From: CathyLex <cathylex@aol.com>
Date: 27 Oct 1998 01:00:41 GMT
Subject: REVISED:  Sister's Blood 1/16

The Children's Teeth: Sister's Blood (prequel) 
1/16 by Erin McCole Cupp (CathyLex@aol.com)

CATEGORY:  alternative universe (point of 
attack is about fifteen-plus years or so from 
the present), deep dark nasty angst, MSR

RATING:  Probably PG-13, to be safe; very 
mature situations but no graphic descriptions.

ARCHIVING: Please, Gossamer, yes -- THIS 
VERSION.  All others, email for permission.

SPOILERS:  Yes.  To be specific, all up to & 
including US5 & XFFTF. Especially "Emily"/
"All Souls", and "The Red and the Black"

SUMMARY:  "If the fiercest conglomerate 
monsters had souls, with all that implied, 
who could condemn them as evil?" 
-- Piers Anthony

TO READ OTHER STORIES IN "THE CHILDREN'S 
TEETH" UNIVERSE: Visit your local library!
No, not really.  Actually, please visit my 
webpage, graciously admin'd by Galia, at 
http://members.xoom.com/galias/erin.htm
Click on "The Children's Teeth" Universe.
AND SIGN THE GUESTBOOK TOO, DURNIT!!!!

DISCLAIMERS:  None of these characters belong 
to me, with the exception of Meg Mulder, Kevin 
Declan (both of whom I am proud to own), Gerald 
Cho (a.k.a. "Pleather Boy") and the Wexfords 
(whom I am ashamed to own).  Everyone else 
(even Emily C. Wexford) in some way belongs to 
Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and the Fox 
Network.  No commercial gain or other harm is 
intended in the writing of this piece.  

Further, I do not own //Star Wars//, The Force, 
or //A Spell for Chameleon// by Piers Anthony, 
the first book of his Xanth series.  No 
commercial gain or other harm is intended in 
these mentionings. 

THANKS:  to Joy, Mara, Jo, Sally, Galia, and 
all the good folks in XPFC.  Each of you has
a fingerprint in this story.

DEDICATION:  To JC, for making me work hard : )

FEEDBACK:  Now why would I want that?  
<Ahem>  Graciously accepted and answered at
CathyLex@aol.com  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The LORD then said: 
'What have you done?
Listen; your brother's blood
cries out to me from the soil!'"

Genesis 4: 10
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now I am called Wexford. 

I would like to say, "I was born Emily Camille 
Wexford," but I cannot.  I was not.  Even the 
most pathetic of Dickens' characters started 
out with more than I.  I cannot begin by 
saying, "I am born."  They even took that from 
me, along with everything else.  

Because They gave me my existence.

Existence.  I cannot even say "life."  Truly, I 
should not even say that my existence was 
given; it was not a gift.  I was... created.  
Brought forth. Engineered. 

Initially, I was the third of five.  Emily A 
through Emily E.  I am Emily C. Emily Camille.  
The middle child, oddly enough.  I was 
adopted by the Wexfords, who gave me my last 
name and so much more.  Now, years later in the 
awareness of young adulthood, that 
understanding fills me with bitterness -- a 
bitterness I have chosen to fight, and a fight 
I will have always.

Occasionally, I wonder why They picked 
"Camille" for me.  Why not "Christine", or 
"Claire," or "Catherine"?  Perhaps it was some 
sick joke, because "Camille" is so close to 
"chameleon."  But I doubt They have a sense of 
humor, because They gave me none.

I wonder... would I have had a sense of humor 
under different circumstances?  Would I, had I 
been born, coddled, raised in love, the darling 
girl among a passle of grandsons?  Perhaps.  

For I have seen what I could have been.  What I 
am not.  What I can never be.  Because, 
instead, I am Wexford.  

The extent of the engineering that went into my 
existence astounds even me, even now. Not only 
my physical shape, my gender, my blond hair and 
pert nose, but the environmental factors that 
shaped who I am, who They wanted me to become.  

But some things even They could not have 
predicted or engineered Their way around.  

From the time I was adopted up until I was 
eleven years old, I was raised on a farm in 
Ohio.  A corn farm, isolated from any major 
roads.  Unlike most farm girls, I did not grow 
up picking corn and baling hay.  I was sickly, 
or so I was told.  I was able to pronounce 
"autoimmune hemolytic anemia" perfectly by the 
age of six.  Daily injections, weekly visits to 
The Clinic, of which I can only remember the 
car rides back and forth, were my way of life.  
Weeks at a time have blanked themselves out, 
and only recently have some of those 
memories started to resurface in any 
identifiable way.  

I would wake up in my bed, weak.  My adoptive 
mother would come into my bedroom and ask me 
how I was feeling, saying that I had fallen ill 
again.  Then she would hand me another box of 
books to read.  She would not feel my forehead 
or my cheek to see if I was running a fever.  
She would not fluff my pillows or sing songs to 
me.  Sometimes she would bring me a glass of 
water.  Sometimes not.  

Then she would leave me with my books and my 
solitude.  My isolation.  And I would start to 
read again.  

My parents, the people I called my mother and 
father, never touched me.  Not even once.  Not 
that I can remember.  Even when they gave me my 
injections, they wore gloves.

I killed them when I was eleven.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


This is what I remember of that day.  It was a 
Sunday, but I'm not sure how I know that.  We 
hadn't gone to church that morning, nor had we gone 
to synagogue the day before.  Somehow, the flow 
of time just let me know it was a Sunday.

Another box of books sat at the foot of my bed.  
A battered paperback from the used bookstore 
sat on top of the pile, on the cover a picture 
of a knight or something talking with some 
fantastic creature possessed of wings and a 
lion's mane.  Interesting.  

//A Spell for Chameleon// by Piers Anthony.  I 
opened and read ravenously, finishing the story 
mere hours after setting eyes on the first 
page.  

Two of the women in the story had magical 
powers; they could change their faces.

The Sorceress Iris could make everyone who saw 
her think she was devastatingly beautiful, even 
if she was just wearing her housedress and 
hadn't showered in two weeks.  Iris was all 
about the illusory.  Seeing is believing, even 
if what is seen is not the truth.  

The other character, a girl named Chameleon, 
was doomed to a cycle of magic: she varied from 
beautiful and stupid to dog-ugly and brilliant, 
hitting average on both traits somewhere in the 
middle of her cycle.  Chameleon wanted to find 
a spell that would make her like everyone else.  

I understand now that my imagination was a 
defense mechanism; it inoculated me against the 
effects of my long-standing isolation.  With no 
playmates, not even parents' love, I found 
faithful friends in my books.  These friends 
challenged me, taught me right from wrong, and 
were always there for me whenever I needed 
them.  I did not need to call their names in 
the dark and hope they might not ignore me this 
time.  These friends were with me always, on 
demand.  

Faced with such possibilities as those 
presented by Iris and Chameleon, my fertile 
imagination itched.  Wouldn't it be neat if I 
could be like Iris, be like Chameleon, and 
change...

Just as I had tried unsuccessfully to use The 
Force to move my bed after reading //Star 
Wars// books, I now tried to change my face.  I 
imagined myself beautiful, like Iris, with 
long, flowing hair, a bewitching mouth, and 
with Chameleon's long-lashed violet eyes... 

Something strange was going on.  My face 
felt... weird.  I pressed my fingers to my 
cheekbones, and the skin beneath rippled and 
shifted.  When hair longer than my own and of a 
different color tickled my forearms, I jumped 
up and ran for my vanity mirror as quickly as I 
could, considering I still felt sick enough to 
stay in bed.  

I was never a screamer, not much of a crier 
either.  I simply stared at the mirror and 
rubbed my eyes.  When I reopened my eyes, 
nothing had changed. Everything had changed.  I 
ran for the kitchen.  

That was a Sunday morning, so my parents were 
sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee 
and reading their newspapers when I reached the 
bottom of the steps on shaky legs.  

"Dad?"  I asked.  "Mom? What's happening to 
me?"

My father looked up from his paper.  "My 
God..."  

My mother, who had her back to me, looked up at 
my father and then turned to face me.

"What's happening to me?"  I repeated on a 
half-sob.  

My mother dropped her coffee cup, splattering 
hot coffee and shards of ceramic all over the 
kitchen.  

The coffee was fresh, because it scalded the 
skin around my ankles terribly.  I bent to pick 
up the chunk of mug that had landed nearest me, 
but it was hot and slick with coffee.  My 
fingers fumbled and the sharp, broken edge 
cut deep into my palm.  

That was the first time I saw my own blood.  

"No!  Don't--" my mother cried, but it was too 
late.  

That was also the first time I touched the 
people who called themselves my parents.  

They began to cough and choke.  I ran to them, 
ignoring the slice in my hand and the green 
fluid pouring forth from it.  My father tried 
to push me away, but already he was too weak.

"I'll call 911," I assured them, but already 
they were unconscious.  Their faces swelled 
beyond recognition.  Their breathing was 
uniformly shallow.  I had no idea what was 
happening.  

I had even less of an idea what was happening 
when the ambulance I called failed to 
materialize, and in its place arrived several 
helicopters, brimming with men in white hooded 
suits.  

They called me "biohazard."

I remember next to nothing of what happened 
after that.

Until I was given my first assignment. 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


No.  I have oversimplified.  My assignment was 
not given to me one morning as I sat in an 
office chair, not handed to me in a manila 
folder.  This assignment was melted into me 
over time, over the years I was in Their 
tutelage.  

