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Jennifer Maurer's e-mail address has changed to: jenbirdscully@yahoo.com 
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From jenbird@enter.net Sun Apr 06 14:46:18 1997
Subject: "Ashore" by Jennifer Maurer *REPOST*
From: Jennifer Maurer <*new* email address: jenbird@earthlink.net>
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Adam, Natasha, and Stef,
Whoops, somehow the story got detached from my last e-mail...sorry.
--Jennifer
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DISCLAIMER: Don't own them, wish I did, please 
Santa can I have Mulder in my stockings for 
Christmas, etc. and so on.  They're owned by 
Chris Carter, 1013 and FOX (and no matter how 
much CC denies it, he will never convince me he 
didn't name Mulder after that network...I mean, 
why Fox?  Why not Badger or Woodchuck?).  
SPOILER: "One Breath," alternate ending.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: V/A with a dash of R.
SUMMARY: I just finished watching "One Breath" 
for the hundredth time and thought, Mulder sits 
there with Scully all night, goes home in the 
morning, and only THEN does she wake up?  
Unacceptable.  Here's my version.  Scully's 
thoughts from her coma.
COMMENTS: Eagerly awaited at jenbird@earthlink.net

For my grandmother, Marjorie.
        	     

ASHORE  1/1
By: Jennifer Maurer


"I felt the nurse had been instructed to show 
me my alternatives.  Either I got better, or I 
fell down, down, like a burning, then burnt-out 
star..."
	--Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar


God, I'm so tired.  How many times have I had 
that thought? Too many to count.  People say 
that all the time; I've said it myself, around 
a big yawn.  <I'm so tired I could die.>  I 
never really knew what that statement meant 
until now.  This time I mean it literally.   
Melissa is here, she's pulling on me, but it 
doesn't help.  Not enough.  That nurse was 
right, death is in arm's reach.  The rope has 
snapped.  I am the only thing holding myself 
here.  And I'm so tired...so heavy.

Mulder was here before.  I could feel him.  
"She's not here," he'd said curtly to Melissa.  
That hurt.  I'm right here, I wanted to scream 
at him.  I can see you standing there on the 
dock, can't you see me?  Look at me!  I'm not 
*that* far away!  Melissa can feel me.  Why 
can't you?

Anger.  That's all I felt from him.  Not anger 
at me, but at himself.  At the people, whoever 
they were, who did this to me.  It flowed from 
him in waves, like opening an oven.  That's 
what Mulder's heart felt like, an oven, full of 
nothing but white hot baking heat.  Dry as a 
desert.  It hurt more to breathe when he was 
around.  I wondered what he'd been like while I 
was gone.  I had a pretty good idea.

I heard the doctor tell Mom and Melissa that I 
had no awareness of myself or my environment.  
Hey, I wanted to say, just because I chose not 
to respond to your stimuli doesn't mean I'm 
unaware.  What's the old joke---I'm not deaf, 
I'm ignoring you.  This *is* my choice, right?  
I could wake up if I wanted to, couldn't I?  I 
just choose not to yet.  I may *never* wake up 
but oddly the thought doesn't scare me.  
Sitting in this little rowboat is nice, maybe 
death is a luxury cruise.  See, I've even 
retained my sense of humor.  I am *too* here, 
Mulder.

I admit it, I was scared when they took me off 
the ventilator.  I knew they thought I wouldn't 
survive and I had my doubts, too.  I watched 
the rope tethering my boat to the dock grow 
taut, stretch, and snap.  My lungs locked.  I 
fully expected to drift farther away from that 
dock, watching Mulder, Mom and Melissa recede 
into the distance in complete silence.  But 
that didn't happen.  After what felt like an 
eternity, I felt my chest expand with air.  I 
drew a deep breath, let it out.  One.  In, out.  
Two.  After the fifth breath I decided I was 
going to be okay.  Mom and Melissa were 
relieved, I could tell.  The oxygen helps but I 
*am* breathing on my own.  It feels more 
natural than having some respirator pushing my 
lungs full.  It also feels more dangerous.  If 
I stop, if I can't breathe, I know they're not 
going to save me.  My living will forbids it.  
So now it's entirely up to me to keep going.  
The desire is there...for now.  The 
ability...well, that's another story.  So far, 
so good, but I think I felt better when I knew 
I was tied to the dock.  Now I'm frozen in this 
boat, afraid the tiniest motion will start a 
whirlpool that will suck me under.  Fragile, I 
feel much more fragile.  

