The Sounds of Silence
by The Brunette (aka KL)
the_brunette@rocketmail.com
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive.
CATEGORY: XAR - X-File, Angst, MSR
RATING: NC-17. If you are under 18 DO NOT proceed. This is a dark pieced
filled with offensive language and nasty graphical images. If this isn't
your cup of tea, please do not proceed.
SPOILERS: US4 - Up to, and including, Momento Mori.
SUMMARY: During the autopsy of a fifth woman in a series of brutal
slayings, Scully becomes linked to the victim and the killer as a result
of her illness.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Special thanks go to: my editors Joyce and Deb and
Meredith; to Emily for her help in creating an accurate portrait of GWU.
Author's personal notes located after chapter 10.
Enjoy the ride!
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The Sounds of Silence
by The Brunette (aka KL)
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Unwept, unfriended, without marriage-song, I am led forth in my sorrow
on this journey that can be delayed no more. No longer, hapless one, may
I behold yon day-star's sacred eye; but for my fate no tear is shed, no
friend makes moan.
--From Antigone by Sophocles
She stir'd not -- breath'd not -- for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
--From Al Aaraaf by Edgar Allan Poe
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CHAPTER ONE
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PROLOGUE
He likes to carve things.
The feel of the blade in his hands is a sexual thing; a feeling of
power, of control, as his hand strives to create the tiniest of details.
This, he imagines, is what the great artists feel as they create their
masterpieces.
It pleases him greatly to compare himself to the likes of Picasso or Van
Gogh.
An artist.
He learned to carve when he was a child, from the hands of his father.
He was very young then, his body too small to hold all the memories of
Daddy before he Went Away. Now, as an adult, there is nothing left of
those memories except the young man's uncanny ability to carve.
He remembers sitting on the wooden porch in front of the house,
splinters from the rough floor digging into his buttocks, sweating in
the oppressive heat of the late summer afternoon. His Daddy was silent,
always so silent, but kind and strong, sitting on the faded green and
orange striped lawn chair carving thick bars of Irish Spring.
The boy sat there, as the sunlight faded, smelling the fresh scent from
the thick curls as they fell without sound into a pile next to him. The
man was silent. The boy was silent. The time passed this way, both of
them strangely content, until Daddy's hands had coaxed the face of a
clown or a whale from what was once an ordinary bar of soap.
It was many years later, after Daddy Went Away, that the boy began to
carve. He started with an old vegetable knife with a plastic handle
which resembled a bone. For hours, he would sit in silence concentrating
on nothing but the pressure of the knife. In. Out. Around. Elaborate
shapes. Graceful curves. Nothing around him mattered as he obliterated
himself, his past, in his carving; striving harder each time to recreate
the pictures flashing through his brain.
His talent progressed as he continued to practice, until he thought he
finally had the knack.
He starts with the eyelids. Inserting the tip of the blade into the
hollow crease at the top of the eye, he delicately follows the natural
curve of the socket. He is very careful not to damage the eye. It is an
honor for them to watch The Artist as he creates.
Once the cut is made, he slowly peels the flap of skin away. As the
piece dries in the air, it curls slightly, the eyelashes tickling his
palm like the whiskers of a cat. He stares at it in wonder; this gift,
this first offering which he accepts from his victims.
Next, fingernails. These are fun, but tricky. Taking great care, he
pounds a long nail into each hand so she cannot move. He began doing
this on the second victim, solving the problem of trying to hold them
down with one hand and carve with the other. Now, he performs the task
easily, slowly, oh-so-very-carefully cutting around the crescent of each
nail making a "U" shape like the mouth of a smiley face. He does all the
incisions on one hand and peels each nail back, pieces of nerve and
flesh stubbornly clinging to the undersides of the nails. Then, the
other hand. Right first. Left last.
Nipples, earlobes, hair, clitoris, pubic hair are all done with the
same, calm efficiency. By this fifth woman, he was actually pretty damn
good and would finish ahead of schedule.
The lips he saves for last. His absolute favorite. He carves them off
whole, confidently producing two chunks of flesh like sections from a
California orange. The women never seem to mind at this point. If they
aren't dead by now, they would be soon.
Finished, his reward is the sweetest, the softest of kisses from the
disembodied lips.
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8:30pm
March 25, 1997
Autopsy Bay 4
FBI Headquarters
I cower in this darkness which has become my life, the hidden
disfigurements of my body separating me from the world of the living as
effectively as a pane of glass. I see all. I am seen. Yet I cannot be
heard. I scream, I beg, I pray in varying tones but my voice is not
strong enough to pass this barrier created by the betrayal of my own
body.
I drift alone, unable to feel a connection to the living. I identify
with the dead as each breath I take leads me toward their welcoming
embrace. Their pretension is marked by outstretched hands. Soon I will
join them; my brethren, my kindred.
I wonder if all along I knew this would be my fate: That death would
come sooner to me than others. Perhaps this is where my fascination with
pathology began. The bond between the dead was formulated in the hands
of fate, before I was even born; an irrefutable relationship outlasting
any I created amongst the living.
My faith leaves in bits and pieces, forsaking me. I perform autopsy
after autopsy in the desperate hope I might catch the glimmer of a life
beyond the one I inhabit; upon shedding my human form, another, brighter
one is ready to house my soul.
I find nothing but rotting flesh; organs awash in useless fluids.
This woman, this victim, is silenced by death.
Selma Thomas is eviscerated down the middle by a neat "Y" incision from
chest to pubic area, resting on an indifferent altar of science. The
skin is peeled back in great folds, ribs cracked by a tool which looks
like a giant nutcracker. I probe her organs, weighing them, recording
the information on my electronic device, taking samples of fluids and
tissue and foreign debris in the hopes her silence will shatter; from
her grave she will point a bony finger at the sick fuck who carved her
to death.
The irony is not lost on me. Cancer does the same to my body. It carves
healthy pieces of my flesh while I am still living, races to consume as
much as it can before my body is dead, rotting. We are alike, her and I.
We are sisters in this death, related in more ways than I can fathom.
Anger overwhelms me. Anger at myself. Anger at the sight of her exposed
like this. It sickens me. Years of medical school, pathology classes,
dead cadavers brought to me from across the country in various states of
decomposition, and the sight of this woman leaves me nauseous.
I am weak. Pathetic.
Yes. They all cry out for me to help them, leaving clues behind under
fingernails, on the soles of feet, in the vagina or along the skin. It
is my responsibility, my training to find these clues, to seek justice.
But death is so final, so victorious and I am so weak.
I am too much like them. I cannot divine the voices of the individual
dead from the din of the masses. Their shouting threatens to overtake
me.
The scalpel in my hand shakes. Not from the late hour. Not from the
darkness. Rather from my own incompetence in a job at which I once
excelled.
I have changed so much in a short period of time. The cancer has eaten
away more than flesh. I look at my face in the mirror and see the image
of a Dana Scully I no longer am. I am foreign, alienated.
Fuck.
I'm a doctor. A fully trained medical doctor and a forensic pathologist
with the FBI and I'm freaking myself out by imagining words from the
lips of this dead woman. Stop being such a silly shit and get this
autopsy done. Mulder is waiting for it. I can hear his footsteps pacing
in the hallway like the continual ticks of a Seiko clock. I wish he
would go home and leave me alone. For once I would like to work in
silence, a quiet without disturbances so that my composure is not
threatened.
Instead he walks, back and forth, like a sentry outside the door.
Give it up and go home, Mulder. Go home. Get a fucking life and leave
the Bureau, leave me behind, and live. Don't mirror my death with one
equally comparable.
Like a damned guard dog or an expectant father I hear him out there,
still pacing.
It's 8:30 at night. I want to go home and soak in a hot tub filled with
fragrant oils. I want to wash the stink of death out of my hair, off my
skin, a hot washrag across my eyes blotting out the pain. To forget, for
however long, the frailty of my humanity.
"The victim has had external areas carved with a small unidentified
blade. The weapon pattern moves from left to right indicating a right
handed person. The incisions are small, sharp, similar to a scalpel or
some sort of surgeon's tool. The eyes, fingernails, nipples, earlobes,
and clitoris were all removed prior to death. Bleeding and coagulation
suggest removal 2-4 hours before the victim's expiration."
"I... uh."
Get a grip. Battle this thing Dana. Grab hold of yourself.
"The pubic hair..."
"The pubic..."
"The... shit."
The scalpel falls with an accusing clatter - metal against something
harder, denser. It is slippery with blood and guts and death. I don't
want to touch it. I don't want to carve into her flesh like a fucking
butcher. I don't want to desecrate her, not like him.
I can't do it.
I can't do it anymore.
Fuck.
I need some air, I think. Some cool water against my forehead which is
suddenly raging with fever. A fire without substance. An illusion. I
need to get the hell out of here.
The door swings out and Mulder is there, the ever present force in my
life.
"Done, Scully?"
He is so matter of fact, so eager in his need for the truth. The truth
on just this one case. Just this one body. Just this one killer. The sum
of all these little truths eat away my life as slowly and as surely as
the cancer cells hidden inside my head. The outcome of both leads down
the same path.
"Scully?"
"What?"
"Is everything OK?"
"I'm fine, Mulder."
I want to scream at him not to treat me like a fragile piece of glass.
Living will not break me into a million pieces. It will not make death
quicker or less painful. Only my last breath will break me. The very
last intake of air, the slow release, the rejection of all that I have
been, all that I have left unfinished.
That will break my soul into a million pieces.
"Scully. . ."
"I'm fine, Mulder."
"Your. . ."
He gives me this little embarrassed nod. A non verbal gesture I don't
understand. It angers me.
"What?"
He is reluctant to answer. Come on, spit it out, Mulder. Get that dumb
look off your face and spit out whatever it is you are trying to tell
me.
"Scully, your nose. . ."
It's bleeding again. I hadn't even noticed that tiny itch on the
sensitive area above my upper lip.
"Fuck _me_."
I wipe at it quickly and it stains the sleeve of my lab coat. Stupid.
That was utterly the stupidest thing to do.
"Here, take my handkerchief, Scully."
"I don't need it."
"You're bleeding."
He pleads with his eyes, offering the clean white cloth like some sort
of surrendering flag. A peace offering? An admittance of defeat? You
never know with Mulder. You never really know where you stand.
"I don't need it. I. . . it's just a nosebleed."
My hand has streaks of blood on it. Dark red to light red. More comes
trickling out of my nose. I can feel it. Every nerve in my body is
attuned to it.
"You're making a mess, Scully."
Jesus Christ, leave me alone, Mulder. I want to tell him this so badly,
but I think he already knows. Why then, why, does he continue to press
me like this?
It's easier just to take the fucking thing from him and wipe my nose
than it is to argue or think about it.
"Scully, you need to go home and get some rest."
Better to go along than to argue.
"I'll come in early and transcribe the report, Mulder."
"Fine. I'm not in any hurry."
Liar. Liar. Why do you lie to my face, Mulder? After four years did you
think I would not be able to tell, to read you like a book? I know how
much you want this information, how much you need it to catch yet one
more sick bastard. I know how you need to find these little truths.
Why then, does my imminent death scare you? Why do you tread lightly
around me? Does our friendship mean nothing to you that you tear it from
my grasp when I need it the most?
Yes, Death has changed us both.
I am angry. I am callous.
I'm afraid I cannot do this anymore.
I can't.
It is this failure in the light of everything else that scares me more
than dying. It is as if I am dead already and am merely waiting for my
body to follow.
Instead of arguing, instead of telling him this, I go home.
-----------------------------------------------
Death has become her catalyst.
I watch as it changes her, my partner, my friend.
The knowledge strips all pretense from her nature, leaving naked this
core, this elemental Scully. She grows thinner, transparent, until her
soul is naked before me. She masks this transformation with
indifference, anger, vulgarities; an overall coarseness which allows her
to cope with the knowledge that she is dying.
To me, her partner, her friend, that spirit remains beautiful,
undefeated.
In the wake of it, however, I am left shaken and afraid. I no longer
know the correct words to say to elicit a laugh or a frown or a non stop
tirade of scientific analysis. My emotions are carefully guarded,
unacknowledged, as our common ground is ripped further apart each day;
separated by a wide gulf of uncharted waters which cannot be breached.
I offer what little I have, but it is not enough. She reads
embarrassment into a simple gesture of caring, of offering a
handkerchief. Who am I to add to her burden? Who am I to share her
grief? I tell her nothing, immured, unable to articulate what is in my
heart.
She goes home for the night.
In this little absence, an absence which will one day grow much larger,
I am scared. I am losing her now, before I even lose her to Death.
I would cry, but my grief is inconsolable.
END 1/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
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CHAPTER TWO
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7:30 am
March 26, 1997
Basement Office
FBI Headquarters
Another day.
Funny, since my days are numbered one would think I'd savor each
individually. Has the cancer spread, blackening my soul, until I do not
have the energy to differentiate one day from another?
I desensitize myself with coarse indifference, with words. I will not
miss that which I no longer appreciate. Of course, this idea is feeble.
Mulder would tell me that I am rationalizing. Yet knowing what I do and
trying to stop myself from doing it are two independent actions. If I
were graceful, I would accept death.
I cannot. I was always a sore loser.
I spend my days caring too much, then hiding this fact by caring too
little.
Just another fucking day.
Even vulgarities fail to shake the apathy which has me in its thrall.
Each day the struggle becomes more difficult: To rise from my bed, to
take a shower, to dress, make coffee, struggle with the traffic, the
laptop case and the mundane chatter from the radio stations. Not caring
is so much simpler. It requires such little effort, really.
It is tempting to give in, to let my tenuous grasp on life relax. But I
am too much of a chicken shit to allow it. Dana Katherine Scully. Her
religion. Her belief. Her strength. Her intelligence. They mock what I
have become. These bits and pieces slip away, leaving me in the
unfamiliar body of a woman I no longer recognize.
I'm scared.
Mulder will be in soon. I have to get this damned report done. So far,
my only actions have been drinking two cups of coffee and staring
blankly at the computer screen like the village idiot. I haven't begun
to transcribe my notes on Selma Thomas' autopsy.
The days grow harder. By my second cup of coffee this task would have
been completed; I would have sorted through the filing on my desk,
finished my e-mail correspondence, jogged five miles, and briefly
considered cleaning up Mulder's area of the office before giving up in
disgust.
Now, the smallest of tasks is overwhelming.
Type the report, Dana. Get it done. One step at a time. Launch your word
processing program. Open up your template. Start transcribing your
notes. Start the recorder.
