Title: Physical Graffiti...
Author: GenieVB
Summary: A question of life...
Rating: PG
Spoilers: SUZ, Closure
Legal Disclaimer: I own nothing related to
the X-Files. I will make no money from any-
thing related to Carter or FOX, blah, blah,
and an extra BLAH!!
Category: Mulder & family (& a little Scully).
*For anyone who was once young and looking
for any way out. You know who you are.
*
He returned to the summer house.
It had been almost two years since he'd stepped foot in
the door. Indications of recent rodent activity were apparent
at the sight of tiny droppings around the base of the
stove and heating vents, both long cold.
Scully had asked him where he was going and he'd told her,
adding he wouldn't be too long.
Demons needed to be ousted, ghosts layed to rest. Hopes
folded up and tucked away like old letters from a past
that no longer mattered. Pictures in his mind of
sister, father, mother needed to have their ashes swept
aside like burnt paper. Or burnt photographs that
had clearly been falsehoods.
Smiling faces and wide open eyes, both pasted on for the
person behind the camera. An illusion of "family" created
for posterity.
Mulder climbed the ladder to the loft where he and Samantha
had spent many a summer night giggling or watching the
water ripple under the moonlight.
This was the last happy time of a brief childhood long
ago. He sat on the edge of what had been Samantha's bed,
the springs creaking under his adult weight.
It was so tiny, the quilt patterned as it was with
kittens and puppies, hand sewn by Nana's wrinkled
fingers, was threadbare and faded.
Wiping the water from his eyes, Mulder moved to his own
bed and lay down on it. If he tried hard, he could remember
good things, fun times. He remembered one time, Samantha
bringing him her "secret". Her tiny treasure box of
beach-hunt trinkets: corroded coins, a necklace with some
of the beads missing, the plastic horse with the chewed
off legs.. "She flies, Fox, he doesn't _need_ legs." She'd
explained with all the reasonableness a six year old
can possess.
Mulder climbed down to the main floor and out to the back
yard where the lake beyond lay cold and uninviting. It
was not the season for swimming or anything else and
the town's tiny resort bungalows were all but deserted.
There was her face, in its Tinkerbell features and
girlish curls, right there before his eyes, floating
like an soap bubble.
Dad's face had been there too, for a long time. First
as a man stern and disappointed, then flashing
from one frame to the next through fear, worry,
confession, remorse, repentance and, finally, bloody
with a bullet hole.
There was his mother, stern but proud, loving but
mute, standing to one side and calling to him
with lips that did not move and a hand stretched out
with fingers blue from lack of oxygen, her face twisted
in pain.
Mulder dropped his chin to chest but no amount of
stifling his voice or the aching lump in his throat
prevented the grief, escaping with small gasps
from the figurative hole inside him.
This was loss, he realised. This was being an orphan,
this was being without roots or faces to look back
on and being able to say to yourself: that was my family,
my past, where I come from and part of who I am.
He didn't know who he was any longer. He felt part
of no human unit, neither a member of the human
race. His job reflected it, dealing in the unexplained,
the unprovable, even the hopeless.
He hadn't been kidding when he'd asked Skinner
for time off. Mulder had been captured by a nameless
fear, something to do with being. His purpose of being
had come into question, falling under scrutiny
and doubt. Only Scully's support had prevented him
from taking an indefinite Leave of Absence.
But because he didn't trust his own instincts
when it came to genuflecting, he'd limited his
time off to a long weekend and driven down to
the spot where it seemed it had all begun.
This is the place his life had taken the unexpected
road. The crazy highway that had taken him ever
into the future, lanes twisting this way and that,
with no end in sight.
But it had ended.
And instead of a destination with answers, Mulder d
found himself standing before a thick wall of
deafening loss. Dead sister and very few answers.
They were all dead and that terribly sad reality had lead
him to new questions or, rather, one:
Who he was suppose to be? If his past was nothing more
than lies, then for him his future had to be understood.
He _must_ know the next path because at that moment he
felt like a dead a leaf in a shifting wind, lifeless
and without direction.
He was terrified of this feeling, it was a place
he'd been only once or twice in his life, and this
sinkhole had opened before him with frightening speed.
He was afraid to tell Scully how deeply it went.
How do you tell the one person, the last soul who
loves you that you might not stick around because you're
not certain you should _be_ around?