Mulder isn't helping.  I heard him screaming at 
someone, that was the first I head his voice in 
what seems like forever.  Thanks, Mulder, nice 
welcome.  Have a temper tantrum, then deny my 
presence here.  So much anger.  He sounds like 
he hasn't been sleeping, his smooth tones are 
jagged and harsh.  I miss his voice, miss his 
little whispers under his breath to me when 
he's trying to be coy.  Mulder, why don't you 
come sit by me and talk to me like *that*?  

Every time he comes to see me he never stays, 
and that hurts.  Couldn't he take a break from 
his investigation of me and just *be* with me 
instead?  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate his 
efforts to learn the truth about what happened 
to me. But what good will the truth do me right 
now?  It won't make me decide to come back.  
Can't it wait, Mulder?  It's kind of unsettling 
to know that *I* have become his new quest.  
His new obsession.  I imagine I've even taken 
priority over Samantha, and that scares me the 
most, I think.  I've watched Mulder obsess 
about his sister for almost two years now.  
I've seen what lengths he'll go to, the risks 
he will take.  I don't want to be responsible 
for him that way.  Especially not right now.  
I'm having enough trouble feeling responsible 
for myself.  

It's funny, I've always been the responsible 
one in the family. Melissa was always the free 
spirit and Dana was the rock.  Even when I went 
against Ahab's wishes and joined the FBI 
instead of going into private practice, we all 
still knew I was going to have a solid career, 
unlike Melissa, who's been drifting around God 
knows where for the past few years.  I wonder 
how Mom even got in touch with her, anyway.  
Doesn't matter.  I'm glad she's here, I can 
feel her strength and it comforts me.  Even if 
she's not sure I'll survive, either.  I know 
Melissa thinks I'm on my way to a better place, 
and her conviction in that helps me maintain my 
belief.

I want Mulder, though.  Without him there's 
just something missing.  I think it's the fact 
that he still refuses to give up on me.  
Despite all his anger and fear, I can sense 
that he knows I'm not a lost cause yet.  Mom 
and Melissa are trying to be optimistic but I 
can tell their hope is fading the longer I stay 
here.  Mulder, oddly enough, is the beacon of 
hope.  In spite of all his cynicism, he wants 
to believe.  In *me*.  The irony does not 
escape me: not only does Mulder flout my 
scientific logic every chance he gets, he also 
refuses to believe the doctors who say that I 
am going to die.  His stubborn refusal to 
accept cold, scientific facts has always driven 
me nuts.  Tonight it just might save me.

The frayed end of the rope sways back and forth 
in the water, still in reach of the dock, but 
just barely.  Someone could reach down, grab 
it, and tie it back onto the dock.  Or, I could 
reach down and reel it in, coil it on the floor 
of my boat so no one can get at it.  Neither 
choice seems the right one so for now it just 
floats along.  I wonder which way the current 
will carry it.  I wonder if Mulder affects the 
current, if Mom and Melissa do.  If I do.  If 
that nurse does.

The nurse, Owens I think she said her name was, 
seems to be the only constant in this scenario.  
Mom and Melissa come and go.  Mulder makes his 
occasional appearance, smoldering like a dying 
coal.  Even Frohike was here, I didn't know 
whether to laugh or cry when I noticed his bow 
tie.  And flowers...he brought me flowers.  
Very sweet.  I heard him and Mulder talking, 
hushed tones.  Conspiracy talk, I'm sure, 
theorizing about what happened to me.  Give it 
up, I wanted to shriek, wanted to bolt upright 
in bed.  Wouldn't *that* freak Mulder out?  
It's alive, the monster walks...

