My apologies if this is received twice. I
tried posting it last night and I don't think it
went through.
********************
TITLE: Swallowed Screams
AUTHOR: SummerQ
EMAIL ADDRESS: peace56@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, yes
anyplace else please let me know.
SPOILERS: Anything having to do with
the night Samantha was taken.
RATING: PG-13 (*very* mild profanity,
discussion of serious topic).
CONTENT WARNING: None.
CLASSIFICATION: Story and angst. Pre-XF
SUMMARY: How could a mother just stand by and
watch her daughter be taken?
DISCLAIMER: I do not own anyone in the Mulder family,
the X-Files, or any entity related thereof. This is
not for profit. Any elements recognized as being from
the X-Files belong to the Fox Network, Chris
Carter, and 1013.
Thanks go to Meredith for being a great editor.
This story is for JJ. May you have strength and
peace. You will be sorely missed.
Feedback will be loved, cuddled, and generally
cosseted at peace56@hotmail.com . Flames will be
discarded.
*********************
Swallowed Screams (1/1)
by SummerQ
The day Samantha will be taken, I make dinner.
That in and of itself isn't so unusual. I love to
cook and am never happier than when I am up to my
elbows in flour, oil, or tomato sauce. We have
enough money so that we could hire someone, but I don't.
I never will, not even on special occasions. I won't
tell the children why tonight is a special occasion,
but we all know it is. Everything is perfect. Everyone
is nice.
After I have washed all of the pots and pans, I lock
myself in the bathroom and vomit until my stomach
is empty.
I brush her hair tonight, and help her braid it so that
it won't get tangled while she sleeps. One stroke,
two strokes, three strokes...the rhythm soothes her
into sleepiness and her eyes are half closed as she
sits on her wicker vanity stool. I watch her face in
the mirror, hungrily taking her in, trying to absorb
her into myself. I want to take her and run away, to
leave. I want to smash something. Some faces,
some heads, some of their goddamned spaceships.
Instead, I show her the ribbons I bought today. Red
is her favorite color.
I help her into what she's always called her
"princess" nightgown. It is long and white, with
lace on the front. Then I go to my room, leaving her
with instructions to brush her teeth and wash her
face.
I stand in front of the dresser, and fasten one small
emerald to my left ear. I am groping for the other
when, in the mirror, I see Bill come up behind me
and reach towards my shoulder.
"Don't touch me."
Our eyes catch and hold for a long moment before
his hand drops and he turns away. The smell of
whiskey lingers in the air. Liquid courage.
The bastard. I was forced to make a choice. An
impossible choice. One of my children, or five
children picked at random from Samantha's
school.
I almost picked the latter. Guilt drove me to choose
one of my babies. After all, Bill wasn't the only
person they needed a hold over.
I run a brush through my hair, and go back to
Samantha's room.
"Ready for bed?"
She's sitting on the floor, struggling with the new
camera that we bought just the other day. Fox is
beside her, protesting that she's doing it wrong and
trying to grab it from her. Before their squabble
can break out into a full-fledged fight, I kneel beside
them and show her how to load the film properly.
She smiles at me.
"You look pretty mom. Can I take your picture?"
"Of course."
She takes a picture of me. Then she takes a picture
of me and Fox. Then I take a picture of her and
Fox. Then we all sit against the side of her bed and
I hold the camera at arm's length.
"Say "cheese!" I say.
"Say mushy-smelly-leather-skinned-that-only-
adults-who-have-lost-all-their-taste-buds-would-like-
brie-cheese." Fox sings out in one breath, with an
angelic smile on his face.
The flash goes off in time to catch Samantha's
giggles and my look of amused semi-reproach.
What rhetorical talents that boy has. My smile
fades as I catch sight of their father in the doorway.
I quickly stand up. "Ok kids, it's almost time for
your father and I to go over to the Galbreds'. Bill,
I'll meet you downstairs in about five minutes."
He is reluctant to go, but does. He knows that he
has forfeited his right to be there. A cold feeling is
burning inside me, like the brief searing sensation you
feel when you touch your tongue to a frozen pole.
I have already touched my tongue to the metal; I am
now waiting for the skin to be ripped away.
I turn to the children. Though Fox has been
insisting that he is too old to be hugged for almost a
year now, I override his protests and settle us on the
bed. The lights are off and there are no passing
cars to obscure the silence. I breathe deeply,
smelling Samantha's shampoo, the faint odor of
Fox's sweat, my perfume.
We have never been a religious family. I grew up
with parents that were Jewish only at their
convenience. The guilt was convenient. The rituals
were not. My grandmother was the only one to take
me to Temple once a year, to whisper proverbs to
me, to remind me that we come from a long line of
strong people. When I married Bill, I gave it up
entirely and now only fragments remain in my mind.
Fragments that will have to be enough.
I have done this with my son before. On the day I
learned of my grandmother's death, I sat in my
rocking chair with Fox awkwardly tucked around
my hugely pregnant stomach and murmured prayers
as I remembered and grieved for my grandmother. If
God was real He would not let this be happening.
But my daughter will be scared and alone. I am
determined that she will remember and be comforted
by the thought of something other than the falsely
consoling memories of her lying son-of-a-bitch father,
and of her mother whose strength was not enough. It
will be better for her to gain consolation through the
illusion of faith than to be soothed by the protective
lies of her parents.
And so I sit with them in darkness and they squirm
and poke each other, laughing at first. But I hold their
hands and our breathing slows, and we find a rhythm and
together we ask for peace...
We go downstairs. Bill and I leave in a flurry of last
minute instructions. I kiss the tops of their heads,
and carefully refrain from warning Fox to take care
of his sister. Bill has no such compunctions.
Though the Galbreds live only two doors down, we
drive. The car is heavy with recrimination and guilt.
Neither of us speak. I cannot. Bill seems to sense
the precariousness of my composure and mercifully
is silent.
Throughout the night, during the card games and the
coffee, the talk of politics and of fashion, I balance.
Walking a paper thin edge of sanity, laughter and
swallowed screams.
I have to excuse myself twice in order to go to the
powder room. The first time, I throw up. After one
heave my stomach is empty, but that's something my
body refuses to register and acid burns my throat.
No matter how many times I rinse my mouth, bile
lingers.
Prosaically, the thought comes that it tastes as if I
had eaten a mixture of mint toothpaste and orange
juice. It is with that thought firmly foremost in my
mind that I am able to repair my makeup and go
back to the living room.
The second time I go to grip the sink with white
knuckled hands and stare into the mirror. It is then
that I hear the sirens in the far distance. I do not bite
my lip, because they would see the marks. Instead, I
deliberately pull the loose sleeve of my blouse up
and put my mouth against my upper arm. The tiny
hairs feel odd against my tongue, and my teeth find
little purchase on flesh already damp with sweat.
The moan slips from my throat and runs into my
arm, through the labyrinth of my veins, catching
hold of each individual blood cell, filling my chest,
and my head. It circles around and around my body,
looking for a way out
There is no way out. This keening will be inside me
forever. Each beat of my heart will pump it faster,
each touch from my husband will churn it in my
stomach, each glimpse of my son will magnify it.
There is a knock on the door.
"Those sirens are coming from the direction of our
house, hon. We'd better see what's going on."
I press my lips shut and pull down my sleeve. I pat
my hair and turn towards the door. I know what's
going on. Hatred. Hatred of self, hatred of him,
hatred of the Council who decided this. God does
not exist, and I hate Him for that too.
I am ready to go, but I will not let go.
*********************
I would love to hear comments. Please, help me put
off doing my laundry a bit longer.
peace56@hotmail.com
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