On your feet but dead and buried?
How much more wasting of life was there for him to do?
He wanted to ask someone about it. Why had he
been born anyway? What the hell was the point?
If I wasn't even suppose to understand who and why
my family had to die, Mulder thought, why bother
creating me at all, God? Hey! Hello? Are you
up there?
A window slamming shut cut off further elsewhere
ruminations.
Turning to see what had caused the jarring bang,
Mulder was approached by a woman or, rather, a
girl on her way to womanhood. She was perhaps
sixteen and well on her way to knowing it all.
"If you want to speak to the Blind Queen," the girl,
her face blank and dark. (It reminded Mulder of
the look - or lack thereof - of a carving of a human
face, one with the features unfinished), "she's
in her kingdom."
"What?"
But she strode passed him, already well on her way
somewhere, slapping aside brush branches and disappearing
down the sidewalk.
"Hey!" Mulder called after the trespasser, "This
is private property."
Evidently ignoring him, he decided to give her the
same treatment.
Reminding himself to lock the sliding glass door
after himself, he returned to the house.
Wanting to check if anything had been disturbed or taken
by the neighborhood teen...and himself wanting one
last look-
-it was no longer the house he had visited, not
the one from moments before.
High-heeled steps clipped-clopped back and forth in
the kitchen beyond. In the background, a radio played.
"Samantha!"
Mulder jumped at the name and the voice behind it.
And when the woman who had shouted out his dead sister's
name came around the corner from the kitchen into
the small living room where he stood, he swayed
in the dream. Because it could only be that.
He was upstairs still, lying on his old bed with the
rocket ship pillow cases, dreaming this.
His mother could not be standing before him.
Or talking to him, as she was now. Mulder dragged
his eyes away from her and her startled look to
her mouth because she was addressing him.
"I said", she was asking him a question, "are you
Mister Morrison from Ready Real-Estate"?
Mulder heard the name and saw the woman.
There was no doubt about it. It was his mother.
*
"Excuse me." She said approaching him from
behind.
Mulder closed his eyes to the sight of a younger
Teena Mulder and the impossible sound of his dead
mother's voice, and instead concentrated on the
cool early afternoon air, counting on it to clear
his lungs and his senses, in particular - his mind.
Mulder'd retreated to the back yard with the
Teena-ghost in tow, willing it to go away.
Looks like he really did need time off, he realized,
if he was still seeing ghosts and still hearing the
voices of the dead. It seemed, he was surrounded by
them.
"Excuse me." Ghost Teena said more insistently,
the tone becoming ever less polite. It was such
that he couldn't help but to turn his head and
look.
If she was a ghost she appeared solid enough.
Something in his shocked soul must have showed
on his face because her pinched lips softened,
"Young man, you look ill."
Mulder opened his mouth and though his heart
was racing like a hamster on a wheel, he
answered, "I have a headache. I'm sorry."
"Well, 'Ready' said you'd be coming."
"Yes." It conveyed neither truth nor fiction
on his part, telling her not who he was but
it was difficult, very, very difficult to
think at that moment.
"Did you want to take measurements?" Ghost Teena
asked him, the lips returning to their drawn form
at his slowness.
"Eh, yes. Yes, I would." Mulder managed without
sounding completely stupefied.
She lead him in and to the loft ladder. "I suppose
you may as well start up there."
Thanking her, Mulder ascended the ladder again,
this time feeling like a stranger in a strange land.
The two small bedrooms had a lived-in look and feel
now. There was nothing of the still life about
the neatly made beds or dust free dressers.
Several porcelain dolls sat in a row on Samantha's
flowered quilt. Clothes were thrown carelessly
on an upright chair. Brushes and hair bands
littered the dresser top.
His bed, however, was perfect as a pin. Not a wrinkle
in the striped bed throw, not a tuck out of place
in the ironed sheets. His old track and field medals
from grade school were pinned (in the shape of a
heart) into the wall above the headboard. On the
smooth pillow lay a tiny stuffed blue fox, with
a blue ribbon tied around its neck. To the knot
of the ribbon was pinned a button with his
picture (one of him at perhaps age six or seven),
and a slogan underneath that read: "Have you seen
this boy?"