I feel like a monster with all this machinery 
hooked up to me.  Melissa doesn't like it 
either, and it strikes me as odd that we feel 
the same about this.  The scientist and the 
psychic.  She doesn't think it's natural, and 
although I can't believe I'm saying this, right 
about now I agree with her.  Well, maybe it's 
not *that* surprising, I did write this living 
will, after all.  Being a doctor, I knew better 
than most the steps that are taken to prolong a 
life.  And while I appreciate the technology, 
even take advantage of it, I do not want it for 
myself.  I drew thick black X's in the boxes: 
after a certain point (and my "point" was more 
specific than most), no feeding tubes.  No 
medications except to keep me out of pain.  No 
heroic measures. When I was eighteen I watched 
my grandmother die a slow, horrible death and I 
vowed that would never happen to me.  I watched 
her struggle to go, even while medicine was 
doing everything in its power to make her stay.  
She wasted away into a shadow of her former 
self, no longer the woman I had loved and yet 
at the same time still familiar to me.  Was 
this what death looked like, I wondered.  Since 
becoming a pathologist I have learned that 
death takes many forms.  Even after everything 
I've seen, however, my grandmother's long road 
to death still haunts me as the worst way to 
leave this life. Becoming a doctor only 
strengthened my resolve: if I'm going, let me 
go in peace.  When it becomes medically, 
scientifically clear that I can no longer stay 
in this body, do not force me to.  Melissa is 
right, it isn't natural.  

This seems to be something everyone can 
handle...everyone except Mulder.  Odd, because 
he signed the living will as my witness, just 
as I signed his.  It was no big deal at the 
time; in our line of work, you know the worst 
can happen at anytime.  Never did I dream, when 
I asked Mulder to sign, that it would end up 
like this.  A car crash maybe, I thought; at 
worst, getting shot in the line of duty.  But 
not this.  Never this.  I asked him to sign 
because I knew he would respect my wishes.  Of 
course, I know Mom or Melissa would, too, but 
somehow I thought Mulder would handle it 
better, perhaps be able to detach himself more.  
Then again, I didn't take into account his need 
to blame himself.

I wonder what he was like after Samantha was 
taken.  He's obsessive now, and we both know 
when it started.  What a terrible thing to have 
happen to a boy of twelve.  I know his father 
allowed Mulder to blame himself, and for that I 
would happily wring his neck.  What would he 
have been like if none of it had ever happened, 
if Samantha had remained where she belonged to 
grow up happy?  A mind boggling thought, since 
so much of Mulder's life was destroyed by her 
absence.  Has my absence destroyed the rest of 
him?  Would my death finish him off?  The 
thought makes me sad but does not inspire panic 
in me like it would the living Dana Scully.  
What a horrible way to refer to my waking self, 
as "the living."  But that's who she is, I am 
someone completely different here.  I am aware 
of my emotions but I'm not actively 
participating in them.  It's an odd sensation, 
and hard to describe.  I think it's because 
Someone, or Something, wants me to make the 
decision to stay or leave with a clear head, 
and emotions don't often allow you to do that.  

The best way I can think of to describe it is 
like watching a movie.  I hesitate to use the 
clich because that's how everyone describes 
near-death experiences.  I rose above my body, 
and traveled down a tunnel to the bright 
light...I mean, come on.  Give me a break.  
Maybe I'll come back and write a book disputing 
all the other books about near-death 
experiences.  Mulder would love that, I'm sure.  
Tunnel?  Bright light?  Nah, just a rowboat on 
a quiet lake.  My book could sit on the shelves 
right beside the "true" stories of alien 
abductions.  Come to think of it, I could 
probably write one of those too, couldn't I?  
How ironic.  Why didn't they take Mulder?

That's a thought I hate myself for having.  I 
do not wish this on him; I wouldn't wish it on 
my worst enemy.  I can't remember anything of 
what they did to me, I only know it was bad.  
Painful.  Wondering why he wasn't taken, it's 
not a malicious wish.  Merely curiosity.  If 
they wanted to knock the life out of the X-
Files, why not him?  Take him and never bring 
him back.  Mulder was the heart and soul of the 
X-Files, I was just the observer.  No, that 
wasn't true.  Working with Mulder, the X-Files 
have come to mean a lot to me.  But I don't 
have his drive, his obsessiveness, and they 
know it.  They should have known he'd do 
anything and everything to find me, to bring me 
back.  Now here I am, lying right in front of 
him, and he's careening out of control.  This 
isn't what they wanted.  If they actually 
thought I could be used to bring Mulder into 
line, they were dead wrong.  That was my 
original purpose, yes, but the time for that 
has long since passed.  I haven't been their 
puppet for a long time, but after this little 
field trip...no way.  Oh, I'll still be the 
skeptic, the anchor that keeps him from going 
completely off the deep end...but on *my* terms 
from now on. 