The movements are jerky, automatic: like a marionette temporarily
controlled by an unseen hand.
My voice is duplicated on the recorder. This never fails to surprise me,
hearing my voice as others must hear it - never how I imagine it to be.
I wonder in what other ways I am deceiving myself; what other ways my
mind tricks me into believing one thing when another is true.
Notations on organ size and weight. General observations. Beyond my
words I hear the relentless ticking of Mulder's steps. The sound is low,
like a heartbeat and it is vaguely soothing for no particular reason. It
makes me drowsy. I could rest my head on the desk and be asleep in
minutes.
The words drone on. I type them into the computer. Sometimes I stop the
machine when I cannot keep up. Sometimes I rewind it to ensure my
phrasing is correct. I take pride in being exact, in being accurate.
' "The victim has had external areas carved with a small unidentified
blade. The weapon pattern moves from left to right indicating a right
handed person. The incisions are small, sharp, similar to a scalpel or
some sort of surgeon's tool. The eyes, fingernails, nipples, earlobes,
and clitoris were all removed prior to death. Bleeding and coagulation
suggest removal 2-4 hours before the victim's expiration."
"Blood. Death. The knife. Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help
me, Dana."
"I. . . uh." '
What? What the hell was that? The voice on the recorder. . . I almost
missed it.
I must have dozed off, must have been daydreaming, reliving the thoughts
I projected onto the cadaver during the examination.
I rewind the machine.
' ". . .removed prior to death. Bleeding and coagulation suggest removal
2-4 hours before the victim's expiration."
"Blood. Death. The knife. Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help
me, Dana."
"I. . . uh." '
Rewind.
' ". . .expiration."
"Blood. Death. The knife." '
Stop it.
Start it.
' "Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help me, Dana." '
Forty minutes later I have gone through the whole tape three times,
transcribing it. The first two phrases I missed, barely hearing them
until I turned the volume all the way up, catching the whispers
underneath the screaming of my voice and the thuds of Mulder's
footsteps. My hands are shaking - too much caffeine, I think - and I can
barely finish typing my report. I send it to the printer where the Laser
Jet hums and whines, spitting out the twelve page report. Pulling the
papers out of the tray, scanning, I disbelieve until I see it in black
in white.
There. At the end. Forty-two transcribed words recorded during Selma
Thomas' autopsy. Words which are spoken onto the tape by a voice which
is not my own. A voice I am unable to recognize.
Help me.
Please help me, Dana.
Blood. Death. The knife. Gleaming in the darkness. Hurts. Please help
me, Dana.
The eyes. So I can see. So he can watch me watch.
He watches. Please help.
I am so scared. Please. It hurts.
I cannot move. My name. She says my name. How?
The tremors hit my stomach with an angry punch. Nausea wells up,
squeezing me like a vice, forcing me to run to the bathroom where I
vomit up the meager contents of my stomach. Thin brown liquid. I hang
onto the sides of the toilet. Three more times.
No more.
I am empty, dry heaving.
Sitting on the cool tile of the floor, I wipe the saliva from my mouth
onto the sleeve of my cranberry jacket. The material is stained a darker
red, the exact color of blood. My body trembles, and my legs feel like
jell-o. I'm afraid if I move the dry heaves will start again, so I sit
in silence, regaining my composure.
It takes a long time.
Returning to the office I find Mulder there, waiting.
"Scully, I worked last night on a correlation between dumping sites to
narrow down. . ."
He glances at my face and stops.
So much for my facade. Mulder has sniffed out my vulnerability in less
than thirty seconds like a pure bred bloodhound. His erratic concern
angers me.
"You look a little. . ."
"A little what, Mulder?"
His expression closes up fast at the confrontational tone of my voice.
He snaps his mouth shut for a minute, choosing his next word carefully.
"Tired."
My hostility dissipates. Of all the words I thought he was going to use,
tired was not one of them.
He's right. I feel exhausted. The weakness hits me as suddenly as the
nausea. I steady myself with a hand on the edge of my desk, watching
alarm replace the caution in his face.
The world narrows down, shrinks, to a pinpoint of light in which Mulder
reaches for me.
It's the last thing I see before I fall flat onto the floor in a dead
faint.
Time lapses. The void has no length.
Darkness. Loneliness. Voices reach out. One is beautiful. His. I cannot
separate the words. They meld together in a wave of consonants and
vowels. They are soothing, loving, kind.
I want to understand them. I need to understand them.
Awareness pierces this darkness slowly. I am reluctant to leave it
because here I know I am safe.
Gradually, I come to the realization I am lying prone on the floor in
our basement office, Mulder gently chafing my wrists, talking. I do not
move, refuse to move, allowing the luxury of the warmth of his body to
seep into my cold bones.
"Scully?"
He knows I am awake. No use prolonging it. Opening my eyes, I am
surprised at the closeness of his face, smelling the subtle spices from
his shaving gel, seeing the strands of hair near the nape of his neck
that haven't quite dried yet from his morning shower.
We are instantly aware of each other in a familiar way.
"Scully?"
He helps me into a sitting position. The pantsuit I put on this morning
is covered with dirt from the floor. Several dust blobs have lodged
themselves in my hair and I try brushing them out with unsure hands.
I must look like hell.
His proximity provokes such a feminine reaction. I smile at it, a tiny
bit. He catches this gesture, a small change in the set of my lips, and
his eyes instantly change color. In a moment they go from gray-blue to
blue-green, like a magic trick.
"If you wanted to get my attention, Scully, you could have just told me
to shut up."
"Hasn't worked in the past. Besides, this was much more dramatic."
He stands, holding out his hand to help me up.
His flesh is so warm and mine is so cold. He flinches at the contrast of
our body temperatures.
"You're freezing."
He holds onto my hand for longer than proper office decorum dictates and
I pull away. I sit down at my desk shuffling the report, gathering the
papers and putting them back into numerical order.
Pulling a free chair from nearby, he sits by the side of the desk.
"Scully, I. . ."
He stops, deciding he shouldn't say whatever it is on his mind.
I watch him, saying nothing, aware that the act of putting words in his
mouth will only cause him to abruptly change topics in silent dismissal.
"Scully?"
Mulder says my name so softly.
Still, I say nothing, somehow knowing it is not required.
His eyes skim away, off to the bulletin board filled with reports,
satellite images, posters, MUFON newsletters - a plethora of pictures -
enabling him to concentrate and find reassurance in the physical things
around us which seem to never change.
"Scully. We need to talk."
He isn't looking at me.
Whatever Mulder is about to say, I am not going to like it. The
defensiveness, the hostility comes back in great waves and I sit up
straighter in my chair, folding my hands together on the top of the
desk, directing my focus to his face which has turned slightly from me.
"Scully, I'm your supervisor. It's my responsibility, you know. . ."
"Your responsibility to what? To do _what_, Mulder?"
He closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead with one hand.
"This is hard enough as it is. Please don't make it any harder, Scully."
"Spit it out, Mulder. I'm sick of playing this waiting game with you.
It's not like I have unlimited time anymore to await the final outcome."
These unplanned thoughts of mine born into words shock both of us. I
don't know who is more surprised - he at the vehemence with which they
are spoken, or me at my uncharacteristic honesty.
"As your supervisor, Scully, it is my job, my responsibility to pull you
off active field duty if I feel that you are unfit. . ."
"Are you saying I am unfit?"
"I. . ."
"Are you, Mulder? Are you saying I can't do the job?"
"I'm not saying. . . I think you need some time away from this. . ."
"No."
"Scully. Yes. You need some time off."
"Mulder. . ."
"I'm telling you this as your supervisor. As your friend. You need to
take a leave."
The small muscle on the upper lid of my eye twitches, a sure sign I am
upset. No one can see this minute movement, but it vibrates along every
nerve in my body. The silence in the room magnifies it. We stare at each
other, Mulder with concern as I struggle not to let his betrayal bring
tears to my eyes. I press my tongue against my bottom teeth, willing
myself, forcing myself not to cry.
Not here. Not in front of him. I wouldn't give him the fucking pleasure.
"Scully. . ."
"I can't, Mulder. Don't force me into this. Don't take away the only
thing I have left. I've already lost. . . too much."
My words break at the end; not strong like I wanted them to sound.
He stands up, moving to the other side of the room, pulling out a few
thumbtacks from the bulletin board, moving pictures around, sticking
them back in angrily. I hear each one as it punches through the board.
"Mulder. . ."
"All right, Scully. Forget I brought it up. Forget it. I'll go on
pretending that everything is the same, that nothing has changed. I'll
overlook the fact that you look exhausted and you look like you haven't
eaten in a week. Or that the quality of your work has been slipping. The
nose bleeds. Fainting. Maybe if I ignore all these things they'll go
away. Just don't ask me not to care. I can't do that."
"Give me another week. If things haven't improved, I'll take a medical
leave."
He jabs a pin into the board. Pulls it out. Pushes it in. He is still
angry, at himself I suppose. At me. The rift we've filled seems to have
returned, a chasm wider and deeper than it was before. Perhaps creating
this is the only way we'll be able to say goodbye; the only way we'll be
able to leave each other without tearing ourselves into pieces.
"Fine. One week. We're going to Joe's today for lunch. I want to see you
eat something."
"Is that the supervisor in you talking, Mulder?"
"No. It's the Jewish mother in me talking."
We seem to have declared a 'cease fire' for now, a truce. This allows
Mulder to focus on the case. Back to business as usual.
"Did you finish the Thomas autopsy?"
Now begins the conversation I had been avoiding. The results of the
autopsy. The report. The words as they are played over and over again.
He listens, putting the recorder down with a look of amazement in his
eyes.
"In-fucking-credible, Scully. Cases of documented consciousness-related
physical phenomena are extremely rare. Over recent years, a sizeable
spectrum of evidence has been brought forth from reputable laboratories
in several disciplines to suggest that at times human consciousness can
acquire information inaccessible by any known mechanism and can
influence the behavior of physical systems. But even the most rigorous
and sophisticated of these studies display a characteristic dilemma: The
experimental results are rarely replicable in the strict scientific
sense. Do you realize the import of this tape?"
"We need to have this analyzed, Mulder."
"A 16-year empirical study of anomalous human-machine interactions
provides strong evidence that consciousness can add information to
otherwise random digital strings."
"It could be something else, some sort of radio transmitted frequency
that was picked up and recorded on the device. Electromagnetic tapes
often act as antennas for stray signals beamed from satellite dishes. I
think you're making an assumption that this. . ."
"We need to verify that this voice belongs to Selma Thomas. Her parents
might have a video tape or other vocal recording we can run a print
match against."
"Mulder, you're making an assumption that this _is_ Selma Thomas'
voice."
"Who would it be? Casper the friendly ghost doesn't get hired for
voice-overs."
"And I suppose the dead really do speak from the grave?"
Point and counter-point. We both have delineated our lines in battle. It
is a routine, comfortable, and it amuses me that I am able to provoke
him so easily. I can tell by the excited spark in his eyes that he
feels the same way. I wonder that after all we have been through, this
remains unalterable.
"We need a copy of this. Why don't you take it down to the lab? I'll
work with the parents and try to procuring a vocal recording. We can run
a test match against the voice on your tape. "
"No."
He stops in mid flight, half in and half out of his overcoat.
"What?"
"I want to go out in the field."
"I'm just going the parents' home. I'll be back before lunch. It's more
productive if we split up."
"Mulder, sit down."
"Why?"
"Just sit down."
In slow motion he takes off his overcoat and perches on the edge of his
desk. I wait until I have his attention.
"Mulder, what exactly causes consciousness-related physical phenomena?"
"Is this significant, Scully? We're wasting time. There's a killer out
there carving up women. We have a possible connection to discover his
identity. . ."
Ah. He suddenly realizes why I have asked this. He's stalling, trying to
distract me from his precious truth.
I repeat the question, cutting him off.
"Mulder, what causes consciousness-related physical phenomena?"
I nod at his silence. We both know where this path leads. I have thought
about it, Mulder, and you cannot shield me from it. I thought about it
as I lay on the floor of the bathroom suffused with dry heaves. My
scientific mind pulled the puzzle together in minutes. You have taught
me well in four years. Too well.
"What factors? Well, in general, a mechanical system is influenced by
the consciousness of a human."
"What human in this case?"
"There is no correlation to person and proximity. The random digital
strings could be altered by anyone."
"Selma? How would you explain that? "
He thinks about this for a moment. I've backed him into a corner. He
knows it. God, I used to relish being on the debate team. Arguing in a
logical manner against the boys who thought they were hot shit because
they could spout statistics and quotes from Newsweek and Time. This
tactic left them quivering like a deer caught in the headlights waiting
for the imminent impact.
Mulder is different. I think he enjoys having his arguments refuted,
craves it. It gives him some kind of kick to be forced to accept a
viewpoint foreign to his own. Maybe that's the reason for his elaborate
theories of corpses which regenerate their own heads or Vietnam vets
disappearing right before your eyes.
"No, Scully. I'm not sure I could explain that."
"It's me, isn't it?"
"Let me put it to you this way: Selma didn't make my top ten list."
Even at the direst of moments his humor is present. Sometimes I hate him
for it. Sometimes I love him for it. This time, his humor serves as a
buffer to my fear. I draw strength from it.
"If that is true in this case, and I am saying _if_, then I should
accompany you to her parent's home, correct?"
"In the hopes that you could further the connection using the deceased's
possessions, yes. You should accompany me."
There. What we had both been avoiding.
"Put your coat back on, Mulder. I'm going with you to the Thomas'."
"I love it when a woman takes charge, Scully."
"I always figured you were the type."
He answers me with a smirk as he opens the office door with a flourish.
-----------------------------------------------
I unobtrusively watch my partner from the corner of my eye as the
sunlight outlines her face.
The lines and planes are infused with a placidity I know is false. This
mask, this humanity which she wears so valiantly, does not make her weak
or pitiable in my eyes. It only serves to enhance the fragile beauty
that is, and always will be, Scully.
Watching her die each day is the hardest thing I have ever done.
Her faint in the office scared the living shit out of me. I thought it
was time. Finally, it was the beginning of the end. I became immobile,
seized by the sorrow of all we have left undone, unsaid, our partnership
dissolved by a voracious bundle of abnormal cells induced by my quest
for the truth.
My hands are stained with the blood of those I have loved.
I thought I could be brave for her, strong; today showed me I cannot.
Faced with truth, I am nothing but a coward.
END 2/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER THREE
-----------------------------------------------
11:15 am
March 26, 1997
University Yard
Washington, D.C.