Each of us, all five Emilys, had been created 
for a specific purpose.  For Their specific 
purpose.  Our common "nature" was thrust into 
five different "nurtures," with the hopes of 
five separate outcomes.  One, the organizer.  
Another, the investigator.  The communicator.  
The healer.  

And me.  The cold-blooded killer.  That had 
taken some doing.  

You're probably wondering when They told me all 
of this.  They didn't. I just knew.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I don't remember when Lynch came onto the 
scene.  It must have been some time before I 
was fourteen or fifteen.  She was Emily E, 
Emily Elizabeth Lynch.  She was the first of 
the other Emilys I ever saw.  I suppose she was 
"orphaned" in some way similar to mine.  She 
may have told me about it, and I forgot, or 
perhaps she never told me at all.  My memory is 
utterly unreliable, as I am sure you have 
figured out by now.  Regardless, somewhere in 
our preteen years we were put together:  An odd 
combination.  The Investigator and The 
Murderer.  

Somewhere They rustled up a dog for us that 
day.  A little nasty thing.  Pekinese, I think.  
Tan with a black face, like it had been 
nuzzling a bag of charcoal and no one had 
bothered to wash it clean.  This dog was our 
alibi.  Anyone seeing us wandering that 
suburban DC neighborhood would have thought us 
twin sisters out walking their dog.  Just about 
anyone, that is.  

They dropped us off on the other side of the 
block and told us the house number we were to 
observe.  Another lazy Sunday.  Automatically 
some part of me, which had long since been shut 
down, handed the dog leash to Lynch.  I did not 
want that dog to bite me.  I did not fear the 
pain.  I feared my own blood.

We began our walk.  The sun shone on front 
garden patches, on swing sets made of pressure-
treated wood, on mailboxes that looked like 
little country barns.  People mowed their 
lawns.  Teenage boys washed their cars and 
looked up at Lynch and I appreciatively.  
Children in sturdy helmets rode their bikes.  

We walked Their dog.

After the second corner we rounded, we crossed 
the street per Their orders, to keep the 
requisite distance from the subject of our 
surveillance.  

"The girl," my tutor had told us both.  "The 
one you will have to watch from now on."

We understood.  They had informed us.  We 
simply never had seen her before now -- thus, 
the purpose of this whole excursion.  

We were supposed to be talking, as sisters do, 
in order to look ever so natural.  I could not 
think of a topic of conversation to save my 
life, however.  I suppose Lynch was at a loss 
as well, because she remained silent. The 
panting of that stupid dog was the only sound 
between us.

The voices ahead of us and across the street 
were quite active, however.  We were about four 
doors across and away from a rather lively 
basketball game.  A quick calculation of the 
house numbers told me that the game was in the 
driveway of the house we'd been sent to observe.  
That would make our job easier.  

"Time out!"  We heard a man's voice call.

"We're not falling for that again," laughed a 
girl, younger than us. It must have been her.  
"Right, Mom?"

"Yeah, Mulder," said the woman, passing the 
basketball to the girl who had just spoken.  
"No more cheating.  We're on to you."

"Yeah, *Mulder*," teased the girl.  She had her 
back to us.  As she stood in place and dribbled 
the ball her sandy gold curls bounced with each 
movement.  "You have to cheat because you know 
we're gonna kick your ass!"

Suddenly, he pulled the girl into a playful 
headlock.  "Hey, *Mulder*. That's no language 
for a nine year old to use."

She dropped the basketball and giggled.  "Phew!  
Deodorant, Dad!  Puhleeeze!"

The man released her and she scrambled down the 
driveway to retrieve the basketball.  That was 
when we saw her face.  Lynch drew in a sharp 
breath.  I made no change in my outward 
demeanor.  

In so many ways, that girl's face was like 
ours.  

The girl dribbled the ball a few more times and 
tried passing it to her mother.  The woman made 
no move to catch, so the ball hit her in the 
shoulder and "thud-thud-thud"-ed against the 
asphalt driveway.  

"Mom!  Wake up!"

"Scully?"  The man asked as we passed out of 
visual range and prepared to turn another 
corner.  "What's wrong?"

We rounded the corner and did not hear her 
answer.  

"That's our mother," Lynch whispered to me.  
She had reached the conclusion They had 
designed her to reach.  Which made that girl 
our sister.  

Which made my target my sister.

And for myself, I was experiencing exactly what 
They had engineered me to experience: the first 
clear emotion I ever can recall having.  Heart-
rending, blood-boiling, rampaging jealousy.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


When we were returned to the house (not "home"; 
I can only call it a "house"), my burly tutor 
took me into a dark room that held a graying 
old man strapped to a chair.  This was another 
lesson, another test for me.

"He's one of us," my tutor told me, "and he's 
one of the traitors to The Project.  One of 
those who've been plotting against us."

Never mind the fact that I did not know 
anything about The Project this traitor might 
have been betraying.  I had always been told 
*what* to do, not *why.*  I looked up at my 
tutor's flattened hair, his bloated, scarred 
face and knew it was all an illusion, just 
like the Sorceress Iris.  The tree-trunk neck 
and the acne-pocked cheeks made him look the 
textbook definition of "intimidating."  I was 
intimidated as well; not by just his face, but 
by his history with me.  This was yet another 
tutoring session.  And I knew how all of my 
tutoring sessions with him ended.  After all, 
this had been going on since I was eleven.  

He pulled forth the silver weapon I had been 
taught to use in theory, but never in practice.  
He took my hand in his and placed the weapon in 
my palm.  My skin burned and crawled at his 
all-too-familiar touch.  

"What do you want me to do with this?"  I was
stalling.  I knew the answer.  

And he knew I was stalling.  "Someday," he told 
me, "you will use it on her."

Her.  My sister.  The girl Lynch and I were 
assigned to watch for the rest of our days.  I 
was to kill her with *this*?  

"Is she one of us?"

"No," he replied, walking to the door.  "But 
it's just as effective on them."

The door clicked shut behind him.  I turned to 
the prisoner, the traitor.  

Unbelievably, the prisoner smiled at me.  His 
eyes were soft and compassionate as he looked 
at me carefully.  I froze under the warmth of 
his gaze.  

"You don't have to do this," he informed me in 
his calm and kindly voice.  "You have a 
choice."

Did I?  His gentle smile was of the same tone 
as the smile that man had given my sister 
before hugging her in a fatherly headlock.  No 
one ever smiled at me like that.  

And no one would ever smile at me like that 
again.

Blood-boiling, rampaging jealousy.

I completed my assignment.  I opened the door, 
left the room, and the door clicked shut behind
me.  

My tutor was standing there, waiting for me.  I 
stood waiting for him, for what had become the
inevitable ever since I came under his guidance
at the age of eleven.  

As always, he reached first for my belt-loops, 
as if I were a mug with handles so he could 
raise me to his lips and drink me empty.  Then, 
one of his hands slid under my hair and pressed 
the downy skin at the back of my neck.  The 
other hand slid from a belt-loop to the buckle 
of the belt itself.  My skin craved this 
thirsty contact, starved for touch as I had 
been for all of those desert years with the 
Wexfords.  My consciousness, however, rebelled 
and shut down until I had been drained to the 
dregs and once more there was nothing left of 
me.  Nothing left but the shell, and the shell 
was all They ever wanted anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Now, as the person I have become, this is very 
difficult to write.  Someone once told me, "The 
mind is kind." Did I read that somewhere? Or 
was it you, when you suggested I write all of 
this down, since I so obviously could not speak 
any of it out loud? 

I still cannot speak it.  I'm finding it 
difficult enough to write.  As if remembering 
it alone wasn't painful enough.  

But no, I understand.  It is like you said.  If 
I'm ever to put any of this behind me, I need 
to face it.  And I so very much want to put it 
all behind me.

I take comfort and courage knowing that you 
understand, that my biological mother 
understands as well.  I appreciate your 
understanding that I cannot bear to be touched, 
even in just a simple handshake or a non-
threatening, friendly hug.  Someday, I hope I 
will be able to.  Just not yet.  But I am 
working on it.

And I especially appreciate your taking the 
time to help me out, sharing your expertise 
with me as I fight against what They wanted me 
to become. Especially considering that your 
background isn't so much in this one-on-one 
counseling psychology.  Your kindness means 
even more, under the circumstances.  If I ever 
seem ungrateful, I apologize in advance.

Thank you, Agent Mulder.  



END 1/16 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"... a book should serve as the ax for the 
frozen sea within us. "

- from a letter of Franz Kafka to Oskar Pollak
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


They do make mistakes, you know.  

They never make the mistakes They intend to 
avoid, of course.  They make entirely different 
mistakes.  It's called "hubris:" the blinding 
pride of which you and Agent Scully and I and 
select others are living proof.  

Someone once told me God herds camels through 
the micron-holes in Their plans.  Not in so 
many words, but his message was crystal clear.  

That someone's name was Joseph.  Joseph was a 
librarian; a librarian I never would have met 
had They not so engineered my psyche to Their 
own ends.  

They put me with the Wexfords and made me into 
a murderer.  As part of that process, They also 
made me into a bookworm.  Their theory: my 
compulsive reading would forge the proper 
neural pathways conducive to morphing -- an 
imagination strong enough to change not only 
the imaginer, but also the perceptions of those 
around her.  

Around me.  I know, I know.  You told me to use 
first person when I'm writing this.  I'm 
trying.

They made me imagine that I *could* be the girl 
of a billion faces. This would give me the 
flexibility I would need to be one of the most 
efficient tools in Their arsenal.  Wherever I 
would go, whatever I would do, I could slip 
away and vanish without a trace. 

