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
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