He chooses carefully.
Already in the wake of his last, he has chosen another.
He sits on a bench in the coldness that is neither winter nor spring,
listening to the movement of feet on cement, watching. He has chosen the
place at random, knowing this affords him security. To choose based on a
pattern is to issue an invitation to the police. They would lock him up
and throw away the key.
Being confined is intolerable.
When he was a boy and he was bad, she would punish him. There was a
closet in the back of the house. It was empty of all things, except dust
and darkness. When the mood struck her she would pull the boy in that
angry impatient way and lock him in the closet.
The boy tried not to be bad, tried hard the majority of the time, but
the road was filled with pitfalls. A toothbrush left on the sink instead
of in its holder. Mud tracked in from the field out back. His dog
barking at night. She punished him for those things and a thousand other
violations he was helpless to avoid.
Inside the closet it was always dark.
The boy sits on the wooden floor of the space. This confinement amuses
him at first. After hours pass, the amusement ends and migrates into
something uncomfortable. The splintered teeth of the plank floor bite
into the thin skin of his ass. He shifts his weight but it seems as if
every part of him is asleep, dead; hung in a weightless existence.
There is a trap door in the floor of the closet. She knows this. She
knows what he fears.
The trap door leads into darkness, into a pit where things dwell.
Beetles that chew out your eyes when you are dead. Spiders that crawl
along your body with their thin spindly legs. Little gargoyles that
drag you into the cellar and put you into the furnace, just for fun.
It was a movie he saw years ago, before Daddy left. The need to pee woke
him and he couldn't sleep. He crept out to the top of the stairs where
he could see into the living room. The portable television played a
series of pictures without color which filled the room with odd shadows.
A woman.
Gargoyles.
They are in the old house looking for her. She is taking a shower and
she doesn't know they are there. She doesn't see them or hear them. They
want to hurt her, hurt her bad, but they can't reach her because of the
light.
It hurts their eyes.
Smart gargoyles.
They take a hanger from her darkened bedroom and reach around the corner
of the door. It snags on the light switch and the room is immersed in
darkness. The woman pauses. They scramble into the bathroom, cutting her
with razor blades. She is bleeding, struggling for the light. She
reaches it and flips the switch. The gargoyles scream and squeal and run
into the walls like cockroaches.
She's safe for now.
The picture changes and she is at a party.
The table is set with white linen and a punch bowl filled with a dark
liquid. Guests mingle, talking softly, playing classical music on the
radio. It is a beautiful party to celebrate their new home, her
husband's new job. The gargoyles sit underneath the table where it is
dark, where no one can see them.
They pull the napkin off her lap.
She thinks she has dropped it, so she picks it up.
They pull it off again.
The woman is scared. She picks up the napkin and puts it back in her
lap, holding one corner. They try to take it off her lap again but she
holds fast. They tug and tug and she fights them, feeling their claws on
her legs. The gargoyles think this is pretty damned funny and laugh
their asses off. She tries to tell her husband, to explain why she
screamed and he tells her she is crazy.
More images. The gargoyles come up from the floor, through the boards
and into her bedroom. Her husband is away on business. He has left the
woman alone in the old house telling her not to be afraid. She should
conquer her fears of the darkness. She should not be afraid of it.
"Get her."
"Kill her. Get her."
"Hurt her bad."
The gargoyles grab with twisted claws, dragging her to the cellar as she
screams.
To the fire.
She is.
Taken to the fire.
They pull her into the basement. Down there it is dark and there is a
fire. A huge furnace with a fire like a mini hell. They drag her closer
to this heat as she claws the ground where her fake blood mixes with the
studio dirt. The camera pans to show the long claw marks on the floor of
the cellar. Next, a close up of the fire.
In the closet the boy is so scared. He rocks and hugs and cries.
He. Can't. Breathe.
So dark.
Let me out please.
Good. I'll. Be. Good. I promise.
Promisepromisepromisepromisepromisepromise.
He cries, waiting for the darkness to take him. He hears them coming. He
hears their claws on the underside of the floorboards, a slow clicking
as they circle, pointing to his hiding place.
It will not be much longer.
The boy screams. Dust and darkness mix with his tears.
The last thing is their laughter. It is outside his door now, in the
timbre of his mother's voice.
The man who was once the boy is helpless to stop these pictures.
-----------------------------------------------
I sit in a straight back chair in Selma Thomas' bedroom waiting for
something to happen. It puts me on edge. In this room I feel a thousand
hungry eyes crawling over me, watching.
Forcing Mulder to bring me here was a rash decision. The scientific test
proposed on the ride over worries me, though it is too late to
gracefully back out. I have agreed to his impulsive plan and I am forced
to see it through to its end, however long it may take.
Patience, one of my better virtues, deserts me. I make time pass by
memorizing details: One dresser, the vanity, the open closet door, a
bed, a full length mirror hung on the back of the door. I observe these
things superficially, taking mental note of the meager contents of the
room like the good little FBI agent I am.
Her room is plain, uninteresting and I wonder if the woman's personality
matched. The bed is covered with a cream cotton spread that has been
washed too many times. Nubs of fabric mar the smooth surface giving it a
weary look. Matching curtains frame the windows behind which the shade
is drawn, blocking out the light, the noise from the streets.
The secrets of this dead women are cloaked by an anxious silence.
Cosmetics have been left strewn across the vanity table: Pink nail
polish the color of cotton candy. Bottles next to it of red, blue, and
the silver so popular with the younger crowd. Colors I would not dare
wear to the office or even at home in the sanctity of my apartment. My
savvy fashion sense has obviously been blunted by the rows of boring
suits hanging in my bedroom closet.
The walls are different. They are alive, adorned with the likes of Brad
Pitt and Tom Cruise, attached by pieces of scotch tape. They hang at
slightly uneven angles, the adhesion from the tape losing its battle
against gravity. It is jarring to observe Brad Pitt smiling with white
capped teeth on a forty-five degree slant. It makes the whole world
suddenly appear out of focus.
Movie stars. Idols. The perfect man. The perfect love.
Once I nailed twenty pictures of Shaun Cassidy to my bedroom wall.
I spent a whole day fastidiously affixing my entire photo collection to
the wall, creating a four foot by three foot montage. I would carefully
chose a spot for the picture, then pound a two inch nail into each
corner. My father's hammer was heavy; the leather grip of the handle
soaked with the sweat of my efforts.
Six hours. An entire summer day spent in the heat of the second floor
bedroom instead of racing my new ten speed. Forgoing a trip down to the
creek to watch the tadpoles grow legs as they turned into frogs.
Forgetting my promise to collect bunches of cattails with Missy in the
afternoon.
The end result made me proud. Twenty pairs of eyes that followed me to
every corner of the room. In those eyes were words that waited for me.
Only for me. Shaun was waiting to meet me, to marry me, to give me
chaste kisses as he whispered in the moonlight that I was his true love.
I was an impassioned, foolish eleven-year-old who played 'Da Do Ron Ron'
so much that it drove my entire family batty. I never missed an episode
of The Hardy Boys.
My mother, of course, was royally pissed off when she found out what I
had done.
I spent the last weeks of my summer vacation applying putty to cover up
the eighty-seven holes I created. Eighty on purpose and seven by
accident. I counted them. After the putty dried I sanded down the
patches until they were smooth. I remember resting my cheek against the
cold wall, crying. My mother relented when she caught me and we painted
the walls together.
I was lost as a child, different; separated from everyone else. I was
the smartest, the most obedient; the Dana Katherine Scully who always
returned her library books, placed first or second in the science fair,
and turned in her homework on time.
I was isolated from the children; treated like a leper.
Ironic. You hide from the indignities forced upon you as a child, hoping
it is a temporary phase you will grow out of, only to be treated in the
same manner as an adult. Life is a funhouse mirror in which your
childhood is reflected back in distortion with no possible means of
escape.
I wonder if Selma's childhood was happy. I am unable to formulate an
answer. Death has casually stripped the individuality from this room. It
is only a spare bedroom now, or a sewing room, or a den. Someone will
sterilize it by removing the clothes, the books, the pictures. They will
be given away or stored under the eves of the attic. By whom - her
mother? Her father?
My personal effects are destined to be handled in the same custom.
Who will do this? My mother?
Mulder?
His presence fills the room behind me, next to me, around me.
"Are you getting anything, Scully?"
"I'm not a television set, Mulder. You can't just jiggle the antennae
and hope for a good picture."
He leaves the room before I am able to apologize.
Guilt pierces this thick skin I've drawn around myself. Mulder has this
uncanny knack lately for catching me at the worst of my moments. His
reward is anger or impatience or defensiveness. A dismal pay for what I
want to believe is his kindness, his concern.
I push the thought of him, the feel of him from my mind. I study the
artifacts of this dead woman's life, and try to make sense of her
achievements, her failures. The recorder goes about its business making
an audible whir as the tape records the sounds of silence.
I hear nothing.
I feel nothing.
I sit here for minutes, for what seems like hours, feeling like a
complete asshole.
Someone is watching me.
He is there. His eyes are on me.
He is close enough now to touch. I can feel his breath exhaled lightly
on the back of my neck. A hand reaches for me. He strokes my flesh so
gently, like a lover. I am frightened, quivering under his touch. He
senses the fear. It excites him.
He reassures with words. He is my lover, caressing, undressing,
revealing what I have hidden from all others. The blade gleams. It is
sharp and wicked. He warms it against my naked skin.
He is urgent in his need to taste, to smell. Power floods his body
making him hard.
"I. . . "
"I. . .?"
My voice is non-existent; a whisper. In my head I am screaming. I feel
the trickle of blood from my nose as the rivulet marks its path down my
lip. I cannot move to wipe it away.
My eyes are blind. I see nothing. Darkness. He waits and watches in a
familiar place. Flashes of pictures and then I am locked in a space
where there is nothing but dust and spiders and beetles that chew your
eyes out. Underneath there is something more sinister, a thing with
claws and fangs and teeth that bite. Horrible, disfigured things that
drag you screaming into the fire where they throw your body. They hiss
and talk in the darkness we share.
Mulder, help me.
I fall for hours, for days, helpless to stop the descent.
Mulder.
My body slides from the chair where I sit in the dead woman's room. I
feel nothing at all as my head hits the wooden floor, screaming the
entire way down into the pit, the chasm, which issues its claim to my
soul.
-----------------------------------------------
The watcher is being watched.
He feels an alien presence and the fine hairs along the back of his neck
rise like a dog's hackles. He scans the commons in alarm, half expecting
to hear the click of handcuffs as he is arrested and taken to jail. He
looks for the source, finding nothing out of place. The college students
move from one class to another, joking, pushing, hurrying. No one is
looking at him, pointing a finger and screaming. Little attention is
paid to the man on the park bench reading a book. He holds the novel in
one hand, eating the soft flesh of an orange with the other.
Assured once more of his anonymity, he resumes his observation.
The woman he watches is beautiful in a fragile way. He imagines their
first touch, soft, hesitant, her snow white skin shivering under his
hand. Her fear evokes protection. He will reassure her with words, low
murmurs in the shell of her ear while he undresses her.
He will be gentle, reverent as he removes her jacket, her blouse, her
skirt. The blade will cut off the straps of her bra, the fabric of her
panties. She will be revealed like the inner sanctum of a rose, petals
upon petals removed in layers as he begins from the outside and works
his way inward.
These images make him hard. He feels the rush of blood to his groin and
the telling strain from the middle of his trousers. He reaches inside
his overcoat and strokes himself, once, twice. The pleasure almost makes
him groan out loud.
Not yet. It is not time to take another victim. Soon. He can feel the
need inside growing stronger, the pictures coming faster in his mind. He
is prepared. He has marked her comings and goings, establishing her
ritual, her schedule of classes. Then, when it is time, he will take
her.
He places the rind from the orange into the brown lunch bag. The Elmore
Leonard novel is tucked into the pocket of his coat. He rises from the
bench, following her to the next class.
His departure goes as unnoticed as his arrival.
END 3/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER FOUR
-----------------------------------------------
11:45 am
March 26, 1997
The Thomas Residence
Arlington, Virginia
"I'm fine."
"Your head . . . Your nose . . ."
"I'm _fine_, Mulder."
I wipe the partially coagulated blood from my lip, my nose, wondering
how many times have I uttered these empty words.
My head hurts like hell. I don't want Mulder to see this. It is
important for him to think I am strong, undefeated. I sit back in my
chair refusing his proffered hand. The rebuke stings him as effectively
as if I had slapped him in the face.
I don't need your fucking chivalry, Mulder, I scream inside my head.
I touch the bump near my forehead, ignoring the petulant look on his
face.
Ouch. Hurts like hell.
He says nothing. It is his silence, his acceptance of this new Scully
which makes me want to shout and tear out his eyes; anything which will
elicit a shred of true emotion from him or validate where I stand.
Mulder refuses to say anything. He kneels next to my chair watching my
face through the protective veil of my hair. His eyes burn me, watching
me, waiting, like the eyes of a hunter.
"You were screaming."
I nod, my head protesting in pain.
He catches the wince, the tightening around my mouth and in an instant
he has risen. He takes my coat from the bed, pockets the recorder,
resting his hand on the sleeve of my jacket.
"We're leaving now."
"We have more work to do here, Mulder. . ."
"We're leaving."
Something dangerous glints in his eyes. His jaw is set. I watch the
hypnotizing twitch of the muscles where bone attaches to bone. He is
angry, fighting to keep it inside. Good.
Good.
Anger I can deal with. Indifference I cannot.
"I'm not going, Mulder."
He pauses, looking out the window, seeing nothing through the shade.
His head dips down. Our eyes are level. We exchange breaths; his
exhalations becoming nourishment for my lungs. My heart races at his
proximity and I notice the tiniest details: Spider lines etch the corner
of his eyes; his pupils are large, dark; he smells of peppermint gum and
the rich leather of his gun holster.
"Listen to me. We are leaving this place right now. Don't argue with me.
This is a direct order. You are leaving. Now. Get your fucking coat on
before I'm tempted to drag your ass out of here."
His words are barren; without emotion, clipped.
Indifference. Pulling rank. I shouldn't have expected anything else.
Still, a small part of me hoped that. . . Screw it. I wish the cancer
would have eaten away my fucking optimism.
It's over. Done with. I hear it in his voice.
I feel my heart break as I follow him down each step of the narrow
staircase.
