"Pillow of Your Bones" by Chris Cornell, from Euphoria Morning

It is against every precaution to smoke in close proximity to an oxygen tent, but he is past regulations - and the man encased in protective cover of plastic will not mind. After all, what is a harmless cigarette flame to a survivor of the car explosion?

The smoker cannot recall how this face looked before the skin that covered it was charred, before the hair was singed off the skull. He already knows that this patient refused plastic surgery and would have refused treatment at all if he could make himself heard. The victim was not in the car when the bomb exploded. His wife and two children were.

What would he have done in this situation? It is an idle question that the smoker struggles to ignore, but it crawls back into his consciousness, refusing to be silenced. Would he have run back to the burning vehicle, plunging into the fire to help those he loved the most? Would he have stood back and called the firefighters and the ambulance - men equipped to deal with such a disaster?

Being a hero is easy.

Being able to sacrifice, to drop the cards held most dearly is so much more difficult. Surely, in this case, there was nothing that a husband, a father could do.

The blue color of the opening eyes is startling, somehow incongruous in the midst of destroyed flesh. The smoker comes closer to the tent, waits until these eyes focus upon him, waits for the recognition and memory to trickle back - a tactic he judges poor the same instant as impotent tears spill down the white bandages.

"James," the smoker welcomes the crying man back to the world of living. "The doctors said you may be able to talk for a few minutes today... I wanted to express my condolences."

James doesn't answer, doesn't give any indication that the words were heard and understood.

"This may be difficult to remember now, but do you have any suspicions as to how and where the bomb may have been placed in your car?" The desperation comes through in his voice, and he is ashamed of the weakness. The next questions are almost harsh. "Have you given it to any repair shops lately? Have you seen any questionable activity around your house?"

The burnt lips move, and the Smoking Man struggles to understand the words they try to speak. "One," he hears after a while. "Only one..."

"One what?"

"It only took one minute," James whispers. "My kids left their lunches on the kitchen table... I should have sent them instead of going myself. I should have sent them..."

The smoker inhales deeply, tries to collect himself. "You couldn't have known. Please, think of what I asked you instead."

But the burnt man seems no longer present in this reality, as his eyes go out of focus, as his lips chant words the smoker does not recognize - does not want to. His impotence, his powerlessness make him tremble suddenly, as the sheer terror of the situation finally sinks in. He has never been afraid of dying until now, but he is losing the bravado with every passing day. He is not as infallible as he had once thought.

His fingers curled into fists, his face tight with anger and fear, he steps closer to the oxygen tent. Before he is able to control himself again, he feels another presence in the room and turns to meet the impenetrable eyes of Fox Mulder.

There is neither judgment nor contempt in the younger man's voice as he picks up a phone and calls for a nurse to check on the patient. The smoker doesn't make excuses, nor does he try to explain away the appearances. He prefers to avoid this conversation if possible. The first words out of Mulder's mouth convince him that it will not be possible.

"Ever wonder why there is such a high turnover rate on this job?"

He remembers to pull out a cigarette, drawing comfort from its familiarity. "Because employees aren't able to handle the workload?"

"No," Mulder replies somberly, as if he's communicating a revelation of utmost importance. "Because their employers do not fulfill their obligations towards them. Because they interrogate them only a few days after their wife and children die."

The smoker's eyebrows draw upward, wordlessly asking for an explanation.

"And of course, there is that nasty clause in the contract," Mulder continues thoughtfully. "The 'We-will-kill-you-if-you- dare-leave' part that's written in small type at the bottom of the page. That really can ruin family life, destroy every notion of normality, and really spoil someone's appetite."

The insolence that permeates the list of complaints, the sheer arrogance of the speech should not surprise the Smoking Man. However, there is something imperceptibly wrong here, and he can't quite pinpoint the source of trouble that makes his hair stand up on its end.

"When the only way to quit the unpleasant job is to die, might not one consider such a possibility?" Mulder asks earnestly, troubled dark eyes leaning in closer to his opponent. "And after death, might not one be angry enough to want revenge on the men who had made his life so miserable? I can," he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up with the air of calculated disconsolateness. "I can imagine that all too easily."

He'd dealt with men distraught and men suicidal, but this picture of self-destructive depression is entirely new, and all too frightening. "Fox, I know you've lost someone who was important to you, but..."

The grief that washes over the face of Mulder is gray - if mourning had color, it would be this, the smoker thinks in horror. But it is gone quickly, replaced by resignation. "Add that to the list of duties: inform employees when their partners meet an untimely demise."

This is one of the swiftest decisions that the smoker ever made. "You will not investigate these crimes any further." He starts to walk away - and is stopped by the suddenly very sane, very cold voice behind him.

"You would fire a man who just gave you the best - the *only* - profile of the killer you're looking for?"

The Smoking Man turns around on his heel and watches Mulder silently.

"How inconvenient that it fits so many men who work with you every day. Who used to work with you every day, I should say," Mulder laments, a cigarette now limp in his hand. "Had I been dead, I would have added myself to the list."

"Are you implying that we're dealing with a particularly vengeful ghost?" the smoker inquires sarcastically.

Mulder appears to consider it for a moment. "I see no evidence of the paranormal here." He explains, as if taking pity: "We're looking for someone who is only presumed dead. It is the only reason why he is still walking free instead of rotting in the grave with all the other infidel employees. It is someone who has reason to believe he was slighted by the Consortium, someone who has motives for vengeance."

He rubs his forehead tiredly. Does the young man realize what task they're about to undertake? "The list will be long. Too long, I should say."

"I wish it weren't so."

If the smoker forgets about their old dispute, about their disparity, he can almost hear the note of sympathy and regret in that voice. The illusion dissipates when Mulder's features grow into an impassive mask, as the gates of emotion close down for all intents and purposes.

"And in the future," Mulder throws over the shoulder while leaving, "I will be the one interrogating all suspects and witnesses - alone."

Back to Fire Eaters index

Look at Soundtrack