They did not ever stop to think that my "human" 
nature might rebel against Their plans and seek 
shelter from Their manipulations.  They did not 
ever stop to dream that my imagination might 
seek to free me from Their ever-sure grip.  

And so They were unconcerned when I found my 
solace in books.  

They had books for me at the house (not "home," 
"house") at first.  After each lesson from... 
*him*... I would find a book -- any book would 
do -- and lose myself in it.  That way, I would 
not have to think my own thoughts or feel my 
own feelings.  The fictional characters could 
do that for me.  Some time before I turned 
twelve, I already had devoured every book in 
reach.  I was allowed the long walk, and after 
turning sixteen the short drive, to a little 
local public library, by myself -- a rare 
treat.  That little glass-and-red brick 
building became my sanctuary.  They never 
stopped me from going there.  I suppose They 
assumed my reading would only cement Their 
plans for me, develop my morphing abilities to 
needle-sharp precision.

They did not anticipate Joseph.  

Soon enough, I was eighteen.  By then, the 
check-out librarian, a middle-aged woman whose 
nametag read "Rachel," knew my face and always 
gave me a smile and a nod when I walked by her 
desk.  She never knew my name.  I never offered 
it, and I made sure my demeanor did not invite 
her to ask.  I never checked out any books, so 
they could not have found my name on a library 
card.  I'm sure the staff of that small library 
thought I was beyond strange, hovering around 
all alone the way I did, but my behavior was 
compulsive.  Nothing could have mattered to me 
less than the opinons of a bunch of old ladies 
who had no idea what I was.  

I did not anticipate Joseph. 

The first time I saw him, I had to run into the 
bathroom, all but ready to throw up.  I did not 
permit myself the luxury of vomiting; I was not 
sure if my bodily fluids might kill everyone in 
the whole poorly-ventilated building.  I merely 
clutched at the rim of the toilet bowl, 
retching on dry heaves.  

He was so beautiful.  He couldn't have been 
older than twenty.  Curly blond hair -- not 
straight and pale like mine, but golden.  
Crinkly blue eyes and a merry upturned mouth.  
He looked like he had just stepped out of 
//Narcissus and Goldmund// into my little 
library, pushing around a cart loaded with 
books in need of reshelving.  

He stopped and looked at me.  He smiled at me 
as if he knew me.  His smile did something to 
me, made me want things I had dreaded before, 
things I had willed and had hoped to forget.  
There is no other way I can explain it.  

Which is why I ran to the bathroom, sick to my 
stomach that I could not smile back at him.  
Any normal eighteen year old girl would have.  
And for the first time, I fully realized that I 
was not a normal eighteen year old girl.  

I began to realize that something was wrong.  
Terribly wrong.  

I ran out of that building and back into the 
car I was allowed to drive.  When I arrived 
back at the house, I ran back up to my room and 
was greeted in the hallway by Merchant.  Emily 
Denise Merchant.  The Communicator.  

Merchant had come to us a while before that -- 
I don't remember exactly when or how.  Quickly 
enough, Lynch and I had just accepted her 
presence, as in the year before *that* we had 
accepted the presence of Emily Ann Abbot.  The 
Organizer.  

It hadn't taken Lynch, The Investigator, long 
to figure out the significance of our four 
middle names, and that Emily B was missing.  It 
had taken Lynch even less time to figure out 
what had happened to Emily B; Lynch just used 
her special access privileges to the database 
in the study.  Their database, Their study.  
Lynch told the rest of us what had happened.  I 
don't remember feeling anything when she told 
us, except a distant jealousy that Emily B had 
been given to parents who had loved her enough 
that their love for her had become a threat to 
Them.  

Distant, blood-boiling, rampaging jealousy.  

I'm sorry.  Again, I digress.  

You told me this would be difficult to write, 
but you never said how much.  I guess if you 
had, I never would have started.  Now that I 
have started, I know I must continue.

That day, the day I first saw Joseph, Merchant 
caught me in the hallway.  She reached out and 
gripped my shoulders in her hands, and she 
weaseled her way into my mind, reading my 
thoughts and my life as she had been trained to 
do, much in the same way I had been trained to 
kill in cold blood.  My morphing could not hide 
me from her.  She knew more about me than I 
did, thanks to her talent -- the "gift" They 
had given her.  

Merchant locked her eyes on mine, and I knew 
there was no sense in looking away.  It was 
like looking into a mirror, except my mirror 
image was wearing different clothes.  I made my 
face blank anyway.  

She had emotions.  She'd lose them soon enough; 
They would see to that.  Her brow furrowed.  
Her fingers dug into my shoulders and I froze 
at her touch.  "Wexford," she murmured to me 
without moving her lips or pushing air through 
her vocal cords -- another part of Their gift 
to her.  "Don't think you can change.  You can 
never change."

There was no point in my talking.  I merely 
shrugged out of Merchant's grasp and walked 
back into the room I shared with Lynch.  It was 
my turn to stay inside anyway.  With the four 
of us there, only two of us were ever allowed 
out at any one time.  Identical twins could be 
explained, but not identical quadruplets.  

I needed more anesthesia.  I picked up a 
magazine and started to read mindlessly.  

I don't know how long it was before the door 
opened without a warning knock.  It was him.  
His eyes danced at me over his pitted, puffy 
cheeks.  Shadows defined his silhouette.

By then, I was eighteen.  I should have known 
to stop him.  I should have known I *could* 
have stopped him.  After seven years...

I should have, but I did not, and he reached 
for my belt loops again.  

I did not know how to stop him.  

That knowledge came the next day.

I needed the comfort of my books, but I was 
terrified I would see that boy again.  I wanted 
more than anything to see that boy again.  
First thing in the morning, I drove back to the 
library.

As I walked in the glass doors, I scanned the 
room carefully.  I was concentrating so hard I 
did not hear Rachel the librarian calling over 
to me.

"Miss?  Excuse me, Miss?"

No one had ever called me "Miss" before.  I 
turned to her slowly and looked at her.  

She looked frightened.  The crows' feet around 
her eyes quivered.  "Joseph left these for 
you." 

She pushed a small stack of books at me across 
the countertop.

I was confused.  "Who?"

"Joseph," Rachel nodded, her glasses sliding 
down her nose a notch, "the young man about 
your age who just started working here.  He 
said that if I saw you come in here, that I 
should give these to you.  He said he thought 
they'd be good for you to read."

*Joseph.*  My stomach churned involuntarily 
even as I promised never to forget that name.  
I took the books in my hands and nodded 
wordlessly to the woman.  She bobbed an 
uncomfortable nod back at me and resumed 
cleaning the barcode reader.  

I did not even look down at the books in my 
hands until I had reached "my spot": a secluded 
little desk in the reference section with 
miscellaneous graffitti scraped into the veneer 
of the desktop.  When I sat and finally did 
look down at the books Joseph had left me, I 
began to tremble.  

//A Spell for Chameleon// by Piers Anthony.  

I jerked my head up and looked around, as if 
Merchant had been prying into my thoughts again 
and I had just begun to sense it.  

//How did he know?//

My shaking hands put the book aside so I could 
see the title underneath: //I Know Why the 
Caged Bird Sings// by Maya Angelou.  This one I 
had never read.  I dove in immediately, 
drinking in the words.  As I read, becoming 
immersed in the story of the little girl 
abused, I began to realize even more fully...

Something was wrong.  Terribly, terribly wrong.  

The book underneath *that* was a thick book of 
poetry.  //The Collected Works of Anne 
Sexton.//  Confessional poetry of the late 
twentieth century.  A woman gone mad, trapped 
by the pain of the past.  Eventually, a 
suicide.

I read.  The hour hand swung around the 
clockface.  

The more I read, the sharper the realization 
became, sharper than the pain of that ceramic 
shard slicing into my upturned palm.  Something 
was terribly, terribly wrong.  With me.  With 
what had been done to me. With what I always 
had wanted to stop.  With what I never had been 
able to stop. With what I had been asked to do 
and made to do.  With what I had been told time 
and again I was powerless to change.  

*Wexford.  Don't think you can change.  You can 
never change.*

I pushed Anne Sexton aside, unable to read more 
than halfway through, the pain was so intense.  
Instinctively, my fingers sought a spot 
somewhere in the middle of //A Spell for 
Chameleon// for the scene played out on the 
cover of the book: Bink the wanderer talking 
with a monster, the Manticora, who guarded the 
Magician Humphrey's castle gate.

The Manticora had come to ask if he, a monster, 
had a soul.  The Magician Humphrey had answered 
him: "Only those who posses souls are concerned 
about them."  I began to shake again.  

The pain was stubborn.  It would not go away.  
I was wandering through the sandstorm of a 
barren desert, too tired to continue but still 
needing to search for fresh, clean water.  I 
forced myself to read on.

Then, my eyes froze on the sentence that 
finished the page:

"If the fiercest conglomerate monsters had 
souls, with all that implied, who could condemn 
them as evil?"

Somehow, I had missed that sentence when I was 
eleven.

A gentle voice spoke from the stirring of long-
dormant memories:  *You don't have to do this.  
You have a choice.*

Did I?  Did I have a choice?  I who was not 
permitted human emotions or human dreams?  How 
could I have a choice?  

How could I have a soul?

"I knew you would read all that."

The voice spoke in the present.  I nearly 
jumped to my feet and bolted when I saw him, 
*Joseph*, looking over my shoulder.  I took 
several deep breaths to keep myself from 
running to the bathroom again.

I looked up at him, forced myself to meet those 
disarming blue eyes.  I tried to speak, but did 
not know what to say.

Finally, I managed a weak, "How?"