Mulder...where are you?

Mom and Melissa are losing hope for me.  Mom is 
so sad, she doesn't want to lose me so soon 
after Ahab.  Melissa is sad, too, but it's 
tempered by her belief that karma will repay 
whoever did this to me.  And that I'm going to 
a better place.  Oh, Mom believes that, too, 
like a good Catholic.  But Melissa *feels* it 
more deeply, I think.  Just like she can feel 
me.  She told Mulder I was deciding whether to 
stay or move on.  Very perceptive, Missy.  For 
once we agree on something.

I think the mist is getting heavier.  The 
forest around this lake is getting harder to 
make out, the trees are blurry.  It's not bad, 
though.  The mist is soft and cool.  
Refreshing.  It feels nice to breathe in, like 
stepping outside on a sweet spring day.

Mulder's not here but he's still angry.  I can 
feel it.

I'm glad they took the tape off my eyes.  It 
made me feel claustrophobic.  How the hell was 
I supposed to wake up with my eyes taped shut?  
Oh, right, I'm not expected to awaken.  Ever.  

Funny how that still doesn't bother me.

God, I'm tired.  Bone tired.  

Is this what dying feels like?  It's not so 
bad.  I was scared when the rope snapped, 
freeing my boat from the dock.  Rather, I knew 
I was *supposed* to be scared.  I was 
intellectually aware of the concept of fear, 
but it's not like I was shaking with fright or 
anything.  If this is what other people 
experience I can understand why they'd want to 
write about it, tell others not be afraid of 
death.

My breaths are getting shallower.  Is my 
heartbeat slowing down or is that my 
imagination?

I think the doctor is back.  I can feel Mom and 
Missy nearby and their anxiety is more acute.  
Must not be good news.  I think this is the 
home stretch.  I have been feeling myself 
weaken bit by bit.  I'm really dying.  My first 
thought is to compare it to hanging from a high 
place, and watching your aching fingers slowly 
slip off.  No, that's not right, there is no 
clenching of hands.  It's more as if...I'm a 
child, falling asleep, and gradually loosening 
my hold on a beloved toy.  The relaxation sinks 
deeper and deeper, gently unhanding me.

It's colder on the lake.  Cold that is getting 
ready to sink through my flesh.  I'll be cold 
all over soon.

More mist, it blocks the sun.  

The boat's rocking now.  The mirror of water 
shows ripples.  Oh, God, I'm going to drift 
away.  I wish I could say goodbye, tell Mom and 
Missy that I love them.  I wish I could tell 
Mulder...what?  That I love him, too?  Yes.  No 
room for lies here, might as well admit it to 
myself.  I love him.

Too late.  I'm sorry, Mulder.  I can't...can't 
do this anymore.

In, out.  Another breath.  How many left?  
There was a phrase by Sylvia Plath I always 
liked..."I took a deep breath and listened to 
the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am."  
My breathing chants the same, only to a 
slightly different beat.

I am.  I...am.  Slowing down, like a forgotten 
watch.  

Mulder, why...

The boat's moving.  Drifting.  Where?  Away.

It's not a whirlpool, as I'd feared.  Just 
floating.  Hypnotic.  Soothing.  The surface is 
calm but underneath I sense a strong current.

A grunt of surprise escapes my lips.

The boat jerks, once.  Someone has the rope.  I 
squint through the mist to see.  Mulder.  He's 
lying on the dock, with one arm stuck in the 
water up to his shoulder.  He's...looking for 
the rope.  Seems to have found it.  He stands 
up, the frayed end clutched tightly in one 
hand.  He wraps it around his fist and the boat 
jerks again.  He sits down on the dock, and 
stares across the water at me.

"I feel, Scully, that you believe...you're not 
ready to go.  And you've always had the 
strength of your beliefs.  I don't know if my 
being here...will help bring you back...but I'm 
here."

