Unrequited by Xanthe

http://www.xanthe.org/unrequited/

There are four walls to my office and a key to the door. Windows look out on a world that I

barely notice. I am used to prisons, they are my natural home. I live behind walls that

conceal walls, doors without locks, windows that look out only onto darkness. I am all

locked up in here and occasionally, just once or twice, the outside world intrudes and shows

me what I cannot have. Understand me - I am not a stranger to these things. Walls and

doors and locks are the very essence of myself. I am made up of them. Carefully constructed

walls around my heart to keep me safe, to keep me strong, to keep me lonely. And what of

loneliness itself? I have borne it for so long that I no longer recognise it as anything but a

part of me. I would probably miss its bitter, constant caress if it left me now. I would lie

awake at night and wonder at its absence and eventually, yearning, allow it back in to claim

and consume me. I need nobody and that is the way I like it to be, but it doesn't mean that I

don't want somebody. The needing and the wanting are two very different beasts. The

needing is an invisible songbird in my head, easy to ignore, its tune like a gentle melody. The

wanting is a panther, lurking outside my door, waiting to trap me, prowling and growling

and knocking me down, its fangs at my throat, tearing me apart. The panther has a name, a

face, a beauty all of its own. And I do want to be eaten alive. Don't we all?

You would urge me to put a name to my panther but how can I? I who have prided myself

always on my professionalism, my strength and above all, my silence. Even when I drowned

in the charybdis of my failing marriage, I did not cry out for help, I accepted no aid, I clung to

the wreckage and went down with the ship like any good captain would. Duty,

responsibility, hard work - all these are my virtues. I am a rock upon which I wish she would

shipwreck herself yet I know it wil not happen. How can she guess when I will not even hint

at the want within me? How can she know? I would go a million times to my grave for her

and risk a thousand nightmares to save her but the one thing I would never do is burden her

with my feelings. My silence she has bought with looks of flame and ice. I am hers, so utterly

hers that she need never fear a hasty word, an unwanted confession of my love. I worship

from afar, in the prison of my love, lingering only at her altar. Her champion, her soldier,

imprisoned in her dungeon. Uncomplaining, unchained. The other day, when she left this

office, I traced every step she made and kissed each part of the floor where she had laid her

tiny feet.

My office has four walls and a door with a key. My heart has only walls.

****

I've got a list here. Yes, I know, you'd laugh at me if you could see it. So scientific, so

rational, even about love. Do you want to know what's on my list? It's every reason why I

shouldn't love you. Every single one. You know that poem - "How much do I love you? Let

me count the ways?" Well this is the reverse. "Why I shouldn't love you. Let me count the

ways!" There are hundreds. You are unsafe for a start and clearly a little bit insane.

Paranoid, obsessed, wounded, damaged, like a wild animal and we all know how dangerous

they are when hurt. And you are hurt. Beautiful, magnificent but fatally flawed. I've always

liked reason, calm, peace, serenity, science, rationalism. You are none of these things. You

are passion and unbridled, wilful, heady lunacy. When I am with you I feel I am truly alive for

the first time ever but I fear that in becoming alive, I die. What is me, what I am, dies. I

become a part of you, whirled into your orbit then spat out, condemned to the shifting

sands that surround you, sometimes sinking, sometimes rising but never on solid ground.

I do want you. I dream of our lovemaking, I dream of being trusted enough to enter your

heart but I see nothing in you that warrants such a dream. You have a petty jealousy every

now and again, sure. Annoyance that your best friend wants to play with someone else but

nothing more. You love me, yes, but not as I want to be loved, not as the one person in the

world who can make you better, heal your pain, be your soulmate. I am loved as all those

other people in your life were loved. As someone who will, eventually, leave you; to death,

to the unknown, to whatever fate decrees. You have no idea about your own beauty but

you readily accept the reflection of it that you see in my eyes. Some small part of you knows

I love you but you won't acknowledge it. You're being kind really. You don't feel the same

and as you don't want me hurt by my own admissions you make sure that we never discuss

these feelings of mine. I sometimes wonder if you have ever truly loved someone else. Do

you know what this agony feels like? This delicious torment? Do men feel as women do? Do

they, Mulder?

****

Extreme possibilities! That's me! Do you know what I did last night? I went to a gay bar. Not

the first time, not the last. I don't go often. I'm not gay - my ratio of men to women so far is

about 20:80. The girls win 8 times out of 10. But…there's always a 'but' isn't there? I picked

up a man, although I had to wait half the night to find what I was looking for. Someone big,

someone bald. Hey is this ringing any bells? He was a bit too young, a bit too fat, but he just

about passed. I took him to a motel, tied him up, made love to him and while he slept, his

arms still bound together by my tie, I kissed his body and whispered your name.

I'm not the first person to fall in love with their boss, right? Its no big deal. What is a big deal

is knowing how completely shocked you'd be by it! It's that old cliché. What the gay guy

wants is a straight guy and they don't come much straighter than you! Oh, alright, I've

already said I'm not gay but we don't need to get all pedantic about the facts here do we!

I've never let the facts bother me before! I spend all my life just trying to get your attention.

Have you noticed me? Sometimes I have to stop myself screaming it out to you. "Look at

me. I love you!" That would be typical of me wouldn't it? But I won't do it because that way

I'll lose you forever. Instead I just sit and watch you. You're either icily formal or hopping

mad. I love both these moods. Your skin is the colour of honey, darker than mine, and your

eyes are totally dark, so knowing and so ultimately good. That's what I lust after in you - the

integrity, the honor in your soul - that and your magnificent bod of course! I know the way

your body feels against me - you held me once in anger and I still fantasise about that. Once,

that time when you were shot, you came to my office and I held out my hand to you, guided

you to a chair and let my fingers linger far too long on your shoulder. Did you notice? I don't

suppose so. You're all wrapped up tight in your heterosexuality, quite the last person in the

world a man like me should love. I dream of your body next to mine, of undressing you, of

taking comfort in those strong shoulders, finding a shelter from the storm of my own

blustery emotions. Your calm, your decency, they attract me like a beacon in the night. I

want to make you smile - hell, I want to make you laugh! You have nice teeth - has anyone

ever said that to you before? You do, sir, you do. All the better to eat me with….oh stop.

Stop, stop, stop, Mulder. This goes nowhere.

THE END

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