With a quick glance over the loft railing to see if the
coast was still clear, Mulder returned to Samantha's
room and quietly began pulling open drawers until he
found what he suspected might be there. Under folded
underwear (about which he felt guilty even seeing), in
the bottom drawer, was a diary, much thumbed and
the colors on the coated cardboard cover stained
and faded.
Pocketing it, he made a cursory look through his
"own" drawers. Everything in them was perfectly
folded and loving stacked in neat little bundles,
so unlike the way a young boy would have things, it
was clear in his mind that the young...yes, he had
to let himself think it...the young Fox wasn't
there and hadn't been for some time.
Mulder could guess what was going on but only if he
suspended his shock and disbelief.
Once, he'd been on a ship,...
... but, even so, the far more likely explanation
was a twisted dream from a head fucked up with
too much thought on death.
Scully would back him up on that and the thought
comforted him, her face in his mind a tonic, lessening
his fear and calming his heart inside the nightmare.
"If you're finished, we can go over the details."
Ghost Teena called up to him, shaking him back to
the present reality.
Climbing down, Mulder addressed her while trying
not to look at her too much. He knew it would appear
as rude to his ever-proper mother, but it was
tough to look at her face.
She'd killed herself. Disease not-with-standing, she'd
killed herself selfishly and without regard to how it
might affect him. He hated his mother.
Seeing her face here, younger, prettier and, (though
still pinched with disapproval for most people and
things around her), fresher, was playing with the
rusty strings of his feelings and it hurt. It
hurt, hurt, hurt! He loved his mother.
"No. Actually, I was hoping to speak to your husband."
He'd corrected himself in time for, where his mind
had said "my father", his lips thankfully hadn't.
Her face turned to stone but because of the man
standing before her. "He's not here. He's...away."
It left no room for speculation that the man in question
might return. "Not here" meant he'd left. "Away" meant
he was not coming back.
"Oh." Mulder did not let on, "Well, may I call you from
the office?"
The ghost/his mother was somewhat annoyed with him now,
he'd obviously wasted her time, but good manners
were her forte', "Well, whatever you think." With that
she returned to her kitchen. Mulder heard wrinkling paper
and dishes being stacked into boxes, the unmistakable
sounds of moving preparations.
Mulder got out of there and back to his car - the
car was the same at least - and drove away.
The streets, however, had become retro. Gardens
not there in his time filled parks as he drove
passed, lots that held buildings in his day
were empty or dotted with benches and trees.
Since he didn't know where he was driving, and
not knowing what to expect when he arrived, Mulder
returned to the lake side neighborhood of the summer
house, parking just down the street.
He didn't know what to do though.
Feeling guilty, he forced open the tiny lock on
Samantha Mulder's diary, discovering it to be, by
the date on the first page, an older one. One she
had evidently written in a few years before and
then tucked away from the eyes of her mother.
Mulder noted the beginning date and entries-
he couldn't help but be fascinated and thrilled
(and chilled also), by the loops and whirls
of the writing of the young girl who called
herself Samantha Mulder, and who looked like her
as well. At least, looked like a young woman
his eight year old sister might have turned
out to be, had she not be taken, used and
discarded.
But this was her, wasn't it? These _were_ her
words, weren't they?
Mulder read:
*"Tuesday November 26, 1972"...*
Mulder did a quick calculation in his head. One
year after Samantha's abduction. This date was
post her abduction. Ignoring the implications,
and the simple impossibility of that, Mulder
continued to read:
"*Today Tommy Lewis smiled at me in math class.
He is so boss! but I think he's already going
steady with Laura Schroder and I HATE ("hate" was
thickly underlined) "her!.
"Mom says I can't have a boyfriend until I'm
fifteen, but she doesn't know I'm already seeing
Peter in secret. If Tommy and I don't end up
together, I'm going to marry Peter. He's not
as good looking but he's got these deep blue
eyes and he's crazy about me."*
Next entry:
*"Oh my god!! I just met our substitute art
teacher today, Mr. Olsen! He is so gorgeous.
His first name is Martin and he's blonde
and tanned and just gorgeous! Forget Peter
AND Tommy, I want Mr. Olsen!!"*
Mulder skipped ahead, passed more entries about
the writer's school hall loves, home work and
birthday parties.
*"December 26, 1972. I don't think Santa is real.
