Title: Sleeping Beauty
Author: Jenna Brown
Rating: PG (no sex, I hope you're not disappointed)
Spoilers: No.
Warning: Character death
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'd hate to have to deal with that
responsibility.
Notes: I was reading a collection of fairy tales rewritten by
contemporary authors (Nancy Kress, Joyce Carol Oates, that kind of
thing) and this was born. It's the second of my own stories to make me
cry. Yes, it's also a M/S married but not, I hope, in a lame way.
Sleeping Beauty
There is a machine that breathes for her, with a shudder and a chunk.
In: shudder,
out: chunk. If it stops, she stops, and I sit beside her bed eyeing
where the machine plugs
into the wall and wonder what would happen if the plug works loose.
Shudder, chunk.
I bring books and read to her for hours. I bring a CD player and I play
her favorites, Mozart,
Satie, Bach on guitar, oldies, Celtic music, Bob Marley. I bring
flowers and trace them over
her face, her hands, her lips, which I keep from drying out with lip
balm, applied with the tip
of my little finger. I rub lotion into her hands and feet, her elbows
and knees. I hold her
hand and watch her, serene in this strange unending sleep.
Shudder, chunk.
There are other sounds in this tiny room, the heart monitor that beeps
steadily and slowly,
the drip of the IV. Her mother comes and talks to her, telling her news
of the family. Bill
won't come in if I'm in the room, most of the time, so when he visits I
stretch my legs and go
down to the cafeteria for a cup of bitter coffee and something
resembling a meal.
Footsteps come constantly down the hall: a doctor to glance at her
chart, a nurse to check
on her tubes and wires, an intern to bathe her. Sometimes they let me
do it, and I run the
sponge gently over her pale skin, as if I'm bathing a baby. I talk to
her as I bathe her: "Isn't
it going to be nice to have clean toes today? Is your tummy ticklish?
The water's nice and
warm, isn't it." The nurses think I'm "adorable." So devoted. So
patient.
Whatever.
Shudder, chunk.
I miss her. I miss her voice and her smile and her jokes and the scent
of her hair and the
warmth of her skin beneath my lips. I miss the way she ran her hand
through my hair to
comfort me. I miss the way we played together, the way she'd find new
places to kiss me,
the way she'd cry out my name and shiver in my embrace. I miss the way
she'd draw me
into her arms when my nightmares woke us both up, and stroke and hold me
until the
shaking stopped.
I think sometimes this would be easier to bear if she were actually
gone. If she were
missing it would not be so terrible, would it? If she were dead . . .
God.
I can't. I can't. I don't want to live without her, but she doesn't
want to live this way. I
signed that paper myself. The days are counting down and soon they'll
come and tell me,
we have to pull the plug, it's in her will, please don't make this
difficult, Mr. Mulder.
I can't do it.
Shudder, chunk.
Her skin is so pale and delicate, like parchment. She always took such
care of her
appearance, and I try to take care of her so that if when, when, when
she opens her eyes
she'll recognize herself. Sometimes the doctor tells me I'm imagining it
but I swear I do see
it her eyes move under her eyelids, and I whisper to her, "What are you
dreaming,
sweetheart? Are they good dreams? Are you dreaming of me at all? I
hope you're having
sweet dreams."
They'll have to drag me away when they come to do it.
Shudder, chunk.
Don't stop, Scully. Don't leave me now.
I lie down beside her on the narrow bed and run my hand gently over her
hollowing cheeks.
I take her very gently into my arms and kiss her fading hair. I
whisper, "Have good dreams,
love," and I sing lullabies to her, my voice cracking.
They can't tell me what happened or why. It's like she just shut off.
She was tired one
morning and her head ached and she said she was having trouble seeing,
and then around
noon she just collapsed at her desk, crumbling onto her blotter as if
her bones had given
out. She hit her head on her keyboard, hard enough to leave a bruise.
The guys think it
has something to do with the chip, but I won't let the doctor remove it.
That may kill her.
If it hasn't already.
Shudder, chunk.
