Summary: Up to her neck in trouble, a woman ponders what she has come to in a world of deception and lies.

TITLE: They Love Thee Not 1/1
AUTHOR: MustangSally
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: ATX. Whatever
SPOILER WARNING: None
CONTENT WARNING: R (language)
CLASSIFICATION: V
Summary: Up to her neck in trouble, a woman ponders what she has come to
in a world of deception and lies.
The Disclaimer: I wasn't there and I didn't see nothing.

Comments actively sought by MustangSally at: mustangsally66@juno.com
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They Love Thee Not

Most mornings I don't even want to get out of bed. Five thirty the clock
will read and the radio starts up with the current murder, mayhem and the
traffic snarls that make up life in the city. I'll huddle there in the
darkness, sleep still trying to pull me back under and think about
killing myself. Some tidy way, an overdose, a cyanide capsule, or a bag
over my head. A dry cleaning bag. God knows I have enough of those.

But there are other people to think about, other people that I have to
drag myself out of bed for. Other people. I don't even care about
myself anymore. I live only for others.

The bathroom mirror isn't a friend; it only shows me an image of a
rapidly aging woman with dead eyes and dark roots at my hairline. I have
to make an appointment to renew myself, patch over the crack in the
facade, put the mask back on again.

I drink some coffee and take the pills. My bathroom looks like a
pharmacy. I'm maxed out on anti-depressants and ant-anxiety meds. My
doctor is starting to make noises about therapy, about hospitalization.
I can't do that. I just can't. What could I tell? Can I honestly sit
in some downtown office and tell some well-meaning shrink what I've done?
Would I be believed? There people who are dead because of me and I have
to carry that with me for as long as I decide to live. The children.
God, the children. I'm up to my neck in lies. Not even my own lies.
I'm a well-dressed pawn in a tasteful suit moving from square to square
just like I'm told, strictly out of fear.

Yeah right. Paranoia, delusions, suicidal tendencies, and irrational.

Thorazine cocktail.

I wish I had a drink, but I can't even do that any more, that with the
meds would kill me. Now there's an idea.

I wish I'd never quit smoking. I could start again, but the smell makes
me want to vomit.

I wish I could get laid.

Sex. That's only a memory. When was the last time? Three years ago
with Diego. God. I don't even want to think about that. I miss him so
much. Things were better then, before all - - - this.

Oh God, I know you're not listening to me because of what I've done, all
the things that I've done, all the lies that I've told and lived, but I
really need a break. I need to get out from under all this. I swear it
will all be different next time.

Just let me get through today, if that's not too much trouble.

Dressed now, I stand in the kitchen and watched the dull light cross the
muddle of dirty dishes in the sink. I don't have the energy to wash them
anymore. I'm bathed, dressed, made up, and ready to face the unkind
world and dance my dance in the red shoes. The red shoes that will keep
me dancing until I'm dead, then my body will continue to dance, borne by
the red shoes.

I wish I had never left home. I wish I were a Missouri housewife,
enfolded in mundane problems, like meatloaf and crabgrass.

I wish I didn't wear the filth and the lies like an expensive suit.

As is my custom, I try not to look at the Polaroid of the little girl
held to the refrigerator with a magnet in the shape of a heart. If I
look at the picture, I will dissolve onto the dirty floor and weep again.
I'll call out sick and spend the day on the sofa with a box of tissues
and game shows for company.

I don't know how much longer I can go on like this.

While I stand transfixed in the headlights of my own horror, the
telephone rings, and I stagger to the phone in my heels. What demented
fool would call me at 6 am on a Monday?

When I hear the voice I know exactly which demented fool it is.

"Marita, it's Mulder, I need to talk to you . . . ."


Be a whore still; they love thee not that use thee.
Shakespeare


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END