Idiot. For four years I have trailed after him, covering for him,
sacrificing my career to his elusive truth. Stupid idiot. Four years of
my life wasted in the hopes. . . in the hopes that . . . Jesus, what a
fool I have been not to notice his selfishness which consumes my soul
effortlessly.
The sunlight is harsh against my eyes, like I have been in a cave. The
pain that comes from it makes me unsteady. I fully expect Mulder's hand
on my shoulder, steadying me, but the touch does not come. It never
will. He is already seated in the driver's side of the Taurus, turning
the key in the ignition.
My footing stumbles on the uneven cement, my balance caught by the
passenger door handle. Yanking it open with the last of my strength, I
slide into the leather seat.
The drive back is conducted in utter silence. Mulder doesn't even turn
on the radio.
Arriving at the office I am forced into a brisk pace to keep up with his
long strides. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't acknowledge my presence.
I am some errant stray dog which has taken to his heels.
Jackass. Jerk. Self righteous son-of-a-bitch.
My mind catches and throws out numerous descriptions of my partner.
By the time we reach the basement I am out of breath, my head pounding
like there is a marching band practicing in my skull. He rips off his
coat, throws it onto a chair, sitting in front of his computer. The
glare from the screen is reflected in the smooth round surface of his
glasses.
I stand in front of his desk, arms folded.
"Mulder. . ."
He ignores me, pushing his mouse around on the pad, typing with that
irritating hunt-and-peck motion.
"Mulder, I'm. . . "
He gets up, reaches into the pocket of his coat, and removes the
recorder. In four long strides he is out the door, its slam a mocking
echo.
". . .scared."
My admission goes unheard. I am alone, under sixty feet of earth and
concrete.
An empty room, an empty life where I wait for him: Mulder or Death.
Whichever comes first and loves me best.
I've read articles about the terminally ill. How their family and loved
ones pull away to protect themselves. I cannot blame Mulder even though
in my heart it feels like betrayal. He is only a man. After what he has
suffered in the past it is only natural for him to emotionally withdraw.
It is natural that I would lose him, that Death would be the victor in
this foot race against time.
I am so empty I am unable to cry. I sit in the confines of this office
space, staring at nothing, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. Death has
taken everything, leaving only this rotting shell.
I suppose I should care but I don't have the fucking energy.
I put my head down on the cool grain of the desk, immediately falling
asleep.
The cell phone rings two hours later.
"Scully."
My head is blurred with sleep, achy; my tongue coated with a disgusting
fuzz.
"I'm in the lab. The tape turned up something."
Terse words. He hangs up. No 'hello' or 'goodbye' or other polite talk.
Niceties are for someone other than Fox William Mulder, FBI Agent. By
prior arrangement with god, he is able to forgo this proper etiquette.
Five minutes pass before I can control my shaking and start for the lab.
Seventeen floors up and one wing to the east. The heels of my shoes echo
hollowly on the beige tiles. My heart beats to their rhythm as I enter
the lab.
Mulder greets my arrival with the excitement he reserves for cattle
mutilations and mysterious crop rings. The cruel words between us hours
before are forgotten. Everything is back to normal for Mulder. No
apology. No discussion. Nothing. Omitting it from his memory seems to
have pardoned us both.
"Scully, I had Olsen run the tape on the Digital Function Generator."
"And?"
"The tape picked up a voice. Listen."
He pushes a button.
' "Eyes. . . He watches. . . He has chosen another. . . She will join
us. She is our sister. . . Hurry. . . The bench, the commons. . . See
it. . . See what I see. " '
He stops the machine.
"Mulder, the voice matches the first tape."
He nods.
"I had Olsen run a match and the vocal prints are identical."
"We still don't know whose voice this is. It could. . ."
He holds up a hand, stopping me.
"The print matches Selma Thomas'. Olsen ran a match against a tape her
parents provided."
"Mulder, science would dictate that any. . ."
"Scully, even the mighty Isaac Newton regarded the ultimate mechanism of
change in the universe to reside in the mystery by which mind could
control matter. Remember the Modell case? His ability to control minds
was the direct result of the mass we found on his MRI. I believe in your
case the mass is causing vibrations which interfere with the digital
strings. When the recording is made these vibrations, your
consciousness, alter the content of the tape."
I nod silently, not knowing how to refute his words. In a way, they make
perfect sense.
My mother told me that was the danger of a mad man: That he often made
perfect sense.
My lips twist in a smile. I try to hide it behind my hand, but he
catches it.
"What's so funny, Scully?"
"Nothing. Nothing. I. . . You just amaze me sometimes."
He looks at me strangely. If I squint just right I could swear his
expression is not ambivalent. It is something far more personal. We both
become aware of it at the same time.
He looks away, fiddling with a second tape he holds in his hands.
"Scully, your nosebleeds. Do you see? They're not caused by pressure,
but by vibrations. You don't feel it because they're high in frequency.
Now, based on this theory, I had Olsen modulate the frequency as he
filtered the tape through the Digital Function Generator. The Sweep
Generator module indicated a higher frequency sequence underneath the
one we already discovered. This is from that sequence."
He punches another button, ejecting and inserting the second tape. He
hits the play button. A few minutes of dead silence roll through the
lab. It sounds like the hissing of snakes. I feel the hair on the back
of my neck rise in alarm.
Something is coming in this silence.
Something is coming for me.
Whatever it is, it scares the hell out of me.
' "Get her. . . Kill her. . . Get her. . . Hurt her bad. . . Let me out.
I'll be good, I promise. . . Promise. Promisepromisepromise. . .
Beautiful. Fragile. . . Don't fear me, Pretty One. I only want to see
you, see your beautiful naked body. . . I will reveal you like the inner
sanctum of a rose, petals upon petals, layers after layers. . . Not yet.
I will come back for you, Pretty One. In the commons, today. Tomorrow. .
. Soon. . ." '
The words end and the tape spins out more moments of silence before
Mulder switches off the player with a loud click. The discordant sound
of it is jarring.
"Scully, he's escalating."
"Mulder, Selma's voice, however outrageous, _might_ be explained by
pressure, resonance or other factors. You can't possibly suggest that
this second voice belongs to her killer and that he has identified his
next victim."
"Scully, he's escalating. He's identified his next victim. His plans are
already in place for a sixth victim. If we don't get to him in time. .
."
"Just what the fuck am I supposed to do about it, Mulder?"
"Scully. . ."
"No. I know what you want, Mulder. You want to trot me around like some
trained pony and find your serial killer. What if these 'vibrations' are
making things worse? What if they're causing the cancer to grow?"
"Scully, I didn't think. . ."
"That's your problem, Mulder. You never think about anyone except
yourself. Your own precious search for the truth. You don't care who
gets hurt in the process, just as long as you get it. Well, count me
out."
"As a FBI agent you have a duty, a responsibility to these victims. . ."
A bitter laugh escapes my lips.
"I suppose you got that line straight from Patterson."
The wounded look in his eyes haunts me.
I should not have mentioned Patterson. I should not have compared him to
Mulder. It is unforgivable.
"What is it you want me to do, Mulder?"
He outlines the plan carefully.
Guilt plays me like a fool.
END 4/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER FIVE
-----------------------------------------------
March 26, 1997
5:45pm
M Street
Washington D.C.
I disgust myself.
Pulling rank on Scully was an act of sheer desperation. I evaluate this
action objectively. I have the education to label it with my extensive
psychological vocabulary. Yet, these abilities mean little when Scully's
life is in danger.
Scully lying on the floor of the Thomas residence, unconscious;
bleeding.
How still, how vulnerable she was. Frail and broken like a bird crippled
in mid flight. Standing beside her I was seized by a madness inside my
head shouting out accusations:
You are killing her, Mulder.
I have done this to her.
Just this one task, this one truth which kills her, Mulder.
I am killing her.
You endanger Scully for your own selfish pursuits, Mulder.
I kill her. I wish I could take it back.
Take it back.
Take it back.
I had to get her out of that room. The consciousness related phenomena
was exacting a toll on her physical strength. Twice she fainted. Two
nosebleeds. I had no concept of the effect of the resonance on her
cancer. My immediate thought was that it could potentially accelerate
the path of the disease, encourage it to grow, to bloom; to speed up
Death's agenda.
I touched her jacket - told her we were leaving.
She refused.
I panicked.
Get her out. Get her the fuck out, Mulder. Get her out of here before
she collapses and dies.
The virulent madness infected my mind. I listened to the clipped, bitter
words spill from my own mouth. I was helpless to stop them; relieved
that their effect removed her from Selma Thomas' room; from harm. I did
not care the cost of these words.
Even now, while I regret hurting Scully, I am happy to pay the price of
that action with blood or flesh. Her safety cannot come at too great a
cost; there is nothing I would not willingly sacrifice for it.
My hand twitches against the steering wheel of the Taurus pool car.
Fingers press hard around the cold blue plastic; I watch the knuckles
turn an odd stippled shade of red and white. I force myself to drive
slowly, carefully through the rush hour traffic, hoping to hide these
emotions from her.
I must be strong for her.
Inside, I am frustrated. Angry. I wish I could fight Scully's cancer
with fists or teeth or guns. I wish that death had a form I could rip
apart with my bare hands, shredding its body by the sheer force of my
will, squeezing the energy from its trembling husk, kicking it, hearing
it break and clatter and fall into a thousand jagged pieces.
The car maneuvers through the streets, both of us silent, fixed in our
determination to find a way to stop this killer. We painstakingly move
from campus to campus in the hopes that one might spark recognition in
Scully.
It is a thankless job and the only lead we have.
I pinpointed body dumping spots; correlated victim characteristics such
as age, race, and education; calculated a million different variants in
the hopes of narrowing down our search. I only hope we will succeed
before another woman is taken; before this phenomena exacts a higher
price from Scully.
She is determined to see this case through. I need her insight, however
terrible this sounds. It is a reckless act, leading her out like a
bloodhound, but time grows short. I need her to show me the way, to
point me in the right direction.
I will shield her from all else.
She is silent, peering out the window for a glimpse of something she has
seen only in dreams.
We will find this spot where he waits and watches. I have told her we
will setup a surveillance, a trap for this killer. I have not lied in
this respect, however, she will not be a part of it. I fear her
proximity to the killer will increase the symptoms of her disease.
It is a risk I am unwilling to take.
-----------------------------------------------
Mulder is driving like an old lady. His speed reaches a stunning peak of
thirty in a forty-five mph zone. He grasps the wheel so tightly his
knuckles are white. Hunching over the steering column, he peers out the
window morosely.
I vacillate between irritation and relaxation, giving in reluctantly to
the slow soothing motion of the car. I lean my head against the soft
padded cushions of the seat. I refuse to think. I imagine I am a one
celled organism whose sole purpose in life is to merely breathe and seek
nourishment. Not to feel. As this creature I do not have the complex
structure for these emotions which can either be blessings or curses.
Breathe.
Exhale.
Breathe.
A driver in a dark green Pontiac cuts around us, honking his horn and
flipping off Mulder.
I shake my head, muttering under my breath.
"I should have packed a bag."
His body shifts; he falls back against the driver's seat. I've
interrupted his train of thought.
"Would you care to repeat that comment, Scully?"
"I said I should have packed a bag, the way you're driving. It's going
to take a week to get there."
"What's wrong with the way I'm driving?"
"I could walk there faster."
He shoots me a rather nasty glare then returns his attention to the
road.
I watch him unnoticed. Two faces. The one I can see. The one reflected
in the glass of the windshield. I wonder which is the more accurate
picture, yet both contain the same signs of weariness: Bearded stubble
stains the jaw line black and blue, bruised; Shadows frame the eyes from
lack of sleep; Worry etches into two furrows between his eyebrows.
I note rather vindictively that Substantial Mulder and Insubstantial
Mulder both look like hell.
I'm being childish. I suppose I'm still pissed at the shit he pulled
this morning. For now, we've managed to dredge up the confines of
professionalism to push the incident aside; to concentrate on the work
at hand. It is the pattern of our relationship: Mulder does something
stupid and I forgive him. Variations on this theme include: Mulder
ditches me, but I relent or Mulder fucks up and I cover up.
Great slogan. Maybe I should have a t-shirt printed.
I sigh, leaning back against the seat. I hadn't even noticed the
rigidity of my posture or my clenched fists.
Mulder takes this non-verbal communication as an apology. Maybe it is,
maybe it isn't.
We've visited 3 campuses this afternoon: Catholic University, University
of D.C., and Georgetown University. They were riddled with the
duplicate facades of campus life. None of them were unique. Not one
sparked an emotion other than boredom. We toured every nook and cranny,
every park bench and commons area, coming up with nothing but a handful
of subversive fliers.
Mulder turns the car to the right, passing tall office buildings. Their
multiple windows shine silver, colored by the setting sun. They look
like rows of blank eyes. Health groups. Banks. The trick of the
reflections off the smooth surface of the structures makes them ominous;
knowing.
A shiver runs down my spine.
An omen?
Shit. Suddenly I'm as superstitious as Mulder.
The Taurus pulls into the visitor's parking space. I pop a couple of
quarters into the meter while Mulder shuffles through the papers on the
back seat. Slamming the door he stands next to me with the campus map
downloaded from the George Washington University web site. This will be
our last stop.
"There are several sites we could check out. University Yard is the
largest open area on campus. There are several smaller quads that we
should also check out. Where do you want to start?"
"Surprise me."
My head aches. I'm tired; miserable. The air has dropped twenty degrees
in the last hour. It whips between the openings of the campus buildings
creating a wind tunnel, blasting puffs of chilly air through the warmth
of my wool trenchcoat.
I would trade anything to be at home in bed with the covers drawn over
my head.
In opposition, I pull my black leather gloves from the pocket of my coat
and follow Mulder. We duck across the congested street in the midst of
night students straight from work. They wear suits and ties, carrying
books while trying to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from brown
paper bags.
Their agility in performing these simultaneous tasks is fascinating.
I almost bump into the lady in front of me. Mulder shoots me a worried
glance. I ignore him.
Our first stop is the quad with the rose garden. Since it is only March,
this consists of twisted and blackened bushes more closely resembling
burn victims than plants. The cobblestone path is broken by two wooden
benches. Neither are occupied. It is too cold and too dark. Perhaps,
when spring finally arrives and the plants awake from suspended
animation, there will be lovers and the deep rich scent of roses.
Blushes and kisses and professions of love which lead to the inevitable
encounter.
By then, I'll probably be dead.
Mulder looks around the area, then at my face, searching.
I shrug.
Nothing. The same campus scene repeated a thousand times. Nothing
special here.
He locates the next spot on the map.
