Title: Fox Mulder, May 6, 1977
Author: Silver Fox
Date: May 1998
Category: VA Pre-XF
Rating: PG? (I'd say G but the idea of G just disturbs me)
Summary: A 16 year old Fox ponders his existence by pouring out his soul into a journal.

Note: I'm a little dry atm, so I've turned to the lucrative world of V. Still angsty, though. -----


----- May 6, 1977. -----

I'm a good kid.

I'm quiet and reserved, conscientious, intelligent, and only a little bit shy. Most of all, though, I'm obedient.

I have my reasons. I was raised in a house ruled with an iron fist. Disobedience met with swift and blinding punishment. I only got hit a few times a month when I was just a kid, but now it's beginning to occur more and more often, despite the fact that I remain just as quiescent as in years past.

I really am a good kid. I don't remember anything about what happened to Samantha, I just know she's gone. I know that I was supposed to take care of her and then she just... wasn't... anymore.

I feel guilty, but not directly responsible outside of Dad's ever- present anger. He blames me for my existence some days. Others he just gets mad at my quirks. My love of reading and writing and my constant habit of just... considering. Sitting alone in a darkened room for hours at a time just pondering the events of my life, dreaming a teenager's daydreams, and wondering what my calling is in life. Writer? Thinker? Modern-day philosopher? I'm not sure. I want all three and I suppose, in a way, I manage to act as all three.

No one knows of my secret penchant towards writing. I like to write. I've written an entire novel. It's actually pretty good, I think, despite the fact I don't think there's a big market for what I write. Who wants to read about maladjusted kids and their lives, other than a few pathetic teenage girls looking for insight? Why do I do this to myself, then?

Because it's my passion. Because it's the one thing that brings me joy, and it's the one thing I can turn to and smile about. It's the one thing I'm proud of. It's the thing in my life that I can still keep alive. It's the one thing that's completely my own, that's my own personal outlet in life. That's why I write. Because it's mine. No one tries to take my writing away from me. It's Mine.

Nothing is mine anymore. I come home and am subjected to any one of Dad's tortures. Most of the time these are emotional attacks, focusing on my insecurities and my faults, taunting me with my anxieties and fears until I've got nothing else left to hold on to. I climb up the stairs to my bedroom and choose a book from one of the piles, curling up on my bed in a blanket while I disappear into a private world my father can not penetrate. The books are not enough some days and I write my own fantasies.

If someone else was reading these anonymous stories, they'd probably tease the

Author mercilessly. I wouldn't. Stories of simple pleasures, of love, family, and little girls who don't get stolen in the night, those are what I write. I write to create a world that I can understand. A world I comprehend. I don't understand a world where fathers hurt their sons, where sixteen year old kids have their hopes shattered in an instant, where mothers don't offer their children love. I need a world I understand. A world I see in the homes of my friends, a world I am unable to enter. This is my lot in life, and I'm stuck with it.

I try to live out my fantasies, but it's not easy. Girls don't like me. My mother doesn't ask me what's wrong when she finds me crying in my bedroom at night. Dad doesn't talk to me. I have so many questions left unanswered, and I have so many more I'm not encouraged to think of. I need someone to listen to me. I need someone to tell me that I'm all right. I need someone to ask me why I write so much, why my teachers give me A's when I haven't done homework in three years. Why are things this way or that? Why do boys have to cry into their pillows?

When will someone listen and tell me why? -----


----- Copyright Kathleen B., May, 1998. -- "Hell hath no fury like a small gay man." *


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