Some Weird Sin

By Cameragrrrl

Disclaimer and some such:
I do not have the rights to use any characters 
officially associated with The X-Files/ Lone Gunmen 
television series. I am using these characters without the 
permission of FOX, 1013 Productions, Chris Carter, or 
any other copyright owners. Of course, this is intended for 
[non-profit] entertainment only, and no 
infringement on copyrights or trademarks 
was intended by the author.

Any similarities to people, places, and other works of
fanfiction are purely coincidental.

All other characters not officially associated with 
The X-Files/ Lone Gunmen (including, but not limited to, 
Smithee and Ellroy) are property of the author 
and should not be recycled into another story without

No animals were harmed during the making of this fanfic, 
except for two mosquitoes and one waterbug.

Cost of coffee drunk while writing this: $15.82
Cost of paper used to print out draft copies: $2.38
Cost of Anne Hawley's beta-reading skills: PRICELESS

The 'present' of this story takes place a few years 
before The Lone Gunmen series timeline.

* * *

People tell me I'm not normal. And I'm 
just like, how the hell was I 
supposed to know how to be normal?

Who's supposed to teach you that crap? 
Your parents, right? And my parents 
didn't know normal from a cow's ass.
How do you know what normal is 
when you don't even know basic things 
that people are supposed to take for 
granted, like, do my parents love me? 
Do they love each other? Then why do they 
treat me like that, why do they treat 
each other like that? 

That's not normal. That's fucking confusion. 

I'll say this much: I tried to figure out 
what normal was, by watching other 
people. And I figured it out - it's 
like being in a straitjacket. Like Byers, in 
his fucking three-piece suits. Total conformity. 

I swear, on a day to day basis I try not to 
think about this stuff too hard. But 
sometimes I can't help it. 

Okay, there was this one year, when I was 
eleven or twelve, when my mom would 
leave me home alone at least one 
afternoon a week. She'd say she was 
going out for a little while, but then 
she wouldn't be back for hours. And my 
dad would be out in the field, so basically
I'd be all alone in this big house. 
And I'd hear things - old house sounds, 
I guess - or I'd imagine seeing Boogie Men, or 
whatever, creeping around outside the windows.
I'd get scared. I'd lock all the 
doors, and I mean all the doors: Front, 
back, side, cellar, attic - I'd even 
lock any lockable windows. And I'd run
to my room and shut the door and crawl 
under my blanket - because the one 
place you're safe from Bad Things is under 
the blanket, with all your limbs tucked 
securely inside the protective quilted 
barrier. I usually heard my dad knocking, 
right away, when he was ready to come 

But sometimes it's hard to hear when you're 
hiding under a blanket.

He wouldn't be too happy having to wait 
outside after a long day of work, 
pounding on the door until I eventually 
came downstairs to let him in. The first 
couple of times this happened, 
he kicked my butt around the house 
until my mom came home. Then he'd turn 
on her for leaving me alone in the house, 
and how dare she do that when she knows he 
doesn't have the energy to watch me after work, 
and how dare she not teach me better 
manners than to leave my own father 
standing locked out on the porch, and how dare she -
whatever he felt like ranting about. 

The third time, he just dragged me out to the porch. 

"See how you like it, Ringo," he spat. 
He went back inside and locked the door. 
I walked around the side of the house - locked. 
Back door - locked. I went back 
to the porch and sat on the steps with my arms 
around my knees. 

I sat there for hours. I must have fallen asleep; 
I heard the car pull up, heard 
voices saying goodnight to each other. 
But it was all hazy. I didn't even open 
my eyes until my mother nudged me awake. 

"Come on, it's late. Get inside, and go to bed."

I shuffled sleepily up the stairs, into my bed. 
I feel asleep with my glasses on. I didn't think 
twice about the other voice in the car, saying 
goodnight to my mom. It didn't even occur to me
that I recognized the voice - but if it had, 
I would've put two and two together - and done, 
what? Hide out in my tool shed 
and listen to music? Get on my bike 
and run away? Destroy my computer, so I 
could distract myself from reality by 
putting it back together? It wouldn't have 
made any difference if I'd figured out who my 
mother was with.

I really shouldn't think about this stuff. 

There are people all over suing their parents 
after regressive therapy makes them remember 
instances of abuse, claiming Post Traumatic Stress 
Disorder or whatever. I'll never have 
that problem - I remember everything already. My 
problem is trying not to remember it, 
especially when I feel all the rough edges 
seep into my adult life. Like how 
easily things piss me off. And how I act 
exactly like my dad when I get pissed off.

Of course, I'll never sue anyone over 
this - I'm not that lame. But I do feel 
justified, when people tell me I'm not 
normal, in saying really obnoxiously, 
"Fuck you and your idea of normal! I'm 
trying to change the world - what do you 

* * *