"Well, Scully, I never promised you a rose garden."
Sometimes, his puns suck. I force myself not to smile.
"That was my favorite book in high school, Mulder. In some ways it
parallels us."
His face has gone serious. He doesn't move.
"How so?"
"You walk through glass and I just watch."
He looks momentarily tongue tied.
"Oh, for Christ's sake. It was a joke, Mulder."
"Oh. Next time warn me."
He stuffs his hands into the pocket of his overcoat. I could swear I
have embarrassed him.
I almost ask him outright what he thought I was referring to, but we are
again moving side by side to the next area. It is University Yard, the
main commons of GWU. It is busier than the quad, students passing from
one building to the next, hurrying, late for the six o'clock classes
which have already begun.
Brown brick, light brick crisscross in patterns. Light and dark
interlaced in perpendicular angles. All paths returning to the center,
the hub of creation. Their beginning. Their end.
I feel very tired. My head hurts even worse.
"Scully?"
I rub my forehead. The pressure increases.
"Mulder, I need to sit down."
Not waiting for a response I walk to the nearest park bench.
His quick steps sound behind me; sharp staccato sounds. The cold air
intensifies their echos.
"Scully, are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Mulder."
The response is automatic.
"I think we should call it a night."
He stands in front of me, watching.
I shake my head, feeling dizzy with the movement.
"It's my blood sugar. I'm tired and I haven't eaten anything since this
morning. I'll be fine in a minute."
My hands tremble inside my gloves.
God, I'm so fucking tired.
He stands in front of me watching.
Watching.
"I. . . Mulder. . ."
"What?"
"Quit hovering. It's pissing me off."
His sits abruptly, his butt hitting the bench with a thump and I almost
last.
I still feel him watching me.
His eyes on me.
The skin crawls along my neck.
His eyes on me.
I look straight ahead, refusing the urge to look at him directly, to
shout in his face, to pummel his chest with my hands which have curled
into tight little balls on my lap.
"Mulder. Stop."
"Stop what?"
He sounds so deceivingly innocent.
"Stop. Looking. At. Me."
"I'm not."
Closing my eyes I feel the image of his stare burning like bright coals,
hot, burning me alive.
Stop.
Burning. Fire melting skin and bone and flesh.
Stop.
Pain.
I.
"Mulder. Stop. Fucking. Looking."
My teeth are clenched, grinding. I double over, the pain of being
watched a physical thing. The sensation in my side is sharp, piercing,
like the blade of a knife.
"Talk to me, Scully. What's going on? Is it your sugar level? Should I
get you something to eat?"
Mulder hands reach for me, coated with blood.
"I. . . Don't touch me."
The ache in my abdomen is so severe I groan. Tears fall down my cheek,
mixing with the blood from my nose. Foolishly, my only thought is that
my white blouse will be ruined.
"Scully. . . Oh shit. Scully, I need you to walk, I need you to get up."
I feel someone's hands - His? Mulder's?- bit into the soft underside of
my arms. Squeezing, pulling me forward. He will undress me. Jacket,
blouse, pants, underwear. Sliced by the sharp edge of his knife. He will
kiss me and whisper to me.
I have to get away.
"Let. . . Go."
I wrench myself from his embrace, his hypnotic need, each faltering
footstep hitting the pavement with a force which makes my teeth snap. I
run blindly, reduced to the instincts of a terrified animal pursued by
its hunter.
I run forward, head down, drawing the cold air into my lungs in great
gasps.
The sound of his pursuit is overwhelming; like thunder. He grabs me
roughly from behind, jerking me off balance. I twist to face him, to
fight him; teeth barred, clumps of hair hanging in my face. The stink of
fear escapes from every pore in my body.
I turn to face him.
My killer.
It is Mulder.
END 5/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER SIX
-----------------------------------------------
March 26, 1997
6:40 pm
Washinton Harbor Area
Washington D.C.
I drive through the streets like a madman, heedless of the rules
protecting pedestrians or motorists. A primal instinct compels me to
flee, filling my body with the sweeping rush of adrenaline accompanying
flight. Fear, like a contagion, digs its claws into rationality,
blinding me.
ScullyisindangerScullyisindangerScullyisindanger.
Reason is gone. I drive with urgency, in the grip of a fugue similar to
hers, automatically pushing the gas pedal with my foot; passing cars
with reckless abandon. Angry drivers blare their horns, the sound
unreal, remote, brakes screeching as they avoid collision. These noises
come from far away; from a world I inhabit only in the physical sense.
Danger. Danger. Danger.
The distance swells - blocks into miles; panic subsiding into a rhythmic
beat.
Dan-ger. Dan-ger. Dan-ger.
The pulse of word-thoughts becomes faint, fading into the background. In
its aftermath I suddenly feel foolish; a child suffering from night
terrors. Exhaling deeply, the chill from the car is inhaled in return. I
ease pressure off the gas, my control exerting itself once more.
I flip the car heater on high, the weighted air around us dissolving in
the rush of air from the vents.
The streets have melted into darkness, illuminated only by the harsh
yellow glow of street lamps. I regain my sense of direction, turning
left, turning right, seeking a route back to the expressway. We travel
through the city, light passing through the car in fits, throwing our
faces in alternating patterns of light and dark.
Scully huddles against the door of the passenger seat, wiping the blood
from her nose. The incident in the park lasted only moments, both of us
left shaken. I wonder which is worse: To be the one who experiences the
phenomena or to be the one who remains behind, helpless; useless. Never
have I felt more affinity for the people I have interviewed over the
years, the survivors, than I do now.
Her face shines pale, is then cast in shadows, only to return to light.
The cycle continues; light, dark, light, dark, until I can no longer
tell where one begins and the other ends.
Five more minutes pass before either of us trust ourselves to speak.
"Scully. . ."
"Mulder, I'm fine."
Our speech begins at the same time, the overlapping words creating a
sudden dead silence.
I grip the steering wheel hard, fearing the molded plastic will shatter
under the strain. Once again, we begin with foolish pretenses,
affectations repeated like the patterns of light and dark, hiding our
fears within the routine we have created.
"Mulder, I'm tired. My blood sugar level dropped and I became
disoriented. I know you think this is related to the case, but it
isn't."
"Bullshit."
I want to yell, to slap the surprise off her face with my bare hands, to
watch with perverse satisfaction the imprint from my hand redden her
white flesh.
The violent image sickens me. Misdirected anger. It is myself I desire
to punish.
I leave my hands on the steering wheel, feeling them grow cold as the
pressure cuts off the blood supply.
"Look, Mulder, you're trying to make the facts fit your theory. This
doesn't have anything to do with Selma Thomas' killer."
"Then would you like to explain to me what the hell happened back
there?"
"I haven't eaten since this morning. I experienced a fugue caused by a
drop in sugar levels."
"Then why the fuck did we even do this, Scully? Why the fuck did I drag
you out over every campus in the D.C. area if you're going to sit there
and refute everything with scientific explanations?"
Thinly veiled terror hides inside those blue eyes. I watch the way her
hands are held stiffly in her lap as if she fears they will betray her.
They are clasped together in the perfect image of a Catholic schoolgirl.
"You told me it was my job, my responsibility to these women. What was I
supposed to do? You drag me out here like a prized pony to perform, to
jump over hurdles, to follow you from place to place searching for the
things that matter to you. To _you_. Do you see?"
"I had no. . ."
"You don't see."
"Scully. . ."
"Fuck it, Mulder. I don't know why I even try."
I swerve out of the right hand lane and onto the shoulder. The car bumps
along the graveled dirt, jerking to a stop as I slam on the brakes. My
breath comes fast, from an exertion which is not physical. Her words
have a finality to them which causes me to panic.
"Scully, stop."
"Mulder, when are you going to face the facts? It doesn't matter
anymore. I'm dying and it doesn't fucking matter. We chase down killers
in the hopes of saving the lives of innocent people. Who's going to save
me? Who will catch this killer who so cleverly hides beneath my skin?"
"STOP IT."
I ache to grab her by the shoulders and shake her so violently her teeth
rattle; that tears will fall down her cheeks dispelling her rage and
isolation, leaving her vulnerable, able to accept my comfort.
Words are inadequate. How can I tell her that her death will create the
darkest void in my life? That her absence will extinguish the beauty I
have found in the world these last four years? I have lost her once
before, my life left wanting, hungry for an existence I once touched,
but did not possess.
I will not survive this fate a second time.
I face her, these thoughts evident in my eyes, the planes of my face;
grief suffusing every wrinkle. I lay my heart into this silence we have
created, hoping she will discern the words I am unable to speak for fear
of getting them wrong, of depriving them of their importance.
She watches me, her eyes searching; naked. Turning, she laughs; a bitter
sound like an empty sigh. She moves, light catching her pale skin; the
movement drawing her further away.
"I don't need your fucking pity."
In the stippled darkness I watch my partner distance herself, wondering
how she could misinterpret the unspoken words which have never failed us
in the past. I am filled with a sense of inadequacy, torn by grief,
confused by the sudden changes in our relationship, by the inability to
fight this unseen enemy. It is as if I am twelve again, frozen by the
blinding light, immobile, mute; powerless to stop the force which steals
the people I love.
"Forget it, Mulder. Contact Skinner. We'll set up the surveillance
tomorrow morning."
"Scully. . ."
"I'm tired, Mulder. I don't want to talk about it anymore."
She stares out the passenger window, watching shadows.
Cars whip by, the force of the displaced air causing the car to shake. I
need to try again, to approach this a different way, a way in which she
will understand my anxiety.
"Scully, I think you should see a doctor."
"I need food and a good night's sleep. I'll be fine in the morning."
In the morning nothing will be different. She will only be thinner; the
circles under her eyes more pronounced. I choose my next phrase
carefully, wanting to voice these concerns.
"Why don't you use a personal day tomorrow?"
"It's just my blood sugar, Mulder. Do you hear me? It's. . ."
"No, it isn't. It's. . ."
"How the hell do you know what this is? How can you sit there and. . ."
"I think this case is accelerating the path of your. . ."
"Don't you dare outline some outrageous theory. . ."
"Scully, the unknown factors in this case are. . ."
"Mulder. . ."
". . .affecting you in ways. . ."
"I am not going to sit here and listen to. . ."
". . . that we cannot. . . Will you just? . . For once in your life
listen, Scully."
She stares at me, a hundred different emotions passing across her face
in a fraction of a second. Her lips tighten, her eyes flash with anger.
I watch her control herself, clenching her jaw and unclenching it before
her next words are spoken.
"What do you have to say?"
There is a hysterical edge to her tone I have not heard before.
I am silent, helpless. What can I say which will make everything between
us right again? I search my heart, my soul, hoping for a phrase, a
reply, which will reach across this void.
"I'm concerned. What happened in the park today puts you in danger as an
FBI agent. . ."
"Is this another one of your 'supervisor' talks? Spare me the indignity
of. . ."
"I'm worried that the killer's. . ."
"I'm not going to ruin your precious case, Mulder, if that's what. . ."
". . .that you're in danger. . ."
"I can take care of myself."
"That isn't my point. I'm trying to say that I think this case is
potentially dangerous to you. That I am concerned about you as an agent,
and. . ."
"And what? You want me off this case? Is that what you're saying?"
"No, I'm not saying that, Scully. I'm saying that it would be better if
you took a less active role in the pursuit of this killer. . ."
"Fuck you."
"I don't think that. . ."
"You drag me out here and now you're telling me to stay home. Make up
your fucking mind."
"Jesus fucking Christ, Scully. Would you stop interrupting me?"
My hand slams across the steering wheel. I open the door, walking, hands
on my hips, trying to control the dangerous swell of emotions.
Thoroughly pissed off, I kick a large rock, listening to it skitter and
ricochet against concrete, its passage as senseless and directionless as
mine.
She twists everything I say; reads pity in the lines of my face, feeding
this dark anger inside which epitomizes her disease. I kick the tire of
the car, kick the back fender, wanting to feel the blows upon my body,
realizing gradually it is futile.
I return to the driver's seat, shutting the door.
I begin again, distancing myself, pushing all emotion from my voice.
Perhaps the cold reason of science is the best approach.
"Scully, your condition is affecting your work. Over the past three week
I have noticed a continuing deterioration of. . ."
"Take me home, Mulder."
Fuck.
I slam the car into drive, swerving into traffic, tires squealing.
I can't seem to do one fucking thing right. My friendship and concern is
treated with contempt and suspicion. Not one fucking thing I say, is
right. No word or glance or action is enough to heal the wound between
us.
We drive fifteen minutes to her apartment in silence.
Turning onto her block, her hand is already on the handle, scared, I am
sure, by my unwarranted outburst of anger on the side of the road. She
opens the car door before I even slow down. Stepping out, she walks
stiffly; erect, proud. She does not look back. She does not speak to me.
I wait, watching her fumble with her keys, opening her door. The
darkness swallows her, the door slamming behind her. No light appears in
her window. Seconds pass into minutes as I sit in my car, alone,
thinking of the act which must be committed; this final betrayal.
Give me strength. Oh, God, give me the strength to do this to her.
What a joke. What a shitty world He has created that her only salvation
lies in my betrayal.
There is little justice on this planet. Millions of years echo with
reverberations, with the sounds of silences filled with sorrow and death
and a hundred weeping lost souls. My life has been riddled with it: My
sister, my father, my mother, Melissa; a thousand victims whose faces
and names I no longer remember. I watch this progression of death
throughout my life, weakened by its constant blows.
Give me strength. Oh, God, please give me the strength to do this to
her.
I reach for the cell phone, calling Skinner at home, sealing her fate
with my Judas kiss.
-----------------------------------------------
I walk erect, proud; carefully pulling my shoulders back in rigid
posture as I walk to my apartment.
From my soul, words pour forth; they fall silent, their meaning blurred
by sorrow.
Mulder, I look in every gesture for significance; I repeat every scene
between us longing to discern meaning behind your indifference. Tonight,
in the car, you revealed what you have masked so well: Pity. God. It is
a barren emotion and in its shadow there is little chance for our
survival.
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
The sidewalk stretches from feet into miles; each more difficult than
the last, my composure threatening to crack with each step. Fumbling in
my purse for my keys distracts me and I manage to make it through before
the hot tears spill down my cheeks.
I lean against the door, the room dark, needing no lights.
Night has become my life; it is complete, absolute. I cower in this
darkness, feeling it press upon my body, eager; crushing my chest, my
arms, my legs; anchoring me motionless.