I mean, I always knew he was just a story parents tell
little kids but wouldn't it have been great if he
was? Maybe he could have brought Fox home for
Christmas. Mom doesn't like to talk about Fox much,
so since Dad left I have no one to talk with about
him. He was a tease, but I miss him. Mom won't even
let me play in his room at home. And I'm not allowed to
touch his stuff at the cabin. Sometimes, I hate her."*
Mulder paused to order his thoughts and take a deep
breath or two, the words of the girl turning into a
young woman tugged at him, pulling him more and more
into her world. He was seeing his sister's, (wasn't
she?) life through her eyes. If he tried hard, he
could almost hear the high pitched, lost and sweet
(and missed) tones of her voice in his head as his
eyes eagerly sought the words. His heart was breaking
all over again.
Skipping ahead again, this time a good quarter
inch worth of entries, he randomly stopped and
read:
*"July 15, 1976. I hardly ever write in this thing anymore.
What's the point? No one will ever read it and no
body cares what I think. Mom thinks its stupid to
think Fox will ever come home. She won't" ("won't underlined
three times) "talk about it. After the button campaign
she refused to do anything else. It's like she doesn't
want him back, like she doesn't care. Today I yelled
at her I was so mad, I called her a bitch and told her
that she must have not loved him then. I thought she
was going to hit me and I just left to come here."*
Mulder wondered where "here" was.
*"Now I feel bad but I don't care. I hate school,
I hate mom, I hate dad, I hate my life! I tore
up the note the principal wrote so mom wouldn't
see it. I skipped school and came home early so I
could get it out of the mail-box. If she found out
I've been smoking or trying pot, she'd kill me."*
Mulder read the stranger's words. There were the
thoughts of a girl who was unknown to him, not
because they spoke of smoking and toking (things
many teens try at one time or another) but because
he had no idea what kind of person Samantha
would have turned out to be and the words on the pages
written by this young woman's hand were as plausible
as any. The only thing that disturbed him were her
troubled feelings so evident in the words. But didn't
all teens feel like that sometimes? As if the whole
world was against them?
*"June, 1977. Mom got a call from the vice principal
(the old baggy-ass!) and he spilled the beans. So I'm
grounded for a month. I'm not going to obey it, of course,
and she certainly doesn't care what I do. Marjorie
got some for me the other night and we're gonna have a
good old time at the cave once school's done..."*
Mulder remembered it now. It was just an old cleft in the
rocks not too far from the lake. It was a place they'd made
each other swear not to tell mom and dad. It was their
secret hiding place and both used it as a retreat
during the summer months at the lake house.
*"...Jason's bringing something new and say's it'll
be the best trip ever. He steals it from his dad's
gun cabinet. His parents are with it at least."*
She was now about fourteen and experimenting with stronger
drugs. In later entries, even fewer and farther between,
the tone of the passages changed again. They were
growing progressively darker:
*"Mom's like a bloated old nun, she's so quiet and
disapproving of me. She takes so many of those sleeping
pills, I wonder if she recognizes me anymore. Not
like she knew me anyway. Not like it matters either.
Jason and me are planning to run away. We're going to
go to California. He'll get a job and I'm going to act!"
THe was reading the dreams of one who wanted to escape.
Kids never imagine that life beyond home can be hard
and cruel. This Samantha believed life with mother was
intolerable. Maybe it was, his mother had never been
a warm woman, but life on the road or on the street
was in most cases much worse. He wondered if this
Samantha ever found that out.
*"This is bullshit! Mom wants to sell this place! She wants
us to go and live with Nana. I hardly know her. I won't leave
Jason. Things are so screwed up. Mom understands nothing.
She doesn't know that I love him and he loves me. She wouldn't
understand. She thinks just because I'm young, that I don't
know what love is. Jason and I talked about a death pact. Not that
we'd DO" ("do" underlined three times) "it, but it's nice to
know he loves me that much, that he'd go down into death
with me. We even used mom's pills (I stole one of the bottles,
she'll never niss it, she has dozens!) in a "pretend"
run through. I think Fox (if he isn't alive in this world)
must be in some other one. wouldn't it be cool to be able
to go there. Except could you get back?"*
Questions and no answers. The entries after that
were darker still and spoke of some un-named
thing that frightened her. A thing Mulder guessed.