He smiled softly at me.  "I think you know."

I could only shake my head.

He bent and looked into my eyes more closely.  
"You know what Emily Merchant can do," he 
whispered.

He knew about Merchant?  

"You can do it too," he urged, "They just never 
wanted you to know how."

I shook my head again.  

"Here," Joseph said, taking my hands in his.  I 
was too frightened to pull away.  "Close your 
eyes and focus."

I hesitated, but followed anyway.  Was I 
imagining things?  Just like I could *hear* 
Bink and the Manticora talking when I read, I 
could *hear* Joseph.

He was saying, "You have a choice."

I gasped and broke the contact.  My stomach 
contracted once more, but I willed it into 
peace.  

Joseph's eyes twinkled at me with soft 
intensity.  "See?"

I stammered.  "I-I was imagining things."

Now he shook his head.  "You have a choice," he 
said out loud, by way of confirmation.  

I wasn't imagining things.  Or was I?  "How?"  
I asked again.

"Don't ask," he answered me, holding his hands 
out again to help me focus.  "Find out for 
yourself."

I placed my hands in his, and the first thing I 
*heard* him saying was, "Someday you'll be able 
to do this without needing to hold anyone's 
hand, once you've learned enough."

Then, Joseph told me about the plans for 
colonization -- the parts of Their Plan They 
had not deemed necessary to tell me.  The 
virus.  My place in Their police force.  My 
ability to kill, and our ability to heal.  How 
my alien blood conflicted with my human shell.  
How my daily injections of "medicine" kept my 
blood from eating me alive.  So much death 
devouring everything.  And why?  Why?  

Joseph did not have an answer.  All he had were 
choices.  "You don't have to do this.  You have 
a choice."

People passing by us must have thought we were 
a typical young couple, holding hands and 
looking deeply into each others' eyes.  Had 
they but known... 

"Why did you give me these books?" I asked him.

He answered, "What better way could I have told 
you that what They are doing to you is wrong?"

My newly-opened mind began making the sort of 
connections Lynch could make.  Joseph was 
right.  I would not have listened to spoken 
words.  These books were the only way to reach 
me.  

But why would this stranger, this one of us, 
want to reach out to me and tell me all these 
things?  "Why?"

His blue eyes hardened.  "Because They made us 
for wrong, but some of us want to put it 
right."

Right and wrong.  I swallowed hard.  "What do I 
do?"

Joseph shrugged.  "What do you want to do?'

Never before had anyone asked me that question.  

"I don't know," I answered truthfully.  "I need 
to think about it."  

Joseph nodded.  "Will you be here tomorrow?"

"I don't know," I repeated, getting up to 
leave.

"Emily," Joseph whispered as I pushed my chair 
away from the desk.  I could not remember the 
last time anyone had called me by that name.  

"Remember," he murmured, reaching out to grasp 
my hand, "there are some of us, the ones who 
want to put Their wrongs right.  We are 
resisting.  You have a choice..."

Resisting.  Finally, it all slipped into place.  
Joseph was a traitor, too.  Or was I the 
traitor?  What was "right"?  Their Project, or 
Joseph's loyalty to a beautiful and flawed 
planet?  What did it mean, to resist?  Did that 
make me a traitor, for wanting to believe him?  
Would They ask me to kill him once They found 
him? 

I dropped his hand and backed away from him.  
He seemed hurt.  Then, across the space I had 
put between us, I felt his fear -- not for 
himself, but for me.

No one had ever been afraid for me before.

I turned on my heel and fled the library once 
again.

Merchant must have said something about our 
encounter from the day before, because when I 
stepped outside, *he* was waiting for me.  A 
bulky silhouette stood patiently by the car 
that had brought me here.  


END 2/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"If you do well, you can hold up your head; 
But if not, sin is a demon lurking at the door:  
His urge is toward you, 
Yet you can be his master."
--Genesis 4:7
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seven years' worth of habits and conditioning 
die hard, so I automatically walked over to the 
car.  My tutor's eyes were cold on me.  I could 
not see, because I was too shaken to meet his 
glare, but I could feel the usual chill.  Could 
he read my thoughts as well?  I never had 
thought of that possibility, not until that 
moment. 

Merchant had told him.

"You're not supposed to be out today," was all 
he said.  Today was Merchant's and Abbot's 
turn.  Not Lynch's, not mine.

"Emily!"  

I turned to see Joseph pushing open the 
library's glass doors and running after me.  
When he saw the man with me, his pace 
slowed.  His steps became more calculated as he 
continued coming over to us.

He had also come looking for Joseph.  How had 
he known?  

*Joseph,* I imagined, willing him to hear me, 
*get away.*  

Joseph must have heard or somehow sensed what I 
said.  My tutor began walking to Joseph, 
narrowing the gap between them.  

"If you touch him," I hissed, "so help me, I 
will kill you."

My tutor turned his mocking gaze at me.  He 
obviously didn't believe my warning.  He should 
have.  He continued walking to Joseph, and 
Joseph continued walking toward him.  

As the gap between them closed, I saw my tutor 
pull forth something silver.   I reached into 
my own pocket and pulled forth the weapon that 
had been given me as well.  I stepped behind 
him as stealthily as he had taught me to do.  
He was focused on Joseph, so he did not know 
what I was doing behind his back.  

Joseph however saw what I was doing.  "Emily, 
don't.  There's another way."

Joseph's words were not spoken out loud, but 
*he* heard them.  He turned and saw the silver 
length in my hand, trained on him.  With his 
free hand he grabbed my free hand and pulled 
me to him.  His grip crushed my wrist.

I changed my warning.  "If you ever touch me 
again, I will kill you."

He did not let me go.  I may have been created 
smaller than he, but I finally was beginning to 
realize the scope of the strength They had 
given me so that I could meet Their ends. *He* 
still must have thought that I believed myself 
weak, for when I shoved him to the ground with 
every ounce of my angry energy, he actually 
looked shocked.  

I was afraid again when he got back up and 
lunged for me.  I danced just out of his reach, 
but They had given him the longer legs and 
arms, and I didn't think fast enough to imagine 
myself longer ones. 

His fingers dug into my belt-loops and he 
crushed me to him.  I pushed against him, 
trying to break free, but every physics student 
knows that two equal forces pushing against 
each other cancel out.  In the struggle, his 
breath was hot in my ear, giving rise to fresh 
rage within me.  I shifted and tried to slide 
sideways out of his grip, but I only managed to 
get myself face to face with him.  His arms 
looped around me only tightened.  

His lips, so close to mine... his leering 
expression... his scent in my head like I 
imagined a knife wound to the stomach would 
be...

Blood-boiling, rampaging fury.  

That alone gave me the advantage over him.  I 
twisted my arm free and plunged the gimlet into 
the base of his neck.  His eyes widened.

"I warned you."

I stabbed again. His grip on me loosened

"Don't you ever--"

Another stab.

"--ever--"

And another.

"--touch me--"

And a last.

"--again."

The body slid from my arms, and the devouring 
began.  I watched in fascinated horror.  

So that's what would happen to me.

"Emily Camille," Joseph spoke up.  His eyes 
were full of horror as well.  

He was one of us.  This is what would happen to 
*him.*  This was what I could do to him.  

Not if I could help it.  

"No!"  I shouted at him, brandishing the 
stiletto in front of me.  "Stay away from me!"  

I could do this to him.  That last thing I 
wanted was to do this to him.

"No, Emily."  His voice was soft.  Sympathetic?  
Did it matter?  

*You have a choice...*

No.  Joseph and the old man were both wrong 
about me.  I had killed the Wexfords.  I had 
killed the old man.  I had killed my tutor.  I 
had killed everyone who ever had taught me 
anything.

Except for Joseph, who in this short time had 
taught me the most of all.

I had a choice, and I would not -- *ever* -- 
hurt Joseph.  I would never hurt anyone again.  
I grabbed the car keys and jumped behind the 
wheel.  I refused to look back at Joseph, to 
see my heartbreak on his face.  I had to get 
away to do what I needed to do.

They would come looking for me for killing 
*him,* and Their justice would be swift.  

Or would it?  Did They have other plans for me?  
Or, worse: was this all part of Their plan?

I had a choice.  I would never hurt anyone 
again, regardless of Their plans.


End 3/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, suvivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind."
--Anne Sexton
final stanza of "Her Kind" 
from //To Bedlam and Part Way Back//
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I disappeared.  

I changed my face.  I drove until I no longer 
knew where I was, and then I found a thrift 
store.  I bought one new outfit because I did 
not anticipate needing more than one.  Blue 
jeans and a white t-shirt.  Nondescript.  
Indistinguishable.  I paid in cash.

I changed my face again.  I drove further until 
I saw another mall.  I parked in the farthest 
reaches of the lot.  I threw the car keys into 
one trash dumpster and my old clothes into 
another.  I mingled with the crowds of 
shoppers.  

I imagined myself another new face.  Each hour, 
I went through another transformation, so that 
whoever might try to track me would fail.  
They had taught me every trick I knew.  They 
had taught me invisibility.  Now I would become 
invisible to Them.  

I left when the mall closed.  The double-door 
slammed behind me and I stepped out onto the 
sidewalk.  I began to walk.  Soon enough, 
someone would come along...

A car slowed beside me.  A window rolled down.  
A man leered out at me.

"Hey!"

My hair was long and dark now.  My eyes were 
violet.  I batted my thick lashes at the 
driver.  "Hey," I purred.  

He licked his lips in satisfaction at my 
response.  "Lookin' for a ride?"