Sometime later, I go into the bathroom, turning on the light, staring at
the face which confronts me in the mirror of my medicine cabinet. This
is not me. This is a reflection of a woman I only thought I was. She is
me. She is not me. I shake my head in disgust; she replicates the
gesture in mockery.
The woman turns her head slowly, red hair gleaming in the bright lights.
We share similarities in the way we look, the way we move, but we are
not the same. Her left is my right. Her right is my left. My death will
be her life and her life will be my death. The only thing we share are
the eyes.
Hers are red, swollen. I touch mine, as she touches hers. The eyeballs
are hot, sticky; when I reach out to feel the lids of her eyes, they are
cool and slick and one-dimensional.
I wonder why she cries. Perhaps her lover has deserted her after a
fight. I imagine him leaving, slamming the door of the apartment as she
collapses on the softness of their bed, wrapped in a comforter which
offers no comfort, and crying in the darkness. Rising to get a drink or
splash water on her face or pee, she stares at her reflection, seeing
only the grief of a dying woman who is like her, but not her.
Tonight, I spoke the truth to Mulder. His eyes filled with pity. I felt
it twist inside my heart like a knife, wondering that I never saw it
before.
I can live without his pity. I can fucking live and die without it.
I am unfettered by possessions, by friendship, by love. Nothing in this
life holds dominion over me. I welcome death with open arms, thankful
for its release, watching the reflection of this other woman throw her
arms out wide as if welcoming home her long lost lover.
END 6/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER SEVEN
-----------------------------------------------
March 27, 1997
3:42 am
Apartment 204
Bethesda, MD
He is afraid of the dark.
Sleeping between nightfall and dawn, his terror is suppressed by the
radiance from a small light. It is a pretty thing - pale yellow and in
the shape of a sea shell. Another glows from the electrical socket in
the bathroom. This one is a blue sailboat. He leaves it on in case he
needs to urinate in the middle of the night.
Suddenly awake, one eye opens, searching for the red numbers on his
digital clock. 3:42. It is hours before the alarm will sound. His mind
is instantly alert; his body too tired to follow. He remains underneath
the cotton sheets dressed only in white briefs, thinking of Her.
He names her Julia; it rolls off his tongue like music, suiting her.
"Julia."
Her dark hair is sweet against his lips; soft. It tickles the side of
his cheek, strands poking his nostrils as he inhales deeply, her scent
filling his lungs, making him hard. He imagines she will smell like
lilacs.
His hand moves underneath the sheet, touching himself.
Julia's breasts are large and full. Fingering her nipples, they peak,
and she groans. He lowers his head, teasing one with the tip of his
tongue, tasting earth and her secret perfume as her back arches
invitingly.
Julia is the perfect woman. She is his soul mate, his other half.
Together they will be complete.
He continues to stroke himself, her perfume heavy on the air, on his
sheets, his hands, his body.
Lilacs.
They are heavy in the air like an unseen presence. The boy smells them,
imagining he can grab the scent with dirty fingers. Standing silent,
eyes closed, not daring to breathe, he quickly reaches out a hand,
making a fist. Opening it, he finds nothing.
It is lunch time. He hides at the back of the school yard among the
lilac bushes. Crawling between a tangle of branches, he reaches his
sanctuary. He has an apple, a comic book, and forty-five minutes to
himself. This is a time when fear recedes, relinquishing its hold, and
he can relax. In school his days are spent watching the big white clock
with the black arms tediously rotate, finally reaching eleven-fifteen
when the bell signals his release.
He places his meager possessions on the grassy carpet, watching the
pockets of purple blossoms bend in the gentle May breeze. They seem to
be nodding at him as if they have some great wisdom they wish to impart.
"Yes," they appear to say. "We know things you do not. Magical things."
Spring: Soft. Secret. Silent.
The boy is eight. It is a tender age; an age when the greatest hurts are
formed, culling wounds which never heal. He is a small child, thin for
his age with thick glasses the other children tell him are made from the
bottom of coca cola bottles. They slide down to the end of his nose,
pinching it, making his voice nasal, each intake of air punctuated by an
eerie whistle.
He has no friends. He is never picked to play dodge ball or baseball; he
is never asked to kiss a girl underneath the slide.
His classmates whisper behind hands, giggle at his back, giving him a
wide berth as if he is contaminated by a strange catching disease no one
told him about. Once, he turned around quickly, catching a child who
was pinching his nose like there was an awful smell in the room. The boy
cried, causing the children to scatter from the room like an angry cloud
of flies.
He spends his lunch hours alone, under the shade of the lilac trees,
content; forgoing the rude shoves at the monkey bars and the
outstretched legs tripping him near the swings.
This is his secret place.
The leaves cast shadows, patterns of dark and light, on the pages of his
open comic book. His back is pressed against the cold metal of the fence
which separates the back of the playground from the city park.
Invisible, the boy hears the screams and laughter from the school yard.
The sound is just beyond his range of hearing, and he makes believe it
is the buzz of angry mosquitoes hungry for blood.
In this sheltered place, the boy is safe from them.
Behind him he hears the rustling of leaves, the sounds of twigs breaking
and snapping on the ground.
Cri-ick. Pop-snap. Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.
An animal. A very large animal.
Cra-ack.
Pop-snap. Snap. Snap.
The boy is frightened, expecting a large body to pounce on him, teeth
barred.
When he hears the voices, he relaxes. There are two of them: male and
female.
"You sure no one can see us back here?"
"No one can see us. Over here."
Through the leaves, in the soft darkness of the forest, he sees the
white glow of their skin, the dark shades of their clothes.
The man pushes the woman against the tree, his mouth on hers.
The man groans.
He reaches up under the woman's shirt exposing a breast. His mouth goes
to the large brown nipple which is taut, hard. The boy watches him bite
it with sharp white teeth. The man bites it hard enough to make it
bleed; a smear of blood marks his chin.
"Fuck. You just fucking bit me. You goddamn animal."
The woman pushes the man away.
"Touch it."
The man takes her hand and pushes it into his groin, forcing her to rub
it.
"Stop it."
"Come on, baby. That feels good."
The man kisses her again, grinding his pelvis into her, pinning her
against the tree.
The woman struggles, freeing one hand, slapping him across the face.
"What the fuck did you do that for?"
The man is angry.
"I told you to stop it."
"You know you want it, bitch. You want it rough, huh?"
He grabs her, pushing her shirt up, biting her again. The woman
struggles harder. She opens her mouth to scream but the man punches her
in the stomach. She doubles over and he grabs her hair, pulling her face
until it very nearly touches the bulge in his jeans.
"Bitch. Did you think you were going to come in here and tease me? Take
it out."
The man shakes her with each word.
"Take. It. Out."
The woman unzips his jeans.
The man suddenly throws her backwards, her body prone in the dirt,
pulling a switchblade from his cowboy boot.
"Take your fucking clothes off. Now."
Jeans, shirt, panties. She is naked, shivering; vulnerable.
He pulls his stiff cock from his underwear. Then he lowers his body on
her, pumping fiercely, frantically, the woman's legs spread, her arms
flung wide in supplication as if she is being crucified.
Grunts.
The man slows.
The woman cries.
The man rolls off, stuffing himself in his jeans, throwing the woman's
clothes at her.
"Get dressed."
The woman sits, naked, crying; her mascara runs, creating dark smudges
around her eyes.
This singular image excites the boy in an uncomfortable way.
"Quit fucking crying. You wanted it. Now get dressed or I'll leave your
ass here."
"I. . ."
"Hurry the fuck up."
The woman dresses, her features twisted with shame and horror. Rising,
her posture meek, her hands hug the front of her shirt as if protecting
herself from further degradation.
The man and the woman leave.
The boy's Batman comic is unread; his apple with three round bites,
white flesh gathering specks of dirt, lies forgotten on the ground.
The school bell rings and he is summoned back to class.
Later that evening, the boy drops a glass on the kitchen counter and it
breaks.
"Clumsy son-of-a-bitch."
His mother hits him on the side of his head.
"Just like that no good father of yours. Stupid little bastard."
A slap across the face.
"What's the matter you stupid little fuck?"
She puts her face directly in front of his, the stink of whiskey and
nicotine nearly causing him to gag.
"Clean up that mess or you'll be a sorry piece of shit."
More words. More accusations. The words no longer have sound; they are
silent and lethal. The boy watches her mouth move up and down, up and
down, but he cannot hear one word. Instead he becomes fixated on the
shape of her red lips, of the thick black eyelashes clumped with black
mascara. He wonders if hitting her will stop her mouth from moving. He
wonders if biting her will make her mascara pool into dark smudges
beneath her eyes.
He imagines her clutching herself like the woman from the woods,
following; meek and degraded. He will lead his mother around like a cow
on a leash.
She will not yell at him.
She will not call him bad names.
She will not hurt him.
Everyone at school will like him.
He will be safe wherever he goes.
These images cause the unfamiliar excitement to well up in the pit of
his belly. When his mother puts him in the closet this time, he does not
cry. Instead, he draws strength from this new fantasy, knowing if he is
quiet enough and wily enough, he can make it come true.
He needs to pee. The pressure from his bladder dampens these memories,
ruining his chances at achieving an orgasm. In disgust he stops the
motion of his hands, rising from the bed and entering the bathroom.
As his feet shuffle over the tiled floor, he is struck by the sensation
of being watched. Movement from the corner of his eye startles him;
turning, his heart pounds. He sees his face in the bathroom mirror.
Laughing at his own folly, he remains unable to shake off the feeling of
being watched.
He offers his mirrored self a shaky smile, watching it repeated in the
reflective surface.
His lips stretch, growing fuller, softer; the smile revealing small
white teeth. His short dark hair grows longer, curlier; his features
becoming more delicate until his reflection metamorphasizes into
Julia's. Her beauty is complete; marred only by the faint impression of
his face lurking underneath hers.
"Julia."
It sounds like music.
"Would you accompany me to the opera?"
Her offers her his arm.
The woman smiles, nodding her pleasure, dimples appearing on the sides
of her cheek. They are the cutest things and he is so moved he kisses
them. Julia giggles in pleasure, opening her arms wide in a gesture of
acceptance and invitation, welcoming him as her new lover.
He nods, winking at her, forgetting that he needs to pee.
"Today, my love."
It is a whisper, a promise. Then the image is gone.
Returning to bed, he sets his alarm a few hours earlier, knowing that
today is the day he will finally summon the courage to ask her out.
-----------------------------------------------
Sleep is disturbed by a whisper, by the call of my own imagination. I
become alert in an instant, expecting to see a face peering over me in
the darkness, hands reaching towards me.
Nothing.
No one.
My heart flutters, sweat breaking out on my forehead.
A nightmare. Shit. Wondering what time it is, I turn towards the
luminescent numbers on by bedside clock. 3:46 am. Shit. My alarm is not
scheduled to wake me until 6:50 am.
I lie in bed, underneath the cool sheets, my mind alert, my body loathe
to move.
Sleep is fickle. Insomnia is a side effect of my treatments. I no longer
sleep through the entire night, waking at odd times, exhausted; unable
to slow my mind, to rest.
This darkness is a shroud straining against my eyes. It covers me: thick
black silk; my burial gown. I am weightless, devoid of sensation,
floating between life and death. Night strips away the sight of my
possessions, my body, my humanity; the absence of light and silence
filling me as I imagine my own death, my own body lying in a coffin,
inert.
This is my fate. This is death.
The embrace is familiar for I have experienced it once before.
Tonight, however, I am alive; restless. My skin is hot and clammy; my
forehead feverish.
I could use a glass of water; coolness splashing on my face.
I rise, heading into the bathroom, startled by sudden movement from the
corner of my eye. Heart pounding, I turn, startled by my own reflection
in the mirror. My eyes are wide, terrified.
Shit.
I laugh to myself, a shaky sound, turning on the faucet, leaning over to
run the cool water on my face.
What? Something. I hear something.
Looking up, the face in the mirror is no longer mine.
It is Selma's.
Her eyes are sad, incredibly sad, filled with the grief of death, like
mine.
These words are whispered but her mouth does not move.
I grab the edge of the sink for support, watching the water swirl down
the drain.
When I look back up, she is gone.
END 7/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER EIGHT
-----------------------------------------------
6:35 am
March 27, 1997
Conference Room 212
FBI Headquarters
Fifteen men and women gather in the conference room. They are dressed in
variety of jeans, sweatshirts, khakis and oxford shirts. The majority
cradle cups filled with hot coffee as they scan the distributed
materials waiting for me, Spooky Mulder, to continue.
"What we have here is an organized serial killer. He is methodical,
neat. His victims are chosen in advance, at random, in heavily
trafficked areas. We are looking for a white male, aged eighteen to
twenty five, possibly older if he lives out in the sticks as his social
development would be slower. He will be thin or wiry, a loner, not
exactly a whiz kid in high school, introverted, probably into
pornography. The childhood background will be classic - a dysfunctional,
broken family with an absent father and a domineering, overly protective
mother. She may have given him the impression that all women are bad
except for her. The UNSUB would therefor fear women and not be able to
deal with them which is why he renders them unconscious or powerless
quickly."
A few agents nod their heads. A classic profile, one they had seen many
times before.
"He has a tremendous amount of anger and seeks to depersonalize his
victims, through the face, breast, hand, and genital mutilation. He
derives his sexual satisfaction from inflicting pain. The removal of the
hair also says something else. While this could also be an attempt at
depersonalization, I believe the act of cutting of the victim's hair is
an insult, a degrading gesture. I expect the UNSUB to twist things
around in his mind until he is convinced that the relationships with his
victims is 'normal'. "
More nods. A few grim stares.
"Surveillance of University Yard will occur in organized in pairs. Your
assigned quadrant is located on the campus maps in front of you. Mason
and Naturi will be located on the top floor of the Colonial Parking
Garage which is due north. Ground movement with be followed with high
powered surveillance equipment. Any questions? Fine. Downstairs at the
South Entrance in ten minutes."
The agents gather their briefs, their coffee, and file out of the room
in noisy clusters.
Skinner remains behind. He sits at the table, tapping his pen on the top
of his legal pad. He contemplates me in silence, less than a minute
passing. The tap of his pen could be the ticking of a bomb.
That minute feels like an hour.
Avoiding his stare, I pick up the loose accumulation of papers in front
of me. Movement fills the uneasy silence between us. Finally, he speaks.
"Agent Mulder, I hope this works."
"I have reason to believe the killer has picked out his next victim. .
."
"That isn't what I mean."
I carefully arrange the papers, shoving them into my briefcase, refusing
to look at him.