*"Jason says it's my" ("my" heavily circled) "fault!
He won't even speak to me now. How am I going to tell
mom? I can't. I can't. Even if I did, that'd be it,
I'd be out. I hate everything!"
*"Cynthia says she knows a way to stop it but I'm
scared. What if something goes wrong? In a month,
mom gets some money from Nana and I can use that
to go to a clinic (steal it!), but will they let
me have it done without my mom knowing? I don't know what
to do. I wish Fox were here (even he came home for
a moment - even if he appeared before me now,
I'd go with him)."*
*"P.S.: That's the first time I've thought of Fox
in such a long time. Sometimes it seems like
he never existed, like he was just some weird dream
I had when I was a kid. Sometimes I wish I was just
a dream. I wish I never existed. Sometimes, I
wish it had been me."
They were the sincere but ignorant words of a youth consumed
by her own need and pain. Wrapped up in both, wearing them
like a security blanket and oblivious to the cold pain of
those around her, even her remaining parent.
*"Jan, 1977. Mom keeps asking me why I "mope around".
I don't mope. I'm hiding myself - IT - from her now.
But how much longer before she notices?"
"Mom still hasn't figured it out. I'm getting fat and
its like I don't exist. What do I have to do to
be real to her? What do I have to do to get the
hell out of this goddamn life?!
P.S: I'm doing it more and more, I don't know how
to stop."*
Flipping the page, there was a gap of another month
between the last entry and the next. Here, the writing
had become fast and furious, the lettering ranging
from tall and stately (reaching) to strings of strung
together consonants (some of the T's crossed so ferociously,
the paper was torn) and open, unfinished vowels, it
was in places nearly illegible:
*"I have no questions. I'm only a traveler in this
existence. I shall pass along soon. I will go my way,
my course over the thresh-hold from life to life and
never think of this place again. I am a stain of blood
on the wall, I'm paint on the staircase banister, I'm
scented oil spilled in a fit of rage. There is no place
for me anymore and I shall pass on. I will say no goodbyes
to those dwellers of earth who sit still, mute
and blind to the truth of futility. I will leave them
only these words.
Physical Graffiti
"Kashmir"
Whoa, let the sun beat down upon my face
And stars to fill my dream
I am a traveler of both time and space
To be where I have been
T' sit with elders of a gentle race
This world is seldom seen
Th' talk of days for which they sit and wait;
All will be revealed
Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace
Whose sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relate
The story was quite clear
Whoa-hoh, whoa-wa-oh
Oooh, oh baby, I been flyin'
Lord, yeah, mama, there ain't no denyin'
Oh, oooh yes, I've been flying
Mama, mama, ain't no denyin', no denyin'
Oh, all I see turns to brown
As the sun burns the ground
And my eyes fill with sand
As I scan this wasted land
Tryin' to find, tryin' to find where I belooong
Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace
Like thoughts inside a dream
Heed the path that led me to that place
Yellow desert scream
My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon;
I will return again
Sure as the dust that floats high in June
When movin' through Kashmir
Oh, father of the four winds, fill my sails
Across the sea of years
With no provision but an open face
'Long the straits of fear
Goodbye, MOTHER" ("mother" in red, bold print),
"I hope you find what I couldn't give you. I
know I will find Fox. I know we will be at peace.
Love Samantha."*
There were no more entries and Mulder, feeling
a little sick to his stomach, closed the book.
A shadow passed by the passenger side window,
blocking out the sun and sending a chill
through him.
He got out of the car and saw her - the girl he had
seen earlier - walking away down the sidewalk,
clutching something in her arms. She turned off and
headed across the grass, away from the winding lane
and towards the strip of bush and trees that lead to
the lake front.
Mulder thought he knew where Samantha was headed.
But when he followed her, stepping into the shadows
of the bushes, she was no where to be seen.
Mulder headed to the small, rocky outcropping that
contained the cleft he knew was there.
Arriving, the entrance was much narrower than he
remembered, but then he was much larger these days.
It was damp and smelled of rotting leaves. Mulder
pulled out his tiny key chain flashlight and played
it around the walls of the cave. He saw their old
rock table, an old petrified tree trunk and Samantha's
old doll dishes, now scattered by animals, some of
them cracked. Seeing them reminded him of one time he'd
found her there. It was after one of their parents frequent
verbal battles. Samantha was playing with her flying horse
and her little jewel box of trinkets, laying open on the
tiny ledge where she kept it.