They can't cure what they don't understand. They'll tell me very gently
that it will end her
suffering, that there's no hope of her ever coming out of this coma,
that my clinging to her
like this is pointless and only hurting her and everyone else who loves
her too.
I know it's necessary and I know it's what she wanted when she made her
living will, but
that doesn't stop the ache that surrounds my heart when I think of it.
Life without Scully.
Why not just send me to hell.
I don't want to live without her. Ever.
Sometimes I feel like the rest of the world has stopped, waiting for
Scully to rejoin it. I'm
always surprised to catch a glimpse of the TV or the paper and see that,
in fact, life goes on
and I am the only one in this limbo. My days are measured by the steady
rhythm, the
shudder-chunk of the machine that helps her breathe.
At first I clung to the possibility there was a cure for her somewhere.
I went to Skinner, to
Kersh, to Diana, even to Krycek. "Can't you give me anything?" I
begged from each one,
and they all had nothing. My friends searched and hunted, connecting
obscure resources
and made shady deals. I held a gun to the Cancer Man's head and
demanded he contact
his people, find me a cure, make me any deal, do something, do anything.
Nothing. No
help. No hope.
Shudder, chunk.
I'll do it the day they bury her. I have to honor her enough to go to
her funeral, but nothing
after that will be worth doing. My own will says to be buried beside
her.
The guys and Mrs. Scully take turns spelling me so I can go home to
bathe and change my
clothes. I sleep and eat at the hospital. I am on indefinite leave
from work. Kersh, I think,
suspects I'm not coming back, but he doesn't know why. When it became
clear this was
not going to end in a few days he came to the hospital. He asked me
what her favorite
flowers are. He sends bouquets every few days, and he calls to ask if
anything has
changed.
Skinner visits every few days too. He doesn't say much. He holds her
hand and watches
her sleep. Sometimes, I think, he prays. He kisses her forehead before
he goes, and gives
me a tight, helpless smile.
Diana doesn't visit. I'm not surprised.
The Cancer Man said to me, "I'm sorry. I am truly sorry. But even we
don't know what's
gone wrong. There's nothing you can do."
One night I open my eyes to see Krycek standing at the foot of her bed.
My first instinct is
to reach for my gun, but I let my hand drop. He doesn't do anything or
say anything, he just
stands there. After ten minutes or so he sighs and wipes his face with
the back of his
hand, and he mutters, "I'm sorry, man." He turns and goes as quietly as
he came. I let him
go.
I'm not the only one who misses her.
The deadline is up. The doctor explains it to me in a gentle
voice, and Mrs. Scully
holds my hand. It's my decision now.
"Yes." It's so hard to say that little word. But I know I have
to. It's what's best. It's
what she wanted. It's what her family wants.
My last gift to you, Scully. Peace.
They give me a few minutes alone with her. I kiss her and stroke
her cheeks and
her hair, and cry a little. I wish I had enough time for one more
lullaby. I lean my forehead
against hers and repeat the vows I spoke on our wedding day, to love
her, honor her,
cherish her, take care of her, put her happiness before mine. Oh, how
her eyes shone that
day. My voice shook and my hands trembled, but she was steady. She was
strong. She
always was the strong one.
And she was so beautiful in white.
Everyone else comes in to say their goodbyes, and Mrs. Scully puts
her arm around
me. I whisper, "I want her to wear her wedding dress," and she nods.
"I think she'd like that, Fox."
The doctor and one of the nurses very methodically turn off the
switches. They take
out the wires and tubes. When the heart machine falls into a long
shrill beep Mrs. Scully
sobs and buries her face in my shoulder, and Scully's brothers both turn
their heads away.
Goodbye, Scully.
I love you, Scully.
See you soon.
Shudder, chunk.
Shudder, chunk.
Shudder.
Chunk.
Shudder.
End.
Cupidian, OBSSE, Poet Laureate of the Ship, Chief Cook and Bottle Washer
66 Exeter Street: http://66exeter.webjump.com
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/televisioncity/station/3027
geocities.com/televisioncity/stationgeocities.com/televisioncity
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