Skinner waits out my diversionary tactic, a grim look in his eyes. He
knows the personal cost of my actions; I could almost believe he
sympathizes as well.
Shit. No sense in avoiding it. We knew this day would eventually come,
as far back as the initial prognosis of Scully's cancer. I have dreaded
its arrival, deriving no comfort that the waiting period has finally
ceased. The burden has not been lifted; it has merely mutated into
something far worse.
I shove more papers into my briefcase, not caring that the edges bend.
He is watching me with a neutral expression on his face.
"Sir, we both knew this day would come."
"Agent Scully will petition the decision."
"With both our signatures, it will be denied. She knows this."
He nods, picking up his leather writing pad, inserting his pen into its
holder. His gaze is thoughtful and in the silence I feel the sudden need
to explain myself, my words tripping over each other; awkward.
"Sir, you know if there were any. . .chance. . . I would not choose to
do this. Agent Scully is a valuable asset to the Bureau. If I thought
she could continue in the field I would not have requested her removal.
. ."
"Agent Mulder. I am aware this is a difficult decision. I have no desire
for you to justify your actions. I simply want to be sure this is right
for Agent Scully. We owe her that."
I want to throw my coffee cup against the wall. I want to hear it crash
and break, grinding the pieces into the cheap carpet under the heel of
my shoe. I do not want to do this to Scully. Fuck. It is too hard to rip
away this last piece of her life so she can quietly die in her apartment
or her mother's house or in the sterile room of a hospital.
In some perverted way, I am bound by duty, by friendship, to remove her
from danger.
Oh, in my soul, I know there is no god. No justice.
"Sir. Agent Scully has been. . . deteriorating over the past three
months. The aspects of this case have increased the symptoms of her
illness. It is my belief that a continuance of her field duties will put
her in immediate personal danger. This is a risk I am unwilling, and
unable to take. "
Skinner crosses his legs, sharpening the crease in his pants.
"I happen to agree with you, Agent Mulder. I've read the report you left
this morning."
More silence passes between us. In it, he seems to absolve me. Yet there
are sins in this world which can neither be rationalized nor forgiven.
This betrayal, I fear, is one.
"I've signed the request. Agent Scully will be put on medical leave."
"I'd like to be the one to tell her."
Skinner rises, straightening his tie, gathering his coffee cup and
writing pad.
"I'll take care of it, Agent Mulder."
"Sir, with all due respect, as her divisional superior it is my
responsibility. . ."
"Your responsibility is to catch a killer who has brutally slain five
women. If that job is not completed, there will be a sixth victim."
"Sir. . ."
"Consider it a direct order."
My jaw clenches in frustration, a thousand arguments beginning to
formulate. Before I am able to voice them, Skinner speaks, his posture
dropping slightly as if he has shouldered a great weight.
"Agent Scully is my responsibility as well, Agent Mulder. I owe her
this."
"Yes, sir."
"I need you to catch this killer. Leave Agent Scully to me."
"Yes, sir."
He leaves the conference room without a backward glance.
Fuck.
I slam my fist into the conference room table. The sound of it echoes,
then dies. Grabbing my briefcase I follow in Skinner's wake, to an
entirely different purpose.
-----------------------------------------------
It is 8:53. Pushing open the door of the basement office, I am greeted
by silence.
Mulder is not there. The place is empty. Normally I would bask in the
fifteen or twenty minutes of quiet time before Mulder shows up, a
tornado of theories and newspaper clippings and slide shows.
This morning, the silence is ominous. There is something wrong here.
I set my briefcase and my laptop case down on my desk. My coat is placed
across the top. Searching, I find the telltale signs of his earlier
presence.
The coffee pot. It contains two inches of liquid at the bottom. The
orange ON light is glowing.
The trash can is filled with discarded papers.
The active screen saver generates flashes of colored graphics.
Fuck. Please, not this. Anything but this.
My knees buckle and I sit down hard on the wooden chair, head in my
hands.
Being left behind is no easier the third, the fourth, the umpteenth
time. It never gets any easier. Never.
Abandonment; being left behind: This emotion permeated my childhood. I
was eight or nine before I understood my father's absences had nothing
to do with me. I grew older, accepting the loss of his presence, filling
the void left in its wake with school and books and sports.
When daddy left, it was never easy. I only pretended it was.
The whole family would take him to port, his two canvas bags in the
trunk of the car. He would kiss us each in turn and then walk up, up, up
the plank to the ship. Squinting in the sun I watched him until he
disappeared, bravely waving, biting back my tears with practiced
stoicism. At night, in the privacy of my room, I cried myself to sleep,
knowing one day he would never come back.
In the wake of Mulder's absence, I am eight years old again.
Action. I need to fight this feeling of helplessness.
I leave the room, the sharp rap of my shoes underscoring the litany of
self-doubts.
Gone. Click. Gone.
The sound is as hollow as my heart.
Click. Click. Ditched. Click. Click. Ditched.
Up sixteen floors in the elevator refusing to acknowledge the greetings
of my peers. Down the long hallway, through the open door, ignoring
Kimberly's grave words.
"Agent Scully, AD Skinner is expecting. . ."
Past her, to the inner door, turning the knob, pushing it open angrily,
stepping into his office unannounced. Instinctively, I inspect the room
for the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.
Nothing.
"Agent Scully, I've been expecting you."
I walk to his desk where he sits reading a report. Light shines onto the
lenses of his glasses making his eyes blank, without emotion. He
motions to the chair in front of him.
"You've been expecting me?"
Suddenly, it all makes terrible sense. Mulder gone. His suggestion that
I take a medical leave. Advice to take off a personal day. Oh, shit.
This is far more serious than being pulled off surveillance duty.
"Please sit down, Agent Scully."
I remain standing. It is impossible to do otherwise. One false movement
of my body will send my restraint spiraling out of control.
"Sir, I need to know what is going on. There is supposed to be a
surveillance task assigned to GWU. I came in fully. . ."
"There is a surveillance. You are not a part of that task force, Agent
Scully."
"Sir, if Agent Mulder gave you any reason to believe that I was not
able. . ."
"It was my decision. Not Agent Mulder's"
Agent Mulder's decision. The words have a finality to them. I detect an
undercurrent of meaning in Skinner's phrasing and like a drowning man I
struggle blindly, groping for the right argument, the right words which
will change the outcome of this meeting.
"Your decision is based on Agent Mulder's report. If I can speak
frankly, sir, he is given to grievous error on his. . ."
"Sit down, Agent Scully. We can do this the hard way if you'd like, but
I would much rather discuss this without hearing recriminations on your
partner's behavior."
Skinner sets down his report, folding his hands on top of his desk,
leaning forward to give me his undivided attention. I have no choice but
to take the chair directly in front of him. Even in this state of
distress, I am unable to defy authority.
"Agent Scully, Agent Mulder has requested your removal from active duty.
This is to be considered an involuntary medical leave."
"Sir. . ."
"Agent Mulder has cited several incidences where. . ."
"I'm sure that I can explain. . ."
"Allow me to finish, Agent Scully. Several incidences are cited in his
report where you experienced seizures, nosebleeds, disorientation. As
you are well aware, it is against Bureau policies to allow field agents
to remain active if there are medical conditions which severely
interfere with their duties or endanger their own safety. Now, I have
read, and reread this report and I conclude with Agent Mulder's
recommendation for your immediate removal."
"Sir, these incidences are Agent Mulder's objective opinions. They are
not based on medical fact, but on his own subjective opinions which are
sorely tainted by. . ."
"Are you denying these events occurred?"
"No. I am simply stating that Agent Mulder does not have the medical
knowledge to diagnose if I am fit for duty."
"He is your divisional supervisor. It is his responsibility to pull an
agent off duty of he feels that their life is threatened by their own
actions."
"Sir. . ."
"Agent Scully. I have read the report. I have signed the report. There
will be no petitions without medical certification."
No. Nonono. How could Mulder do this to me? Already, I know the answer:
He doesn't want me. Mulder doesn't want me. Doesn't want me. Doesn't.
Want. Me.
The phrase repeats in my mind like a death toll, the knowledge of it
destroying me.
I have become his cancer. He performs his operation with words, with a
report, neatly excising me from his life.
Skinner leans forward, his eyes searching my face; emotion softening his
features.
"Agent Scully, you can appreciate that Agent Mulder's decision was not
an easy one. Your well-being is his responsibility. I hope you can view
his actions as being in your best interests. You must know that your
health is his only concern."
"No, sir. I do not. . ."
My voice quivers. It is the voice of that eight year old saying goodbye
to her father.
I rise, leaving his office, not caring if I am dismissed or not. After
all, it doesn't matter anymore.
I walk back down the hall, the bottom of my life dropping out in less
than ten minutes. Dying, the ties around me are cut: partner, friend,
boss, sister, father. There is not one relationship which has not been
tainted by this malignant growth. It eats away the facets of my life as
it eats away the cells inside, a fat and lustrous worm decomposing all
the parts of my life with its constant, rhythmic chewing.
Sixteen floors down, the office is still silent; omnipotent in its
silence.
I begin to gather my things: Photos, coffee cup, radio. The remains of
my Bureau life are tossed effortlessly in a cardboard box. They are
pathetic reminders of my incomplete dreams.
Leave me the fuck alone.
Leave.
Me.
Alone.
I am no longer your salvation. Mulder is there, watching, waiting. He
will have to catch your faceless killer. I no longer want any part in
this fucking charade.
Shit.
Shaking, I dial Mulder's cell phone.
"The number you have reached is currently not in service. Please. . ."
His phone is turned off. Undercover surveillance.
I grab my coat, my keys, leaving the building for what may be the last
time. I do not pause, do not stop to wonder why I am refusing direct
orders, why I will not leave Mulder to this task. If I stop and question
I will lose my nerve.
My hands tremble as I reach the parking lot and start my car.
END 8/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER NINE
-----------------------------------------------
9:25 am
March 27, 1997
University Yard, George Washington University
Washington, D.C.
"Quadrant seven in."
"Quadrant eight in."
"We have your places visually fixed. Naturi will be scanning the area
for suspicious activity. I will be tracking your movements. Mason out."
I sit on the cold bench, waiting; books piled in my lap, scanning the
University Yard. This waiting is the hardest part. I force my fingers to
turn the pages, absently searching blocks of text, historical pictures
of World War I, attuned to the slightest movement. I am poised, tense; a
hunter waiting patiently for its prey to leave the safety of its hole.
Several students wander aimlessly across the campus, 8:30 classes
letting out early, stopping at the Student Center for coffee or greasy
fast food biscuits before heading to their 9:35 classes. I scan their
faces, looking for hidden evil and finding nothing but innocence ringed
with dark circles and worry.
-----------------------------------------------
He leaves the parking structure, his step light, jaunty.
He has dressed carefully: Dark blue tweed pants, light blue Polo shirt,
navy blue knitted vest. He applied small doses of his most expensive
cologne. He chews a stick of wintergreen gum, knowing that bad breath
does not make a good first impression. He has removed his thick glasses
and opted for contacts.
He has beautiful blue eyes. His ophthalmologist once told him that all
beautiful eyes are generally near-sighted. Since this is his best
feature, he thought it wise to leave the glasses at home.
Today was the first day he would meet Julia and he wanted everything to
be perfect.
Fingering the knife in the corner of his overcoat, he knew it would be.
-----------------------------------------------
Left. Leftleftleftleft.
I drive, piloted by a fear which is not mine. Urgency forces me to speed
around the straggling traffic leftover from this morning's rush hour. I
know I am heading towards George Washington University, but I have no
idea of my final destination. I only know that I must hurry to avert
some terrible tragedy which will occur if I do not arrive in time.
Faster. Fasterfasterfaster.
The light in front of me turns red.
Fuck it. I step on the gas, looking up at the crimson eye as I fly
through the intersection, blaring the horn, hoping I can avoid a
collision.
-----------------------------------------------
"Quadrant six, this is Mason. You have a possible in your area. Man near
the trash can on the southwest corner of the yard. He's been there for
four minutes."
My eyes search, rising from the book. A young man in brown leather
bomber coat. His movements are jerky and nervous.
"Mason, this is Mulder. I have him."
The man looks directly at me.
I drop my eyes to the book, my heart rate doubling.
When I look back up, he is shaking someone's hand, moving off towards
the Law Center.
"Mason, the guy is heading toward the Law Center. False alert."
Every nerve in my body is poised.
Soon. I feel him coming.
-----------------------------------------------
He is being watched. It is the same feeling as the one yesterday when he
sat at the park bench. Unseen eyes watch his movement as he crosses the
University Yard. He heads for the bench he sat on yesterday, only to see
a strange man sitting there. Books are open in his lap, but the man
pages through them without enthusiasm. He is much too old to be a
student. A teacher perhaps?
He walks briskly, with purpose, aware that something is wrong. He does
not know what this is, but his instinct tells him to keep walking, to
keep moving away from the University Yard. There is danger here.
His hands in his pockets are suddenly slick with sweat.
He feels the need to hide, to slip into darkness. Heels clicking, he
alters his plans, moving towards shelter.
-----------------------------------------------
Drivedrivedrive.
I go up the ramp, parking in the handicap slot, not caring. The car
barely makes it into the spot before I am out, slamming the door.
Outoutoutout.
I leave Colonial Parking Garage stopping as the sun hits my face,
momentarily blinded by the light. My hand reaches up to shade my eyes. A
dull ache begins beneath my skin, my skull.
Here. He is here.
I slowly turn to my right, catching the scent of my prey.
-----------------------------------------------
Scanning the faces, I see nothing. People pass the bench where I sit as
the class periods change, students, professors scurrying between
building. It is impossible to pick one face out of the seas of faces
around me. I am drowning in eyes, noses, white skin, brown skin, black
hair, yellow hair. No one visage is twisted with the evil lurking
beneath.
He is here. I know he is here. I feel his presence. I wonder where the
little bastard is hiding. Where I would hide if I were him.
My thoughts are broken by the voice in my ear.
"Agent Mulder, this is Naturi. Is Agent Scully joining us?"
The words immobilize me.
"What?"
"Agent Scully is headed towards Corcoran Hall. Is she. . ."
"Fuck. Mason, send me backup. I'm leaving Cruz here in Quadrant Six."
"Is there a problem. . ."
I rip the tiny ear device out, not hearing the rest of the words,
heading toward Corcoran Hall.
Damn, Scully. I should have known better.
-----------------------------------------------
He opens the glass doors, heading down, like an animal burrowing in it
hole. He is unable to shake the feeling that he is being followed. He
must hide. Must hide. Hide.