Mulder reached down to that tiny shelf (everything had
shrunk) and there it was, the top warped from the damp.
In it was revealed various and sundry items of a young
girl's jewelry box and things a rebellious teenager
would possess, roach clips (the feathers matted with
dirt), and a small pot pipe.
The legless horse with the white angel hair mane wasn't
there.
He sat on the old log and it rolled out from under him.
When Mulder turned to see why it suddenly decided to
dislodge after all those years of solid service, he
saw a small shred of cloth sticking up through the
dirt.
He dug, his hands brushing away the hard earth, unwrapping
the thing in his hands.
Tiny baby bones. New born.
Swaying slightly, Mulder returned to the lake house,
intending he didn't know what. There is where whatever
was happening had begun (and if he had fallen asleep
and was dreaming, he wanted to try and wake up in
the same spot). And he wanted this ended now.
But things had changed once more.
The ghost of Teena Mulder, still as solid looking as he
felt, was no longer packing up things in the kitchen.
She was standing in the back yard, dressed in a plain black
dress and overcoat, staring across the lake.
"Mrs. Mulder?"
She didn't hear him.
When a figure stepped out of the house and up to her,
Mulder had the urge to scream and pull his gun.
"Beautiful service, Teena. Very nice."
Teena didn't look at him. "I'm having her buried beside
Poppa."
"I'm sure that's what she would want."
"Well?" Teena said to him, after a moments silence.
"Teena, you know I can't."
Now she turned to him. "What do I have to do to get him
back?"
"Fox is in good hands."
Mulder had the urge to run up to him and make him eat his
glowing cigarette.
Suddenly Teena reached out and slapped his face hard. "I
didn't expect to lose BOTH children!"
"Samantha's...accident was tragic, but neither of us
expected it, and it has nothing to do with The Work." He,
ignoring her anger and assault, took her hand. "Teena,
please. Come stay with me. It would make everything so much
easier."
"No. No! NONONONO!" She wrenched her hand away. "I know
he's dead! You lying, murdering, fiend!"
The Smoking Man stepped toward her. "Teena! You mustn't
believe that!"
""A few years" you said. "A few years", and it's been ten!"
Deciding to divulge some truth, "You know it had to be done!"
Teena drew something from her pocket and aimed it at him
and Mulder saw his face go white.
"My son is gone. My daughter died in a hospital without me!
She bled to death and I wasn't there. She had a baby and I
didn't even know!" Tears were shooting from her eyes like
sparks, as she beat her chest with each revelation of her
grief. Then she pulled the trigger and Cancer Man crumpled
to the ground without a word. And before Mulder could utter
a sound, she put it's muzzle against her heart and pulled it
again.
Mulder ran toward her but no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't
reach her. As fast as he ran, that's how fast she receeded,
finally fading from sight.
"Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee" A child's laughter from behind made him
stop and look back.
Samantha was running across the grass towards the lake.
He followed her.
She stopped at the waters edge and looked back at him,
looking right at him. Giggling, a child Samantha, a little
girl of eight, stretched out her hand and showed him
the little brown plastic horse with the missing legs
and the white angle mane.
"See, Fox. She doesn't need legs. You don't need legs when
you can fly."
He no longer knew what was real and what was dream. Or maybe
he was going mad. All things being equal, it was the simplest
explanation. "I don't know what to do." He hadn't thought
he'd said it aloud until she answered him.
"Heed the path that led you to here." She said.
Mulder looked up from the grass and saw his sister, the
young woman who had brushed passed him, who had retreated
to the cave and disappeared. The woman he had never known.
"Heed the path that led you here, Fox."
"Who are you?" It couldn't be the real Samantha, he
said to himself, She's gone, dead in a hospital, gone
from his arms, now dust, years ago. A life time ago.
It's a ghost or a dream or my own mind wasting away,
he thought.
"I want to be a traveler of both time and space. I know you
and you seem to know me. But why are we here together?"
She disappeared from him and Mulder, thinking that he'd
finally cracked, let his eyes cry for Samantha or
Samantha's ghost, for his mother, and for himself.
Maybe he _was_ just a traveler in their world.
