Descent

by Nicholas


Title: Descent
Author: Nicholas

E-Mail: nicholas@dreamscapeforums.zzn.com

Pairing: M/K
Rating: PG-13 (to be safe)
Category: unclassified

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, Walter Skinner and all the other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use.

Notes: Beta done by Gaby. All mistakes remaining (eg. grammar) are due to the technique used for writing this. Blame me.

--

Alex,

it's been different, it's been the same. As always and maybe not. Sprinkles of meadows among the blackness of ever-growing desperation. As you know.

It's been the final straw, the final leap into madness, leaving the drying thoughts in front of the door to sit in front of the fireplace with the few somethings I could still gather and lock inside with me.

It's been a journey into decay, madness if you will, death if justice talks to no-one in particular. And it's been you and me on that journey, you and me, my friend, all alone along the ways that climb the mountains, to roll into valleys so deep, oh so deep, so very deep they suffocate you with its darkness alone.

You and me, my friend, and forgive the repetition for my battered mind finds itself unable to draw connections, conclusions to unforeseeable dangers, from lives unfinished in my mind alone, to draw conclusions from visible items to those that really exist only in me, in the room with the fireplace, with the happy flames, dancing, dancing wildly, dancing always wildly, with you and me in them, in the middle, just you and me, my friend.

It's the photos, the photos in the fireplace, of you and me that reminded me of you and me, my friend, and the blazing heat grabbed the edges and tore them into parts and shredded them, your smile, your face, shredded into, into a black mass of ashes, into what I think, what I know you have to have become for it's not your voice at my door, your eyes on me, your hands on my face anymore. For it's not a sign, not a message, not a word from you, to enlighten me of the whos and whys, wheres and whens, of the preaching sanity so clear in the forests of yours, deep green as only the thickest winter forest can be. Without the snow, of course, you've got to forget about the snow, my friend. Not the snow, only the life itself.

It's the snow that opens the door to my room with the fireplace, it's the snow and the shadows. Now I can almost smell them some days, how they are lurking out there, waiting, waiting, always waiting for more, for me, for you. They have already gotten to you, that I know now, because your face's been shredded, by the flickering flames in that fireplace in that room in that mind in that that of mine.

Unconscious, almost now, they only think I am because I see the redness coming closer, closer, dominating me, my eyes and it's bright, so bright, my friend. The way you painted them, those nice paintings on my skin, just that red, the red of blood and tears in mix and sweat and it's like that, that red and blue and green and never to forget another wild river flowing from the bed that you pointed out to me, for it was your destiny, you said, for it was your miracle you screamed, for it was me, I thought.

It's a deep, deep valley, my friend. No windows, no room, no air to breathe, fragments of bones, sailing oxygen molecules, embedded in my throat, blocking the flow, and it is blackness, deep dark blackness in that valley and it's only you on that mountain, the sun touching you, and you are burning, burning, my friend, while my throat is sore. The screaming ruptured now and in a stream of red, the same red, the same red again, you run down the river, you are the red, the red is you, though I don't understand about the whys and whens and you run into the valley and fill the blackness and the bone is replaced by the sticky red, you suffocating me all the same, with that beautiful, beautiful red you are, my friend, my love.

It's the dreams that's been ours, sanctuary and cemetery, monastry and prison cell in one, it's been us, our dreams, and you and me, my friend, we have lived in our dreams, and the feasts we held in those rooms of ours, yours and mine, mindful next to one another, the same hotel, the same mind, another light bulb in yours to make the forest burn. Burn, my friend, burn. To turn black, black indeed.

It's the valley that's got me. Finally it did, my friend, and the lines are the mere effort to tell you, to hold you to the promises we made that night, to show you, to play you, to love you, like we did that night. I'm gone, gone, destination unknown, thoughts unprocessed, treated with gentleness, careless to beautiful, less than you are, my friend. The rhymes, the only delusion I allow to take over now, the only words on the wall next to the fireplace. The photo, gone. The flame, it's going, my friend, it's going, disappearing into...nowhere, isn't that now.

You said it was the way, then the mountain, then the valley and if I got through, through the darkness, through suffocation, through your screaming self with the sun in your hands, then it would be nothing, finally nothing to feel, to think, to have thought you thought, to drink, to eat, to laugh, to cry, to play, to sigh, to dry, to, to dry you, slowly when your hair was wet from the summer rain in that cabin we had. The smoke, the smoke in that cabin, just like the photo going up in smoke, in ashes after your face's been shredded. Carefully, carefully.

My friend, those words, metaphors, symbols, replaying, relaying to you, me, myself and that's what's inside, what you know has always been when your forest had the time to gaze into my wide open windows. It's a good-bye and farewell, the last piece of sanity from one so sane that everyone else isn't. For only you know me, for only you know, can differ this from meaningless scribbles of one locked away for so long.

It's a hole, my friend. This world's a hole, not a ball as they tell you, because instead of jumping and flying with the stars I am dragged inside, deeper, deeper, into hell, into hell, into fire, without you, my friend. And now, I'm scared, I'm scared, my friend. For this is the end, for this is, this is, this is me, you, everything, nothing, the red and the black, the drowning, loving, preaching bits of analytical thinking that have gone overboard to feed the birds that have always been chirping so prettily outside your window. Feed the birds, my friend, would you? Feed the birds, my friend, my beloved, my lover now. Finally my lover, in me, forever, the red in me. With you.

Good-bye, my friend, remember, the world's a hole and dreams are bricks to the moon and it's possible, it's possible to talk, to talk and say and speak of serenity and to feel the sucking motion that's already swallowed your feet. My feet now, my friend, swallowed, swallowed completely and I'm going, I'm going, my friend, farewell, farewell.

For those are my final words, my final something for you, my friend. And you will visit me tomorrow or the day after and I will not be there anymore, your forest will see into my open windows and you will find the door to the room open and the fireplace without flames, the ashes, black and dusty, the room empty.

You will ask and they will tell you I'm still there but only you will know that I have long wandered off, through the valley and deeper inside that hole and you will know where to find me, my friend, you will know, for that what binds us is stronger than that what breaks us. I break for you, my friend. Broken now, for this is the end, my friend.

In gratitude, in love, in desperation, in fear, in all-consuming adoration, clinging to you, your name, to your words, to your face, to the photo that's burnt to allow me to keep it with me.

For you, my friend, those lines, for you will know where to find me. You, the one holding the sun in his hands.

Yours,
the one who's held the mirror to your face and made you see the forest,
yours,
your friend,
Fox.
 

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