His footsteps echo with this need. He goes down one, two three flights
of stairs. The place is deserted. His panic begins to subside.
At the very bottom, there is darkness. He slips into it, withdrawing the
knife from his pocket.
He waits, watching; ready for his hunter to reveal his face.
-----------------------------------------------
Fuckfuckfuck.
I am disoriented, the throb in my head growing stronger. He is here,
somewhere, but I have lost the feel of him. Absentmindedly, I wipe the
fine line of blood from my upper lip.
He's hiding. Where would he hide? Where would I hide if I were him?
A building. That seems logical. But this is a fucking campus and there
are building everywhere. Which way do I go? Left or right? Left or
right?
Fuck. He's gone underground. Where?
There are two building immediately in front of me.
Which one? Whichonewhichonewhichone?
Without thinking, I choose Corcoran Hall, pulling on the glass doors,
praying to god I have chosen wisely.
-----------------------------------------------
Fuckfuckfuck.
Where could Scully have gone? I don't see her anywhere in the sea of
bodies. Movement everywhere, but no flash of red hair. Where the hell
did she go?
Left or right? Left or right?
I jam the ear piece back in.
"Naturi, I cannot locate Scully. Where did you last see her?"
"Inside the building to your left. I've got a fix on you Mulder. Glass
doors to your right. Jansen and Simmons are on their way."
Without thinking I pull on the glass doors, praying to god I will get to
Scully in time.
-----------------------------------------------
He hears footsteps.
Small footsteps. Cautious footsteps. The tread of a hunter.
They descend down the staircase, one step at a time, quiet, sensing his
presence.
There is nowhere for him to go, nowhere to run. Back pressed against the
stairwell, he raises his knife.
A shoe. He sees a shoe. It is a woman's foot.
He is struck with relief. He almost laughs out loud.
A woman. A fucking woman is following _him_? The irony of it makes him
want to throw his head back and laugh wildly, but his sense of
preservation does not permit this action. Instead, he bares his teeth in
a welcoming smile, relaxing his posture, gripping his knife more
tightly.
He might actually enjoy this.
Yes sir. This could indeed be fun.
Another foot. Another pretty black leather shoe with sensible heels. The
edges of two black pants. If he stuck his hand out from the stairwell he
could touch the fabric of those pants. In fact, if he looked straight
up, he could probably get a healthy view all the way up to her panties.
His smile becomes wider. He bites his lip, overcoming the urge to
giggle.
Only four steps left.
She treads them carefully.
One.
Two.
Pain shoots through his head like fire. He almost drops the knife in
shock. Son-of-a-bitch. Son-of-a-bitch.
Three.
A thin trickle of blood oozes from his right nostril. Shit. He's
bleeding. He's actually bleeding. Alarmed, he wipes at it with his
sleeve. Off. Off. Get it off.
Four.
Her pale face appears in front of him. Red hair the color of copper
frames the whiteness. She is fragile, her beauty spoiled by the thin
line of blood dripping from her nose.
Staring at each other, face to face, he is overwhelmed with the urge to
introduce himself, to hold out his hand and feel her lovely bones
clasped firmly against his skin.
The gun held in both her hands makes this impossible.
She moves closer, pointing the barrel at his chest.
"Don't move, FBI."
Her hands begin to shake. Small tremors at first, then larger ones. He
watches in fascination.
"Don't. . . move. . ."
The woman's eyes roll up. He watches her fingers spasm on the gun,
trying to keep it in her hands.
"Don't. . ."
Her speech stops abruptly, her arms jerking involuntarily. The guns
drops to the floor, clattering. Her eyelids flutter, eyes rolling
beneath the delicate flaps of skin, knees bending, as she crumples to
the floor, her body racked by spasms, writhing on the floor.
"Hi. I'm Randall. Nice to meet you."
The man moves toward her, knife outstretched.
-----------------------------------------------
"Don't move, FBI."
Scully voice issues the command only a few feet below me.
Down. Down. Down.
Three flights of stairs seem endless.
Half-way down the last flight I see her, body sprawled on the floor,
jerking, blood spurting from her nose.
A man with a knife stands over her, his arm raised high as he prepares
to strike.
"Freeze! FBI!"
One second. One chance. I squeeze off a fire and the man drops to the
floor.
Scully's body continues its dance on the dirty floor.
Fuckfuckfuck. Oh god, Scully. Not now. Not now, oh please not now. Not
this way.
The images slow, becoming individual beats.
The man on the floor groaning.
Footsteps pounding down the stairs.
The rattle and tap of Scully's shoes as the seizure shakes her.
Then suddenly there is action, movement, sound.
I scream into my ear piece.
"Naturi, Mason, get an EMT in here. We have an agent down."
Moments later, Simmons and Jansen enter.
I hold Scully's body which continues to twitch, the movements becoming
slower, slower, finally stopping.
From far away, I hear the wail of sirens like the cries of a woman in
grief.
END 9/10
The Sounds of Silence
by GirlGone (girlgone@geocities.com)
DO NOT forward to any other list or forum. Please DO NOT archive. If you
are missing any sections, please e-mail me and I will be happy to send
them to you.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER TEN
-----------------------------------------------
6:10 pm
March 27, 1997
Dana Scully's Apartment
Arlington, VA
There is a knock at my door. In a way I have expected it; in another, I
have dreaded it.
It is Mulder. He arrives after obtaining a warrant and searching Randall
Washington's premises. Finding nothing. Finding everything. The truth.
I open the door, no joy at discovering that I am right. He stands in the
hallway, his shoulders hunched into his overcoat, his hands in his
pocket.
We stare at each other, face to face in this awful truth, silent; no
words enough.
I should slam the door in his face. I should scream and kick and call
him every foul name I ever learned.
But he was right. What he did was horrible and foul, but it was right.
The EMT team arrived after my seizure. There was no action they could
take. They checked me out, pronounced me fine, and advised me to see my
doctor as soon as possible. Jensen took me home and that was it. The
end. Happily-ever after. Killer caught. Woman saved. Agent Scully to the
rescue one last time before her final exit.
How fucking anti-climatic.
Mulder opens his mouth to speak and I cut him off.
"I'm better, Mulder. You didn't have to drive over here to check up on
me."
He remains standing in the hall. I refuse to invite him in, blocking his
way, one hand resting on the door knob.
"Did you see the doctor?"
"Yes."
A blatant lie. He looks at me and immediately sees through it.
"And what did he say?"
His voice drips with sarcasm.
Fuck him.
"I appreciate the concern, Mulder, but it's none of your business."
"Don't tell . . ."
"It isn't any . . ."
"Don't, Scully. Don't . . ."
Our voices overlap and then we are silent. The words coexist in an angry
mixture hanging in the air. I see him draw a deep breath, hold it, and
begin again.
"Can I come in?"
"Mulder . . ."
Fuck it. Let him say the words so will leave. I step back out of the
door and he follows, closing it behind him.
"Scully, as your supervisor it was my. . ."
"Don't . . ."
"As your supervisor it was my responsibility to remove you from duty. To
ensure your safety."
"Mulder, you were right, OK? You were one hundred percent right. Is that
what you came over here for? To rub it in my face? To make sure that I
learned my little lesson? Well thank you very much. I concede that you
were right. Now leave me alone. "
"Scully, I didn't want to do this. It was not an easy decision to. . ."
"Fuck you."
"Scully..."
"No, fuck you, Mulder."
"Scully..."
"I knew it would come to this. I knew you would eventually see me as
some sort of liability. You want me to see your viewpoint? Well, fuck
you. I don't have to. You owe me more than that. Four years of putting
up with your shit. Your theories, your inane quest for the truth,
ditching me . . ."
"I never . . ."
Our voices rise. We are shouting, red in the face.
"You did. I'd list all the incidences but I don't have that much fucking
time."
This stops him in his tracks.
He turns away from me.
"That's right. Leave, Mulder. It's what you do best, isn't it? Go on,
get the fuck out of here. Close the fucking door and don't ever come
back. Do you hear me? Don't. Ever. Come. Back."
His hand is on the doorknob.
I always feared the end would be like this. No graceful exit. No sad
goodbye. Merely a finality born out of this silence, anger rising in
great waves, drowning us both.
The urge to strike, to hurt, is irresistible. My fists rise of their own
accord and I watch them disjointedly moving through the air in slow
motion, hitting him.
The blows rain down on his back, his shoulders, surprise turning him to
face me, eyes wide with shock, face suffused red with anger. He tries to
fend off my blows with his forearm but I am unstoppable in this rage I
have fueled for four years, in the life I have sacrificed to his self
serving purpose like a golden cattle slain at the alter of some manic
god.
He grabs my wrists with his strong hands, pushing me back against the
wall, slamming my body so hard against the drywall that the breath is
momentarily knocked from my lungs.
I struggle fiercely, unreasonably, needing to hurt him as much as he has
hurt me.
"Scully. Goddamnit Scully."
"Fuck. You."
Our words are lost in the physical exertion of our fight.
"Scully. Stop. It."
He pins my hands against the wall bringing his face close to mine. I
watch the dangerous glint of his eyes filled with the rage he has so
carefully hidden these past several months. It leaves, replaced by an
emotion so sad, so stricken that it causes tears to gather behind my
eyes.
"How could you think. . . that I would leave you?"
His voice breaks and he releases me.
"How could you. . . think. . ."
His hand rubs angrily at his eyes, hiding what is revealed there by the
movement of flesh.
The distance between us is more than feet; it is miles wide. I do not
know how to breach it. I am afraid. I am afraid that it is too late,
that too much damage has been done.
"Mulder. . ."
"I should leave."
His words are resigned, his body immobile. I wonder what it is he wants
from me.
"Mulder. . ."
"No. You're right, Scully. It's what I do best."
He moves toward the door.
"No."
I grab his arm and he pulls away as if my touch burns.
"It's too late, Scully. Some sins can be rationalized, but they cannot
be forgiven. Your sister's death is my fault. Your cancer is my fault.
Your removal from the agency is my fault. If I cannot forgive myself,
how could I ever expect your forgiveness?"
By sheer force of will, by understanding, I close the distance between
us, moving towards him, pulling his lips down to meet mine, shattering
the silence between us.
"Scully, I. . ."
His eyes are closed, his body rigid; yet his lips are soft, salty;
pliant.
"I can't, Scully. . . I can't do this. . ."
He gently removes my arms from around his neck, my hands from his face.
The rejection stings, and the urge to hurt him returns.
"Mulder, I. . ."
He stands in front of me like a scolded child, eyes pleading for
understanding. I watch him, trying to discern meaning, wondering that we
have finally come to this. An unimaginable goodbye.
He waits, trusting I will be able to read his silence like a cheap
carnival act. But I am human and I crave words and actions, not this
life riddle by silences which no longer speak volumes, but only serve to
separate, divide, conquer.
I have never wished for death as fervently as I do at this moment.
"Mulder, I think you should go."
I close my eyes, no longer trusting myself to hold back the tears.
"No."
"What?"
My eyes open in amazement.
"I said no, Scully. I'm not leaving."
"There isn't anything left to say."
He folds his arms across his chest, a stubborn look on his face.
"I think there is."
Such arrogance. First rejection, then humiliation.
Stupid-fucking-insensitive-jerk. My next words are clipped, automatic, a
knee jerk response produced on numerous occasions.
"Well, you're wrong, Mulder. As usual."
As soon as the words are out, I laugh. I can't help it. Even now, in a
moment when all is lost, I respond to the smallest of his gestures, his
words, as if nothing had ever passed between us.
His smiles, his eyes old and ancient, incredibly sad.
"Scully, it isn't you. It's me. Don't you know that?"
He takes a moment, standing inches in front of me, the heat from his
body invading my skin. He struggles to control his emotions, to assume
that smooth facade he wears so well. Then the words begin to fall, angry
and hard, words he has kept hidden for so long.
"I punish myself everyday for this. I want to take it all back. If I
could, I would wish that day you walked into my basement office never
happened. I would wish Melissa alive. I would wish your cancer gone. I
have taken so much from you already. I have no right to anything else.
No right. "
There is silence all around us now, a telling silence, a waiting
silence. In it, there is no place left to hide.
Tears slide down my cheek. It is an act which absolves us both.
"Oh, Scully."
This time it is Mulder who breaches this chasm which in reality is
merely inches; reaching out to put his arms around me, holding me firmly
against his chest, his chin resting along the side of my head,
comforting, warm, my tears soaking the dark blue of his coat jacket.
In this embrace, I am safe; for only moments, for only seconds.
This is what I imagine heaven will be like.
-----------------------------------------------
Tears slide down her cheek. In this moment we are both forgiven.
"Oh, Scully."
I reach out to breach this chasm which in reality is merely inches;
putting my arms around her, pulling her against my chest, her chin
resting along the side of my head, comforting, warm. Tears soak through
the material down to my skin, my soul.
In her embrace I find what I have sought all these years: redemption.
So gently, so very tenderly, I lift her face and kiss her.
THE END
Author's notes:
For any of you who have wondered what the hell I've been doing since
writing 'Slow Waltz', this is it. 'Sounds' grew out of a fascination
with Mulder and Scully's relationship. I wondered how Scully's cancer
would change them, how it would effect their casework and their
interaction. Finally, I wondered if it could act as a catalyst in a case
they might be working on.
Consciousness-Related Phenomena is an actual science. Information was
obtained from Princeton's research web site. There is a belief that
humans can knowingly (or unknowingly) affect mechanical things like
computers. Why not a tape recorder? I thought to myself. The black and
white movie the killer sees in his flashback is an actual movie, the
name of which I have thankfully forgotten. I saw it when I was five and
it scared the shit out of me. Mulder's profile in chapter eight was an
actual profile lifted from John Douglas' wonderful book: 'Mind Hunter'.
Everything else comes from my overly vivid imagination.
As far as the ending, some people are left wondering "Is this MSR or a
Friendship piece?"
Honestly, I don't know. I've left it up to you to decide. The ending is
suitable to both parties.
I hope you enjoyed this piece. Writing a longer story is a bit of a
departure for me and it was a wild and exhaustive ride. I had a
wonderful group of editors who encouraged me on days when I felt I had
bitten off more than I could chew. They also repeatedly insisted that I
'get this right' and shamelessly bullied me when it was warranted. This
piece would not have been as good without their thoughtful comments.
Thanks Joyce, Deb and Meredith!
And thank you for coming this far!
The Brunette, April 11, 1997
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