I did not smile, but I nodded and opened the 
unlocked passenger door.  He wore an old t-
shirt with a faded picture proclaiming the 
delights of the "Baltimore Summer Crab Feast 
'09".  He smelled of sweat and motor oil, beer 
and cheap cigarettes.  Not at all what I was 
used to.

Except for his burliness.  I fought back 
another wave of nausea.

"Just drive," I ordered in my new voice.  

He complied.  After a few minutes of silence, 
he asked, "So, what's your name?"

He looked back to catch my eye seductively and 
saw my icy stare.  His emotions were raw enough 
for even my untrained mind to sense.  He was 
confused by me.  

I kept my voice cold.  "Biohazard."

Now, he was frightened.  I had just guaranteed 
he would not touch me.  

He drove several miles then pulled into the 
parking lot of "Jesse's Motel."  I opened my 
door, stepped out and began walking away from 
the car.

"Hey!"  The rough voice behind me called.  
"Where you going?"

I kept walking.  I braced myself to use my 
newfound strength.

But I did not need it.  He was too frightened 
by me to follow.

Success.  Success all my own.

I needed to keep moving, to keep changing.  
I needed to die.  

I could not slit my wrists.  I could not drown 
myself.  I could not suffocate or shoot myself.  
They had created me to be virtually 
indestructible.  Except for one of two ways.  

I could waste away -- my only remaining option.  
By the time They might find me, I would already 
be dead and gone.  A strange sort of suicide.  

I walked through the sparse patch of woods 
behind the motel.  I walked and walked and 
found another highway.  I clung to the 
shoulder.  Another car slowed beside me.  
Another window rolled down.  Another man leered 
out at me.

"Hey..."

"Just drive," I said, seating myself in the 
passenger seat.  

"Where you going?"

"Away," was my answer.  

This pattern went on for days and nights.  How 
many, you're probably wondering?  I can't begin 
to guess.  Time was not important.  With each 
new driver, I grew weaker and weaker.  
I was sweating through my t-shirt, even my jeans.  
With each new man, the painful cyst at the back 
of my neck grew.  The fever had started, and my 
blood grew sluggish in my veins.  There were no 
more shots.  There was no more medicine to keep 
me alive for Their plans any more.  

Success.  Success all my own.

At first, I watched the landscapes slip by: the 
crowded buildings and crunched people of 
cities, the cookie-cutter houses of the 
suburbs, the rolling fields and farms and 
wildflowers of the abundant, incessant 
highways.  Soon enough, though, I was no longer 
strong enough to keep my head up.  I hoarded my 
draining vitality and spent it only on shifting 
my shape and walking from one driver to 
another.  

"Hey..."

"Just drive..."

Some wore business suits and had briefcases in 
their backseats.  Some had obviously been 
drinking.  Some were boys on their way home 
from college with hatchbacks full of fragrant 
laundry.  

They asked for my name.  I picked names and 
faces from my favorite childhood books.

"Dicey."

"Sara Louise."

"Laura."

Once, "Anne," when I had red hair.

Eventually, I chose not to answer the question.  
I needed to save my energy until I was far 
enough away.  

"Just drive."

But could I ever get far enough away?

Three times they, my drivers, tried to rape me.  
The first two times were early in my journey; I 
was still strong enough to push them down with 
the inhuman strength They had given me. 

Inhuman strength.  I heard their bones crunch.  
I felt their blood, slick and hot and red, 
against my palms clenched into fists.  Then I 
ran.  I changed my face.  I changed direction.  
And it would begin again.

"Hey..."

"Just drive..."

The third time was different.  He must have 
sensed my weakness.  

I could sense his intent even as I fell into 
his car.  I thought myself still strong enough, 
though.  I even let go of my faces, letting the 
face They gave me show through.  The face 
called Emily Camille Wexford.  

I was trying to save energy.  I was running out 
of energy to save.  

// And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to 
go before I sleep.//

Before I could even think of sleep.

He had brown hair and brown eyes, and he wore 
khakis and a sweater and a pair of brown 
loafers.  I remember watching those loafers 
push the gas pedal, the brake, the clutch.  
Standard transmission.

"What's your name?"

"Chameleon," I answered that time.  I was so 
tired and weak.

We were in a city at that point, but I did not 
know which one.  Night had fallen hours before. 
He pulled the car into an empty parking lot.  I 
reached for the door quickly, but not quickly 
enough.  With one arm he pinned both my arms 
behind my back and turned me to face him.  He 
pressed me to the seat, my arms still behind 
me.  His pulse throbbed in a vein at his temple

I was still not afraid.  I was stronger than he 
could have been.  They had made me stronger.

But why couldn't I move my arms?

That was when I saw the knife, its silver blade 
leaning up against my cheek.  Then I was 
afraid, but not for myself.

"You don't want to do that," I warned him.

"If you say another word," he breathed at me.  
He did not finish his warning.  His mind was 
elsewhere.

I fought.  I tried to sit up to free my arms.  
I kicked.  But my limbs were not inflicting the 
damage I had come to expect.  I was now too 
weak.  The end was near.  

His left hand held the knife.  His right hand 
fought with my jeans.  

"You don't want to touch me," I cried, my voice 
so weak and pathetic.  "You don't want to touch 
me."

"WHAT DID I TELL YOU?"  His voice was a 
shouting whisper as he pulled the blade down my 
cheek in what was meant to be a warning cut.  

And the green poured fourth.  

For a brief second his face registered 
surprise, then disgust, then surprise again.  
Then he began to cough and his brown eyes 
swelled shut.  He clawed at himself, trying to 
escape what my blood was doing to his body.  

His coughing became a strangled wheeze.  Then 
he stopped breathing all together.  His 
throbbing temple slowed to an intermittent 
bump, and then was completely still.  

For long moments the lifeless body weighed me 
down.  I could not escape his weight.  I needed 
to keep moving.  I could not die here.  I 
needed to run.  

I touched my finger to my cheek.  A crust was 
growing over the wound.  I pressed my hand to 
my cheek and tried to imagine the wound gone.

It worked.  The crust dissolved into my skin 
and was suddenly... not.  Still, I must have 
done something wrong, because my cheek still 
hurt.  So Joseph was right.  I could heal as 
well.  At least, to outward appearances.

But not for long.  Soon, I told myself, I would 
be gone.  

Dawn was peeking over the buildings by the time 
I had freed myself completely.  I could walk 
only if I clung to walls, telephone poles, 
mailboxes, newspaper vending machines.  

Cars passed me by.  I must have looked as weak 
as I felt, and I didn't have the energy to 
change my appearance.  My sickness frightened 
them away.  Good.  The end was close anyway.  

My limbs were lead.  I could hear my heart 
working overtime to push the blood through my 
corroding veins and arteries and capillaries.  
My breathing grew shallower and shallower with 
each step I took.  Sweat rolled off of me, and 
my mouth was a desert so dry I could no longer 
swallow.  Often, I would turn a corner and see 
the morning sun glaring off of a long, wide 
strand of water.  A river.  Or was it two 
rivers?  Three?  I thirsted.  

Occasionally, I lifted my head to search for an 
alley in which to die.  Too many people.  
People everywhere.  I needed to be alone for 
this.  I would wait until I was alone.  Could I 
imagine myself dead?  I did not know.  It would 
be worth a try, though.  But first I needed to 
find the right place.  

People on their way to their jobs hurried past 
me, stopping only to stare briefly as I made my 
stumbling, halting way down the street.  

I could no longer walk, so I fell to my hands 
and knees and crawled.  My hands scraped along, 
raw against the concrete sidewalk.  No blood, 
though.  I watched carefully for chunks of 
glass or metal so I could avoid them.  

I could not move fast enough.  I could not find 
a totally empty alley.  I could not breathe 
enough to move on.  I would die here on a 
sidewalk in an unknown city, my dissolving body 
a freakshow for the clueless passersby.  

Perhaps, irony or ironies, the parents of my 
sister, my target, would be called out to 
investigate my death, I thought as my arms and 
legs gave out underneath me and my still-aching 
cheek met the pavement.  

Perhaps my mother indeed would find me.  If 
They didn't find me first.  


END 4/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"The lost I will seek out, 
the strayed I will bring back, 
the injured I will bind up, 
the sick I will heal 
[but the sleek and the strong I will destroy], 
shepherding them rightly."
--Ezekiel 34: 16
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I collapsed in front of a coffee shop.  From 
what I've been able to piece together, the 
shop's owner was not pleased with the way my 
unconscious, discolored body turned away his 
customers.  He must have called the police who 
came to pick me up.

"Jeez!  What the hell is?"  One of the officers 
squatted beside me and touched the lump on the 
back of my neck.

I remember calling out, "Don't touch me," as 
the arms of the two police officers went around 
me. 

"What is this?  Some weird rash?"  Said one, 
sliding dark blue sleeves underneath me, trying 
to lift me off the ground. "We need to get this 
one to a hospital."

"No," I was able to say aloud.  "No treatment.  
I'm eighteen.  No treatment."

"We can't just leave you in the street, 
sweetheart."

"Don't touch me," was my reply.  It was 
becoming my litany.  "No treatment.  I'm 
eighteen."

The officer grabbing my feet said, "I know 
where we could take her."

"The Cov?"  Asked the other.

I was raised from the sidewalk in one motion.  

"When we get in the car, radio ahead to Sister 
Shan.  Let her know we got another one for 
'er."

I was carried into a waiting police car.  The 
car drove.  The lights did not flash; the siren 
did not blare.  Information about me was issued 
over the radio.  I sensed the officer in the 
passenger seat looking back at me every minute 
or so, with a mixture of concern and curiosity.  

