"Stay" by Shakespeare's Sister, from Hormonally Yours

Once, there lived a little girl. She was a child like many others, who had friends, went to school, and argued with her big brother. She was loved and cherished, but this love was not enough to protect her from the men who decided her fate, and from the visitors who came in the night to take her away.

If years have passed, she doesn't recall how they were spent. If she brought back a story to tell, it is in a foreign tongue, one she can't translate. If she is an oracle, then she can't ignite their hope.

All she had was a garden, but it was trampled, first by hooves of horses, then by paws of dragons. Ever since the gray wall crumbled down, the real world has been infringing on her secret hideout. Even now, men roam over the broken grass and ruined flowers, depriving them of the chance for a renewal. She would seek the protection of her brother, but he is nowhere to be found.

The psychologists switch from one method to another, searching for the key that will make her remember. They may hope to find the words of wisdom, but she is only a child inside a woman's body. What could she say to please them? And so, their anxiety refuses to be put to rest, and each new method they resort to is less likely to jostle her memory than the one before that.

Today, they play a game of word associations. As if they believe that she'd forgotten her English lessons, they paint an illustration for each word that they tell her. Card after card, the pictures and titles flash before her eyes, and Samantha cooperates, reluctantly, by describing the connections prompted inside her mind. Their frustration is the only weapon she can turn against them, and she knows that sooner or later, they will grow tired of the game and retire for the day, only to come up with a new pastime for tomorrow.

She is barely aware of her answers as she wanders deeper into the damaged garden, away from the intruders, searching for the woman who called her name in such desperation before. The forest is taller, and the sun barely penetrates through thick branches. There must be clues left to trace her, there must be some connection between them if she'd seen her here before. Scully, she reminds herself of the name that Fox used.

Scully, she repeats like a mantra.

"Chalk," the man prompts.

"Hopscotch," Sam replies.

"Trap."

"Mouse."

"Car."

"Accident."

There is a barely perceptible shift in the interviewer's pose. "What kind of an accident?"

Samantha's tone doesn't alter. "A fatal one."

The man who sits behind the psychologist records her answer and smiles, but meeting Samantha's steady and sober gaze, he is no longer certain what prompted his mirth. Meanwhile, the exercise continues.

"Grinder." The psychologists' voice is lethargic as he throws a new word.

"Coffee."

"Cook."

"Meat."

"Fire."

An orange flame suddenly springs on her palm, and Sam almost drops it in pain. Frantically, she looks around, anticipating the dragon's hooded eyes blinking at her from above, but soon she realizes that this fire is different. While the dragon's breath wilted her garden, this small blaze clings to her hand as if it needs protection. It's an unexpected source of light in the thick forest, and she holds onto it in spite of the discomfort it causes. A trail, one she hasn't seen before, leads her down the unexplored territory, and she follows obediently. There, in the small clearing, the red of her hair tarnished, the blue of her eyes hidden, Scully sleeps deeply. Sam sits down beside her, fire still alive in her hand. No longer does it cause her pain.

She believes that as long as she holds on to this flame, the sleeping woman will not drift further away. As long as she cherishes this fire, it will be merciful to them both, and it will not eat her flesh.

"Life," Samantha speaks out loud, and the psychologist reaches out to take hold of her left hand, apprehensive of the way she clenches it close to her chest. A fresh burn blossoms in the center of her palm, and he drops it, terrified.

The innocent card with a picture of fire drifts to the floor, forgotten.

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