Oh, my God.  Did Mulder really say that?  Those 
are the first words I've heard from him that 
weren't laced with anger.  I want to answer him 
more than anything, but my throat closes with 
the threat of tears and all that comes out is a 
small, choking noise.  Can he hear that, did I 
really make a noise?  I don't know for sure but 
my hand is held in his strong, warm one.  Oh, I 
wish I could squeeze his hand back, let him 
know I heard him.  I concentrate all my 
energies to moving my fingers even a little but 
I sense nothing.  Will he let go if he doesn't 
get a response from me?  Mulder, please don't 
let go.  You are all that is keeping me here, I 
think.  Any strength I have right now comes 
from you.  I hate to admit that but it's true.  
I am weak, Mulder, I need you to anchor me.

This is the crisis.  This is when I make my 
decision, which seems a powerful thing to say 
until I'm reminded of how powerless I am right 
now...I can't even hold my partner's hand.  My 
desire to do so matters not, I don't have the 
ability.  If I can't even squeeze Mulder's hand 
how will I ever get myself back to shore?

For the first time, I am scared.  For the first 
time, I feel an emotion...I want to stay.  I 
want to wake up and live. I want...to see 
Mulder again.

He sits on the dock, unmoving, cross-legged 
like a Buddha.  His steady gaze pins me.  He 
*sees* me!  Mulder can see me!  He may not have 
been able to before, when he'd snapped at 
Melissa, but now he knows I'm here.  Relief 
sings in my veins, revitalizes me.

I sit still, watching him.  Waiting, I'm not 
entirely sure what for.  Isn't he going to pull 
me in?  He has the rope in his hand, it would 
be such an easy thing for him to do.  Doesn't 
he sense how worn out I am?  Help me, Mulder, I 
can't pull myself in.

But maybe that's the whole point.  I *have* to 
pull myself in because it must be *my* 
decision.  Mulder may be a deciding factor but 
he can't do the work for me.  He seems to have 
fallen asleep anyway, I can see he still holds 
the rope but his head droops on his chest. I 
don't feel his gaze upon me anymore.  But even 
in sleep his hands clench the rope.  I know he 
will not let go.  Mulder is only the anchor, 
however; I must put out the effort.

I reach one hand out towards the fat knot of 
rope on the bow.  I stop, horrified by how 
badly I'm trembling.  Well, of course I'm not 
at full strength but I *can* still do this, 
right?  Have I lingered here too long, let 
myself go past the point of no return?  The 
thought chills me.  

No.  This is still in my hands.  I have only 
been shown my alternatives, nothing has been 
taken away from me.  My time here was well 
spent, I have come to terms with a few things.  
Now it is time to leave this place, get myself 
ashore.  

I reach out again, sliding forward slightly in 
the boat.  I dig my fingers into the knot of 
rope, feeling all the tiny fibers scratch at my 
skin.  I reach past the knot, to the rope 
itself, and wrap my cold hands around it.  I 
pull with all my strength and the boat rocks 
violently.  No, God, please, I think 
desperately, don't let me capsize.  <Slowly> 
says a voice in my head <Go slowly, you've been 
adrift a long time.>   Nurse Owens?  Whoever 
speaks, I take the advice.  Hand over hand, one 
section of rope at a time.  I smile with pride 
in my newly rediscovered strength as the rope 
coils up in the boat beside me.  I can see 
Mulder much more clearly now and he is awake, 
if he ever was asleep, and he is watching me.  
He holds his end of the rope effortlessly.  A 
tiny smile softens the weariness in his face.  
As I drift closer I have to force myself to 
keep a slow, steady pace.  The last thing I 
need is for something to go wrong now, when I'm 
so close.  Close to getting back...close to 
Mulder.  

I pull in the last few yards of rope.

The boat hits the dock with a soft thud and a 
splash.  

Mulder holds out both hands to me, his smile 
widening to match my own.  I take his hands.  I 
slowly rise to my feet.  He steadies me as I 
move from water to land, helping me keep my 
balance.  I step up, and out, and into his 
welcoming embrace.  I am home.

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End 1/1
"The eyes and the faces all turned themselves 
toward me, and guiding myself by them, I 
stepped into the room."
	--Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Comments to *new* email address: jenbird@earthlink.net
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