Mulder walked back to his car, not looking at the house,
not thinking about his sister or parents. Not believing.
But not disbelieving either. It was not unusual to see
ghost images after the death of a close family member.
It _was_ unusual to talk to them however.
Mulder got in his car and drove in the direction of home,
deciding to sell the property and leave spirits behind.
*
"So, there's a theory that other dimensions can pass
into our own. That beings, people and creatures from other
plains of existence can enter ours for short periods of time,
even interacting with realities in this one, that even we
at times can pass into theirs, not being able to influence
that time or reality but view it, seeing events occurring
in the past, present or future, and that we can even
for fractions of moments, instantaneous to us but occurring
in real time to them, pass into our own parallel universes,
being seen by our own counterparts as images, smells,
sounds.
Scully stared across the diner table at her partner,
his speech jerking her from the lazy doll drums of
a work-a-day lunch. She was given no opportunity to
get in a single word as he continued.
"And that these moments, as some philosophies advocate,
are induced by extreme emotional states. Poltergiests
are said to appear for the same reason, powerful emotions
causing a state of electric charge - a conduit if you will -
between worlds. But we...we _enter_ other stages and
become witnesses to our own alternate lives. We become
two people in two different realities, able to learn
one from the other or simply for the purpose of a greater
understanding of our own."
Scully nodded. "Huh." She said, neither committing to it
nor completely doubting. Allowing, however, a hint of
mild curiosity. It was the first time in weeks he'd
uttered more than a few words at once, his sister's
memorial service had weighed upon him, bowing his
shoulders. But it was as if he had shrunk not is size
but in spirit.
He hadn't offered any explanation to her, either,
regarding the tiny second cream colored urn, sitting
near his sister's.
It had bore no name.
"Scully. Have you ever wondered what it would have been
like if your father hadn't died?"
Scully raised her eyebrows and finished chewing her
bite of BLT. "You mean, would he have influenced me?
Would I be a different person or in a different place right
now?"
He nodded. "Well, I can speculate but, really, there's no
way of knowing. There is that theory that every possibility
gets played out in alternate realities, as you said. That
each decision not made in this one is made in an "else time"
and that there are millions of such realities." She offered.
"You believe that?"
She wondered if he did. "It's just a theory, Mulder, and one
I doubt mankind will ever be able to test."
"Maybe we're just paintings in someone else's universe.
Maybe we're thoughts in the minds of ghosts. Maybe we are
_their_ ghosts." He seemed subdued again, pensive, idly
playing with his cold french fries. He muttered something
so quietly she'd hardly heard but it had sounded like:
"It has to be."
She did not want him sinking back into silent melancholy.
"Do you wish things had been different, Mulder?"
Shaking his head, a trifle movement at best, "Yes and no.
I wish Samantha hadn't been taken. I wish she wasn't
dead but...maybe she isn't, really. Maybe she's alive in
some other way. Maybe memories or-or dreams are more real
than we think."
"I like to think," Scully said, "that, for me, _this_ reality
is the right one." She added. "The idea that everything would
have happened for the better if only..." she shook her head.
"Life is a gamble anywhere, in any time, isn't it?"
"Do you think you would have stayed with the X Files?"
He'd lost his hope, his sister. And his parents. Maybe
he was thinking it should have been him.
She took his hand. "Mulder, in this reality, I'm here."
Squeezing his fingers tight, "And so are you. Feels right
to me."
**
END
GenieVB
genyah@hotmail.com
GenieVB
Official Creator of MULDER CENTRICITY, the webpage of The lovely, lovely Fox
Mulder:
http://www.geocities.com/area51/comet/4051/index.html
Ordained Lascivious Mulder's Chest Licker of the Church of X/Church of
X-OneList Junkie/Ardent MulderTorture Advocate/ PROUD XES List
Mamma!/TER/MA-natoress/Brooklyn Bunny/EPHEM-Inate/PhoenixFic
Chick/MulderBuzzBimbo - Keeper of the SexHog!!
and
"Van-Ge Wal-ca, the Superintendant God-Botherer"!!
* ""Did the chicken cross the road"?! You SAW it cross the road with your
own eyes, Scully! How many more chickens have to cross before you'll believe
it?"
"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're
not out to get you"--Fox Mulder
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/mulderlovers4msr
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