that you are gone. Without tears to confirm it, I can still believe that you are with me. My love for you will never die as long as I remember.
I'll remember the way that you saved me.
I'll remember the strength that you provided me.
I'll remember the happiness you brought me.
I'll remember the way that you changed me.
I'll remember the love that you gave me.