For The Best By Anna Otto Anna_otto@hotmail.com Disclaimer: none needed, though The X-Files still don't belong to me Summary: On obsessions and how to deal with them. Spoilers: lots, surprisingly, including the movie. Category: VHA Rating: PG November 8th. She sighed profoundly, and her head fell to the keyboard in desperation. Tears streamed from her eyes unwillingly, and long fingers flew to her head, about to pull the hair out in frustration. Taking several deep breaths, she tried to squelch the rising panic but it wouldn't subside. "Ten by fifty-five, by two would be eleven hundred, that might be enough for at least ten." "What is going on?" her roommate chirped from across the room, concerned. "I'm just counting how much money I might need for therapy in about two years," she answered seriously, lips still moving in silent calculations. Her roommate's forehead creased in worry. "What will happen in two years?" God help her if she could guess the answer. "The X-Files will be over," she explained. "I need to have some money available for therapy, perhaps enough to stay in a mental institution for a while. I hope that just a few sessions will be enough, but you never know." Her roommate sighed, knowing that this was dangerous ground. Not that damn show again. Sometimes she shuddered just at the letter X. She started to take the letter out of the words. She was afraid of EXIT signs in the buildings and she avoided EXXON gas stations if she could. "So what are you planning to do?" "Set up an X-Files emergency fund. If I put away just ten bucks a week, I will have at least a thousand when it's time," she swallowed painfully, not ready to think of the proposition. "Well, maybe it won't be so bad," her roommate suggested carefully. "I mean, after all, you've made it through five years and you are still relatively insane. Only a few people suspect." "Do you remember that time after Anasazi when Mulder may have burned?" she raised sad eyes to the ceiling. "I cried for weeks. And then they had to go and top this in Gethsemane. Having to grieve for the same man twice in a lifetime is bad enough. And what will happen if he dies in the series finale?" "As long as you remember that he is a fictional character," the roommate ducked to avoid any objects that might have been hurtling her way. "The prolonged mourning period is not an unusual occurrence. At least it will give you a sense of closure." She gave her a dark look. "That's my point. Unless I see the inch-by-inch autopsy, an extensive search to make sure there are no clones walking around, and a funeral - no, make that a cremation with ashes scattered in the sea so he cannot be reincarnated like in "The Crow," I will never have closure," getting slightly agitated, she continued. "Cancer Man died - and he came back. I won't even mention just how upset I was at the slight possibility that he was dead." The roommate shuddered. She did not want to remember that dreary time when her\ friend sat for hours on end staring at the framed picture of Cancer Man smoking a cigarette, smiling malevolently. After the glass cover and frame were broken, she had to apply considerable powers of persuasion to make her forget the idea of having it framed in gold. "X died - and he didn't come back." "Yet. There is always a chance he will be back," she said, picking up speed. "Speaking of which, Mulder's father might come back too and Deep Throat." "That would be sick," the roommate shuddered. "Are you sure you're not describing The Night of the Living Dead?" "And when Scully got cancer," she paid no heed to the question, "You remember how painful that was, and I had to make sure that she had a good contract so that I knew for sure she would not die. And then they killed the Well- Manicured Man." The roommate rolled her eyes. Not that again. She heard a thousand theories on how this particular person was still alive, and she knew that her friend was in complete, blissed-out denial, totally unfounded. "Well, look at how much you've lived through already. If the show finishes, perhaps it would be the best thing all around." She wished she could die right then and there. "Somebody kill me please!" "Hmm…" her roommate had an idea. "Do you know a therapist you will go to?" "No, not yet," she was suddenly worried. "Do you think I should pick one now? So I don't have to spend time making appointments?" "Yes, that may be advisable," the roommate hoped she was doing the right thing. "Here is the Yellow Pages. You might want to keep the number safe." She picked up a heavy book, warm hope in her chest, grateful to her roommate. It was good to have friends. The roommate stepped out of the room, gazing at her friend sadly. Yes, it would be the best thing. * * * She stepped into his office, taking in the diplomas on the wall and his calm, professional demeanor. "Good morning. What can I do for you?" "I just wanted to introduce myself and to schedule an appointment for two years ahead," she smiled, at peace. "Are you available?" His eyebrows raised. "I should hope so - but why then?" "Something important will transpire at this point in the universe," she leaned in closer to him, speaking confidentially. "Something that will change the lives of all men and women. Something inescapable and huge." His eyes narrowed. He certainly hoped it wasn't one of those who thought that the world will come to an end. "The world will come to an end," her eyes sparkled madly, and she flashed him a brilliant but sad smile. "The X-Files will come to a close." His head jerked up. And she seemed such a nice girl. "Let's schedule the appointment, let me just call my secretary." He pushed the button, speaking with someone inaudibly, then turned back to her. "In the meantime, weren't you bothered by that Well-Manicured Man death in the movie?" Her eyes widened, and she stared at him, suddenly in love. Is this how soulmates are found, she wondered, grinning wildly. "Oh doctor, are you an X- Files fan too?" "Well, let's just say I had done some research in the field," he smiled back. She really was nice, it was just a shame, and he hoped that he could help her. Two men entered the room, one holding a straightjacket, the other holding a syringe. "We will try to help you as much as we can," he spoke soothingly as she was injected with a sedative, and a straightjacket was placed on her. A white truck with padded walls would bring her to the place where she couldn't be happier. It would be for the best. END Author's note: this, of course, is an exaggeration of the actual conversation I had with my roommate. Pretty sad, huh? It was inspired by the caricature in the New Yorker, printed after Gethsemane first aired, where a therapist was telling to his very upset, very depressed patient that the long mourning period was all right if only he remembered that Agent Mulder was a fictional figure. As well as it was inspired by the news of when the season premiere will happen. I just hope it wasn't too painful for you if you want to vent, feedback is always welcome at Anna_otto@hotmail.com Ciao!