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Unrequited
By Xanthe
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 will 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
Friendly feedback to:
xanthe@xanthe.org
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