The police car stopped.  The door opened, and I 
was carried up a shallow ramp to a metal door.  
One of the officers clumsily bent to press a 
button on an intercom while still trying to 
balance half of my weight.  Moments later, the 
door beeped and I was carried over the 
threshold.  

"Hey, Sister" both officers grunted.

"Officer Coleman, Officer Ravitsky," spoke the 
woman who was now looking at me with worry.  
"You know where to find the Intake Office."

I was carried down a brightly-lit hallway while 
the policemen gave the woman some information.

"Found her collapsed on the sidewalk."

"Where?"

"In front of CuppaJoe's, on Cherry near 
Seventh."

"How long has she been like this?"

"Dunno, S'ter."

The woman opened a door to a small but 
comfortable office and ushered all of us 
through.  She looked at me and smiled.  

"Do you feel well enough to sit up, honey?"

I shrugged with all the energy I could muster.  

"Okay, guys, sit her in that chair.  Gently, 
now.  No shoving."

I was placed in a cushioned chair facing a neat 
desk with a rather old computer.  I leaned my 
head against the chair's high back so I could 
watch the three around me.

No one was touching me.  I felt desolately 
better.  

The woman took a seat in the desk chair and 
swiveled it around to face me.  The policemen 
remained standing, watching.

"My name is Sister Shannon King," the woman 
said, her warm eyes trying to meet mine.  I had 
to look away.  "But everyone calls me Sister 
Shan.  I'm the intake counselor here at 
Covenant House.  What's your name?"  

My head dropped and my eyes fell closed.  
"Biohazard," I replied.

I could feel the policemen looking at me 
strangely, but Sister Shan seemed unaffected.  
She reached out to put her hand on mine.

I pushed myself hard against the back of the 
chair, trying to inch out of her reach.  

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The officers jumped at my scream.  Sister Shan 
still remained calm, however she did put her 
hand back in her own lap.  "Okay, I won't touch 
you.  Don't worry.  You'll be safe here."

I would have laughed if They had given me a 
sense of humor.  

"Do you want us to call anyone?"  Sister Shan 
continued.  "Do you have any parents or 
relatives who might be looking for you?"

Even without a sense of humor, I could 
recognize the irony of her question.  No one 
would believe who might be looking for me.

"My parents are dead," I told her.  

She nodded with sympathy.  "How long ago did 
they die?"

I closed my eyes again.  

"It's okay," she reassured.  "You don't have to 
talk about anything yet if you don't want to."

My eyes remained closed. 

"Are you sick?"  She asked me.  

I nodded.  "I'm going to die."

"Don't worry," she said again, "we can get you 
to a hospital.  We'll--"

"No!"  I whimpered.  "No hospital.  No 
treatment.  I want to die."  

Sister leaned closer, a look of concern on her 
face.  "Why do you want to die?"

I paused.  I didn't want to answer her, but 
time was running out, and soon enough my answer 
wouldn't matter anyway.  "They can't use me 
anymore if I'm dead."

"Who's 'they?'"

The way she said "they" was clearly lower-case.  
I tried to swallow, but my throat was 
solidifying as the moments passed.  

"Honey?  Who's 'they'?"

"They..." was the last thing I was able to say.  
My throat dried up.  I could no longer speak.  

"What are they using you for?"  

I could not answer her.  

She sighed, "Okay, let's get her up to one of 
the rooms in the infirmary.  If she won't let 
us take her to the hospital, all we can do is 
keep an eye on her.  And pray she'll change her 
mind."

The policemen carried me once more, and soon I 
was in a bed with white sheets and had a very 
young, clearly confused doctor looking over me.  
The police officers left me and with the 
exception of the doctor, I was on my own.  

"Don't touch me," I wanted to warn the doctor.  
My lips would not respond.

Luckily, Sister Shan told him I didn't want to 
be touched or treated, but she did want him to 
keep a close eye on me.  So he did.  

Would no one let me die alone?  

Sister Shannon looked at me gravely and made 
the sign of the cross just before pulling a 
string of rosary beads out of her skirt pocket.  

It was some time later that afternoon when you 
and Agent Scully found me, after the Pittsburgh 
PD called you out to investigate the strange 
death of one Anthony Lorenzo, aged tweny-three, 
found dead in his car in a downtown parking 
lot.  


END 5/16

PART 6 DISCLAIMER: I'm pretty sure he's out of 
copyright as well, but none of the poetry of 
Gerard Manley Hopkins belongs to me either.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Thus says the Lord God:  
Because they have said of you,
'You are a land that devours men, 
and you rob your people of their children'; 
therefore, never again shall you devour men 
or rob your people of their children, 
says the Lord God.  "
--Ezekiel 36: 13-15
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours passed.  Sister Shannon and the doctor 
stayed by my bedside.  I wished with all the 
world that I could have spoken and told them to 
get away from me for their own safety.  But I 
could not, and so they did not.  

Sister was called away from my bedside for a 
brief moment, only to return with the news I 
had dreaded.

"Honey," she said softly, "your twin sister is 
here."

So They had found me.  

//Which one?// I thought, but luckily I could 
not speak my thoughts.

"She says she has your medicine with her.  She 
says you can come home and no one will be mad 
at you.  She just needs to give you your 
medicine."

I dug deep within myself to find some energy; I 
only needed enough to shout "NO!" or at the 
very least shake my head.  But I could do 
neither.

Sister Shan frowned sadly at my silence.  
"Honey, we want to help you, but you have to 
want to help yourself.  Do you want me to let 
your sister in?"

I blinked at her, willing her to understand me 
the way Merchant could have.  My blinking must 
have given her an idea.

"Honey --" She had renamed me.  "Honey, blink 
once if you want to say 'yes,' and blink twice 
if you want to say 'no'.  Can you do that for 
me?  Do you want us to let your sister in the 
building to help you?"

So whichever of my "twins" had come to "rescue" 
me was not even allowed into the building yet.  
I was safe, and my caretakers were just that 
little bit safer.  

I blinked twice just before I slipped into the 
coma.

For all intents and purposes, I never should 
have woken again.  Once I had slipped into that 
coma, I could have been only hours, days at 
best, from the ultimate end.

Later, I remember hearing Sister Shannon mutter 
something about "the grace of God" that woke me 
up.  But nuns are always saying stuff like that.  
I know that now from experience, but more on
that later.

Joseph said that it was hearing my biological 
mother's voice reading those words that woke 
me.  Or perhaps it was the words alone that 
woke me.

Because, again, I did not anticipate Joseph.

When I woke, both of you were there.

In the cold dark place I called my own at that 
time, I could hear a woman's voice, trembling
a bit, clumsy with the meter at first, but 
growing more sure as the words pressed on:

"Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not 
feast on thee; 

"Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these last 
strands of man 

"In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; 

"Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose 
not to be..."

The voice trailed off and my eyes opened.  

I saw her.  The mother of my target.  The 
mother of my sister.  The mother of my own 
sorry self, and she was sitting by my deathbed.  

Did she know who I was?  Did she know *what* I 
was?

//Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these 
last strands of man/ In me...//

She saw my eyes open and she stopped reading.  
Our eyes met and something inside of me wanted 
to panic.  Something inside of me crumbled and 
wanted to cry.

//...or, most weary, cry I can no more....//

She tried to say something to me, but her voice 
shriveled in her throat.  

It was like looking into a mirror, only my 
image was red-haired and in her forties.  

I saw your partner swallow.  I saw her eyes, 
the blue eyes she had given me and Lynch and 
Sim and Abbot and Merchant.  I watched the 
water puddle and gather, the bottom rims of her 
eyelids levees refusing to let the tears break 
free.

No one had ever cried for me before.

Her eyelids shut and swallowed those tears.  
Your partner spoke to me, looking not at the 
worn poetry book in her hand, but directly into 
my eyes, the eyes They had taken from her and 
given to me.

Her eyes returned to the slim volume, and she 
continued to read.

"But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou 
rude on me 

"Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb 
against me? scan 

"With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? 
and fan, 

"O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me 
frantic to avoid thee and flee?"

I was bruised, a heap of the shell They had 
designed.  I was frantic to flee, for 
the safety of others, but to flee whom?  Them?  
Or myself, what They wanted me to be?  

*You have a choice.*

A choice?  From whom?  And how?  And why?

Your partner continued reading to me.  But you 
know this, Agent Mulder.  You were there, in 
the background, listening as well.

"Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, 
sheer and clear. 

"Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems)
I kissed the rod, 

"Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole 
joy, would laugh, cheer. 

"Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-
handling flung me, foot trod 

"Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it 
each one? 

"That night, that year of now done darkness 

"I wretch lay wrestling with 
(my God!) my God."

Whom was I wrestling?  Them or me, Emily 
Camille?  Who was my opponent?  What was I 
resisting?  Questions I was too tired to 
ponder.  Or so I thought, until Agent Scully 
closed the book of poetry and held a vial up so 
I could see its contents, as if she held a 
jewel in her fingers -- a jewel with sharp 
edges that both sparkled and cut.

"There's a young man outside," she almost 
whispered, "who asked me to read that poem to 
you.  He also asked me to give you this.  I 
*know* it will make you well, if you want it."

*Joseph.*  So he had found me.  How?  Why?  I 
closed my eyes, and the dark place beckoned me 
to return.

My ears were still accepting sounds, and the 
sound was your partner's, my mother's voice.

"He asked me to tell you that you have a 
choice."

I had a choice.

I had a choice, and the darkess called to me, 
the most enticing sound I'd ever heard.

I had a choice, and They had sent one of my 
sisters to steal that choice and make it for 
me. 

