This barely deserves a header, being so short, but I'll do one for form's sake.
Title: All Bitter and Clean
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh
Summary: She decides quoting Dylan Thomas is a bit too much, even for her, even for now.
Pairing: Eh, none, I guess.
Rating: PG for sad.
Timeline/Spoilers: Immediately before the dinner party scene in Gethsemane.
Disclaimer: Intellectual property is a capitalist fiction designed to oppress the working fic-writer. That said, I don't own them either.
Notes: Written for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mumblemutter's Video Killed the Radio Star challenge during ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
three_weeks_for_dw. The inspiration video was The Mountain Goats' song This Year. (Thanks also to bravenewcentury for introducing me to The Mountain Goats.) Here is the video:
And here's the ficlet:
She's here under duress, she thinks as she parks the car, as sure as if she had been tied up and clubbed. Come, her mother had said, and she shows up like an obedient dog. Command performance against the backdrop of her mother's beige walls. She'll walk through the front door and the spotlight will turn on her, and everyone will know the walking corpse is meant to be the center of attention. She'll take a proffered drink, and her nose will bleed, and everyone will be sure the end has come.
She wants to back her car out of the spot she just spent four minutes wriggling into, wants to race away towards the highway, feeling the power of her engine under her feet, trying to feel a reflected potency. But she won’t. She never would.
The body is a difficult thing to manage: that is what you learn in medical school. A high maintenance machine, prone to catastrophic system errors. You plug one hole, it springs another. She's out of patching material. That’s all it is.
She glances at herself in the mirror. Her face transformed into a death's-head mask: maybe that's why Mulder can never look straight at her anymore. He sees it, and he just keeps trying to race ahead, to find the secret to ripping it off, let her be free without it. She wishes he could just stop, for a moment--just stop, and sit with her, and look at her, in all her dying glory. If he could just look at her.
Rage, rage, she thinks, but decides quoting Dylan Thomas is a bit too much, even for her, even for now. She opens the car door. She is going to make it through this party if it kills her.
Title: All Bitter and Clean
Author: Amal Nahurriyeh
Summary: She decides quoting Dylan Thomas is a bit too much, even for her, even for now.
Pairing: Eh, none, I guess.
Rating: PG for sad.
Timeline/Spoilers: Immediately before the dinner party scene in Gethsemane.
Disclaimer: Intellectual property is a capitalist fiction designed to oppress the working fic-writer. That said, I don't own them either.
Notes: Written for
mumblemutter's Video Killed the Radio Star challenge during three_weeks_for_dw. The inspiration video was The Mountain Goats' song This Year. (Thanks also to bravenewcentury for introducing me to The Mountain Goats.) Here is the video:And here's the ficlet:
She's here under duress, she thinks as she parks the car, as sure as if she had been tied up and clubbed. Come, her mother had said, and she shows up like an obedient dog. Command performance against the backdrop of her mother's beige walls. She'll walk through the front door and the spotlight will turn on her, and everyone will know the walking corpse is meant to be the center of attention. She'll take a proffered drink, and her nose will bleed, and everyone will be sure the end has come.
She wants to back her car out of the spot she just spent four minutes wriggling into, wants to race away towards the highway, feeling the power of her engine under her feet, trying to feel a reflected potency. But she won’t. She never would.
The body is a difficult thing to manage: that is what you learn in medical school. A high maintenance machine, prone to catastrophic system errors. You plug one hole, it springs another. She's out of patching material. That’s all it is.
She glances at herself in the mirror. Her face transformed into a death's-head mask: maybe that's why Mulder can never look straight at her anymore. He sees it, and he just keeps trying to race ahead, to find the secret to ripping it off, let her be free without it. She wishes he could just stop, for a moment--just stop, and sit with her, and look at her, in all her dying glory. If he could just look at her.
Rage, rage, she thinks, but decides quoting Dylan Thomas is a bit too much, even for her, even for now. She opens the car door. She is going to make it through this party if it kills her.
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