I had a choice, and Joseph had tracked me down 
somehow to remind me.  But if I chose to "not 
choose not to be," didn't he realize that They 
would still use me?  I would be alive, but I 
would be Death.

I had a choice, and my mother held it in her 
hands, and if I didn't make that choice, I 
may bring her with me into death, because I 
knew with the deepest certainty that she would 
not leave my side.

I could accept this relief, just this once.  I 
could take just enough shots so I could get my 
energy back.  With my energy back, I could 
disappear again, run out to the solitude of the 
country, and no one would find me or stop me 
then.  My body would devour itself, like that 
oerboros, that Greek snake that swallows itself 
and becomes a symbol of life for others.

That would be my success.  Success all my own.

Wouldn't it?

I opened my eyes and blinked.  Once.  

When my mother gave me the injection, she did 
not wear gloves.  


END 6/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I call heaven and earth today 
to witness against you:
I have set before you life and death, 
the blessing and the curse.  
Choose life, then, 
that you and your descendants may live."
--Deuteronomy 30: 19
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The effect of the medicine was not immediate.  
I was lying on that infirmary cot for hours, 
still unable to talk.  Agent Scully refused to 
leave my bedside.  After she had administered 
the first saving injection, she took hold of my 
hand and would not let go.

That frightened me.  I kept trying to talk or 
to move my hand out of hers.  I did not want 
her touching me.  Not because I was afraid that 
she would hurt me.  I wasn't, surprisingly 
enough.  I was afraid of what was inside of me 
that might hurt her.  I only wanted to protect 
her from what I was -- what They had made me.  

Eventually, I was able to see you, Agent 
Mulder.  You kept coming and going, bringing 
Agent Scully cups of water and asking how I was 
doing.  I could tell you were concerned, eyeing 
me carefully.  I especially remember how you 
kept a respectful distance.  I only wished your 
partner would do the same.

When I finally had my voice again, my first 
words were spent on trying to warn Agent 
Scully.  

"Please let me go..."

My voice faded with the effort.

The effect on her was similar to what might 
have happened if I had jabbed a blunt and rusty 
shovel into her stomach and started digging up 
the most painful memories of her life.  The 
levees that were her eyelids still clung to the 
tears, but my senses were returning, stronger 
than ever before, and I felt her pain at my 
command.  She withdrew her hand, however, even 
as her face twisted in hurt at being pushed 
away.

You must know I only said that to protect her.  
I hope she'll understand that.  You can 
understand, though, can't you, Agent Mulder?  

I felt abandoned, but I felt better as well.  I 
tried willing myself to get up and walk away, 
but my body was not yet back in line with my 
imagination, regardless of that imagination's 
potency.

I think that was when Agent Scully's cell phone 
first rang.  Or perhaps I slipped back into 
unconsciousness and the ringing woke me.  
Regardless, the next thing I remember is Agent 
Scully pulling out her cell phone, turning it 
off, and then returning her eyes to me.  

And then another phone began to ring.  It was 
yours, Agent Mulder.  Do you remember?

As you left the room to answer it, I remember 
hearing you say, "Oh, hi, Meg."

My mother's face twitched and blanched.  She 
had just chosen me, the child of her flesh and 
yet still a stranger, over her daughter, the 
child of her love and her long-awaited miracle.  

She was stewing in guilt.  So was I.

When you returned, I looked up at you and found 
my voice once more.

"My sister?"

Sister Shannon was still in the room, and she 
did not understand.  "Do you want me to bring 
your sister in from outside now, honey?"

Both of you tensed at the prospect.  You 
needn't have worried.  I was out only to 
protect you both.  I whispered to Sister, "No."  

And then, to my mother, "My little sister?"

You and my mother passed information between 
yourselves with a wordlessness even Merchant 
could envy.  

Merchant.  Was she the one outside waiting for 
me?  Or was it Abbott?  Or Lynch?  I strained 
with every last strand of whatever-I-am in me 
on the off chance that I could have sensed 
which one was out there.  My efforts were 
fruitless and only resulted in my passing out 
yet again.

And I woke again, feeling much stronger.  In 
the meantime, night had come and the room was 
dim, lit only by a small lamp in the far 
corner.  The young and confused doctor had long 
since gone, his vigilance replaced with Agent 
Scully's.  You, in your turn, kept 
vigil over Agent Scully, and Sister Shannon 
kept vigil over the whole scene like some sort 
of referee.  I sat up and all three of you 
jolted and looked at me.  

I wanted to tell all of you that I was fine, 
that I didn't need anyone, that all I needed 
was to leave this place and to be left alone. I 
tried to talk, but found the words were not 
coming.  My jaw hinged up and down, but the 
speech refused to go past my vocal cords.

"What is it?"  Agent Scully asked me.  

Why couldn't I say the words?

That's when you came over to the bedside and 
hunkered down beside Scully.  "Can you talk?"

I shook my head and closed my eyes, resigned to 
my muteness.

You frowned, deep in thought.  "I think she 
wants something to write on."

Scully's head swung around and she looked at 
you with a mixture of relief and gratitude.  

Suddenly, the words flew from my mouth 
unbidden.  "I want something to read."

Apparently, no one in that room was expecting 
me to say that.  

After a stunned moment, Agent Scully must have 
realized she was still holding Joseph 's slim 
book of poetry.  With a nod, she handed it to 
me, and I took the potential painkiller from 
her, sure to keep my hands on the side of the 
book opposite hers. 

Our fingers didn't even touch.  Success all my 
own.

The book was worn and dogeared in several 
places.  A bright piece of purple ribbon stuck 
out of one page as a bookmark, and I 
automatically opened to that page.  And, of 
course, the bookmark had been guarding the poem 
"Carrion Comfort" by Gerard Manley Hopkins.

//Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these 
last strands of man//

//In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I 
can; //

//Can something, hope, wish day come, not 
choose not to be...//

The words hounded me.  I could not escape this 
time, not even in the written word.  I pressed 
my hands to my face to keep it from changing 
into another form, something that was from Them 
and not my own.  But even I was Theirs.  

I did not want to be Theirs any more.  I did 
not want to be Their new bounty hunter, 
replacing the one I had just killed out of 
green-bloody vengeance.  Human tears 
threatened, and with a choking cry I reached 
into my pocket and pulled forth the stiletto.  
I expended my every last ounce of energy 
flinging it across the room at a window, but 
the window was chicken-wired and shatterproof, 
because the silver length merely bounced off 
and clattered to the ground.  

Then, I fell into a feverish, frantic heap on 
the cot.

I heard a few uncertain footsteps, which 
stopped.  I heard the silver gimlet being 
picked up off of the infirmary floor, and then 
I heard you speak.

Your voice was a shock to me.  "You don't want 
to stop living," you said.  

Next to me, my mother's voice was heavy with 
hurt and fury.  Blood-boiling, rampaging hurt.  
Blood-boiling, rampaging fury.

Hurt for me, fury for what They had done to 
both of us.  "You just want to stop killing,"
she said.  

I opened my eyes and looked up at you, you 
standing there and holding the weapon in an 
angry, knowing hand.  Then I turned my eyes to 
my mother.  Her expression of awe and shocked 
understanding must have been mirrored by my 
own, so similar to hers.  

How had she understood so well?  Because she is 
my mother?  Because I am flesh of her flesh, 
the child of her pain?  Was that enough and 
nothing else?  

How had you known?  Because of your love for 
her?  I guess it was inevitable that you would 
know.  In a way, you are Their child, too.  

Perhaps all of that gave me that tiny sliver of 
hope I needed.  

//Can something, hope, wish day come, not 
choose not to be...//

Agent Scully's eyes flew to my own.  She 
actually smiled at me, almost with... pride.  

Proud?  Of me?  A half-human, half-monster 
*thing,* of which she should have been so 
ashamed?

"If that's what you want," she whispered, still 
smiling, "we can find a way."

The uncertainty within ruled me still.  I shook 
my head at her, even as the hope continued to 
dawn.

"Emily," her voice ached, and the levees broke 
and the tears rolled down her cheeks silently, 
one right after the other.  "I will do all I 
can.  There has to be another way.  There has 
to be another way this time--"

Her voice caught and froze.  *This time.*  Why 
was she fighting for me like this, after what 
had happened with Emily Beatrice Sim?  What was 
she feeling?  What made this time any different 
than the last? 

"Emily," she repeated, regaining her voice, 
"you have a choice..."

As she said those words, *Joseph's* words, I 
understood her fight for me.  She wasn't 
naive; she knew what They had created me to 
become.  But she also believed, impossibly, in 
my humanity.  She believed I had I choice in 
spite of Them.

My mother believed in me.

So finally, I could believe as well.

In that dim room, that night, day came.

I nodded my assent.  One more word came from my 
lips.  

"How?"


END 7/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I do not ask you 
to take them out of the world,
But to guard them from the evil one.
They are not of the world,
Any more than I belong to the world.
Consecrate them by means of truth--
'Your word is truth.'"

John 17: 15-17
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wait a minute," interrupted Sister Shannon.

I have to admit.  I had forgotten that anyone 
else was in the room.  The way Agent Scully 
started at Sister's sharp words, I think she 
had forgotten as well.

"Would someone mind terribly telling me exactly 
what the *hell* is going on here?"

I hadn't know nuns could curse.  I guess 
they're human, too.  Sister Shannon looked 
very, very frazzled.  

"At this moment," Sister continued, "I am at 
least partially responsible for what happens to 
this young woman, eighteen or not.  There are 
words being said here which seem to be 
affecting her very deeply when she is *clearly* 
in a very anxious state.  

"Agent Scully, I *allowed* you and your partner 
to come in here, thanks mostly to your 
*government* credentials and your claim to be 
investigating a murder-- and now I'm hearing 
all this talk of -- this talk -- of *what,* 
I don't know.  Now unless someone in this room 
can give me some clear explanation -- Agents, 
I am going to have to call my hospitality short 
and ask you both to leave until you can get a 
warrant for this young woman's arrest." 

My mother rose from my side and stood to face 
Sister Shannon head on.  I watched, wordless.  
Steel versus steel.  

My mother's voice hardened like a shield about 
me.  "This young woman's name is Emily.  Emily 
Camille Wexford.  She is fleeing from medical 
experimentation."

How clever of her.  She told the truth.  Not 
the whole truth, but enough of it.

Sister Shan let her crossed arms drop slowly to 
her sides.  She turned her head slightly and 
bored her eyes into Agent Scully's.  "On 
humans?"

Her voice even, Agent Scully confirmed, "On 
humans."

Again, not the whole truth, but enough.  

"What kind of experiments?"

I could tell Sister Shannon still was uncertain 
whether or not she should accept this 
information.

"Genetic engineering.  Cloning."

Sister blinked twice, trying diligently to hide 
her dismay.  She looked at me briefly, and my 
silence did not deny what she had just heard. 

"Sister," my mother continued, "I am Catholic 
as well.  I imagine that we feel the same way 
about such disrespect for human life."

I think only I could have detected the way my 
mother's voice leaned so lightly but so 
certainly on the word "human."  

Sister Shan frowned deeply and refolded her 
arms over her chest.  She looked to you, and 
then to my mother, and finally she turned her 
critical eyes on me.  

"Is this true?  Emily Camille Wexford?"

I raised my eyes to Sister Shannon's and took a 
deep breath.  "Yes," I answered her, my own 
voice sounding stronger than I thought it 
should have.

Sister Shannon pursed her lips, deep in 
thought.  Your partner looked to me again.

I know, I know.  First person.  My mother. 

At length, Sister sighed.  "I see.  So, what 
happens now?"

My mother turned back to me and resumed her 
seat by my bedside.  

"Emily," she said, "what do you want to do?"

That question again.  The power of my mother's 
belief lent me the strength not only to choose 
but to voice that choice aloud.  

"I want to see Joseph."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


When Joseph came running into the room, over to 
my bedside, Sister Shannon and you and my 
mother all stepped aside on some sort of 
instinct.  Joseph reached his arms out to hold 
me.  I put my hands out to ward him off.

"Don't touch me," I whispered.  

He stopped, confused at first, but then he 
reached out to me with his mind and understood.

"Emily," he said softly, "don't worry.  You 
won't." 

I trusted him.  Still, I did not trust myself, 
even with the weapon out of my possession.  So 
I insisted, "Don't touch me."

He nodded in respect.  

I had chosen to live, but I still did not know 
how that choice would be carried out.

"How?" I asked him, somehow knowing he would 
have an answer.

"There are hiding places for us," he told me, 
"I can get you to one of them not far from 
here.  You'll be safe there."

Safe.  *Safe.*  The concept was alien to me, 
but newborn hope let me hunger for it.  I was 
still shaky and weak, but growing stronger by 
the minute.  

And my mother believed in me.  

"I am ready to go now," I told him.

His face clouded over.  "Emily Lynch is out 
there."

So it was Lynch, The Investigator, who had 
found me.  My mother looked at me with a 
mixture of longing and dread.  Another part of 
her, another child who could call her "mother" 
was waiting to return me to the purpose for
which They had created me.

Joseph added, "She is waiting for them to 
leave."

He looked up and indicated the both of you.  

"And then?"  My mother asked Joseph.  

He sighed, anxious.  "I think you know."

Four out of the five of us in that room visibly 
shuddered.  

Turning to look specifically at Agent Scully, 
Joseph spoke again.  "I have an idea of how 
Wexford and I can get out of here, and I can 
get her to safety, but I'm going to need your 
help.  Both of you."

I think I remember you uncomfortably shifting 
on your feet.

Now it was your collective turn to ask, "How?"

The two of you spoke the word with one voice.  
Sister Shannon seemed surprised at the 
synchronization.  That was to be the least of 
her surprises from that minute on.  

Joseph turned back to me and asked, "Are you 
strong enough to morph yet?"

I strained to anticipate what form he was 
suggesting I take.  When I grasped his thought, 
I nodded and focused on my mother's face, 
seeking her approval.  

Without waiting for word from you, her eyebrows 
straightened and she nodded with intensity.  
"We'll protect you."

When she turned and looked at you to urge your 
own assent, her urging was redundant.  

"We will," you agreed.

For my part, the effort was minimal.  So few 
changes needed to be made.  Add a few lines 
here and there, darken the hair to auburn.  I 
could have held this form indefinitely, if the
need had pressed.

Joseph, however, had many more changes to make 
for himself.  And on top of that, there were 
clothes to be exchanged yet...

"My God," Sister Shan muttered when she saw the 
undeniable transformations taking place right 
before her eyes.  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I suppose it was dumb luck that sent me to a 
shelter for homeless teenagers, which collected 
used clothing for the residents of the shelter.  
Otherwise, what would the two of you worn?  
Sister Shannon had been stunned into quietude, 
but she did not hesitate to bring changes of 
clothes for you and my mother when she realized 
they were needed.

My mother's suit hung loosely on me, and I 
worked a bit harder to make myself fit.  The 
wool and silk smelled of citrus and soap.  What 
did Scarlett O'Hara's mother smell of?  Was it 
lemon verbena?  Suddenly I can't remember.
It will come back to me.

Then, the four of us stood staring at each 
other uncomfortably.  You gave Joseph the keys 
to your rental car and directions to the hotel 
where the three of you would meet up again once 
I had been safely hidden away.  

Then my mother reached out to return something 
to me.  The silver stiletto.  

I shook my head.  "No.  I want you to have it."

"Emily--"

"Please," I begged.  "You're going to need it."

She held out her hand, frozen with indecision, 
then to my relief she put the weapon into the 
pocket of the secondhand jeans she wore -- the 
jeans she wore so that I could escape from Them 
with her face.

The indecision vanished from her face and she 
reached up behind her neck.  Her fingers worked 
at a clasp, and a tiny flash of gold responded 
to the flash of silver I had just asked her to 
take from me.

"Please," she begged in return, holding out to 
me a gold cross dangling at the bottom of a 
thin, sparkling chain.  "I want you to have 
it."

Tears threatened us both as she fastened the 
chain about my neck.  A word, a word I had never
before spoken, threatened to leap from my 
mouth unbidden.  I pressed my lips together to
keep myself from saying the one word I'd always
wanted, always needed to say, but had never been 
given the opportunity.

*Mommy...*

But I remained silent.  I could not say the word
out loud, even in my need.  I had never even called 
my adoptive mother by that name.  

She tapped at the cross without touching me.  
"You're going to need it," she said.

I pinched my eyelids shut and turned to the 
door, whispering, "I'll see you again soon."

She nodded.

She would still care for me.  Because of her, I 
would live.  Because of both of you, risking 
your lives for my monstrous self, I would live.  
Right then and there, I made myself a promise.  
Somehow, I would live to justify that 
sacrifice.  I would prove my mother's belief in 
me -- in this one of five creatures formed from 
her unwilling flesh in a cruel and greedy 
universe.  Maybe that sacrifice would free the 
other three of me who now lived on also.  
Maybe, someday.

Joseph was looking to me expectantly.  I followed
him to the door.

"You're gonna show Them," Joseph whispered to 
me, reaching for my hand.

I pulled away from his reach, pleading wordlessly 
for his understanding.  Which was given, I could 
tell, with one look from him.  

With a conviction even my fear and uncertainty 
could not defeat, he repeated, "You're gonna 
show Them."

Joseph and I left the building and drove into 
the early dawn.  


END 8/16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"We do indeed live in the body
but we do not wage war 
with human resources.

2 Corinthians 10: 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The sun was just clearing the horizon when I 
saw the sign along the roadside.  

"WEXFORD 5 MILES."

My pulse jumped.

"That's where we're going," Joseph told me, 
pointing with one hand.  

I looked at his face, so different from the 
face I had seen on him before.  His expression 
at the irony of our destination seemed entirely
at home on that borrowed face.

"What's in Wexford?"  I asked in the voice I 
had borrowed from my biological mother.

"Home," he answered with the voice he had 
borrowed from you.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


We passed a gatehouse at the entrance to a long, 
twisting, tree-lined driveway.  When we reached 
the drive's end, Joseph parked your rental car 
in an asphalt crescent drawn in front of a large 
house of gray stone.  The house was banked by 
fallow fields of grass and wildflowers on the 
left, and an apple orchard stretched behind the 
house on the right.  The birds in the orchard 
had just begun to wake each other with song.

Joseph got out of the car and I did the same, 
following him up to the heavy, carved oak front 
door.  He rang a bell and smoothed your tie.  I 
fidgeted in my mother's shoes, looking 
behind us to see that we hadn't been followed.

After a time, the door opened.  A large, stern-
looking woman in a plain brown dress stiffened 
at the sight of these two strangers at her door 
at such an ungodly hour.  "Can I help you?"

Joseph underwent yet another transformation.  
His face rippled and shifted, and he was once again 
the golden librarian who had come to rescue me.  

The keeper of the door sighed with relief and 
pulled the door open further.  "Mr. 
Fauchelevent!"  

The last name picked at my memory despite its 
flat American pronunciation.  "You've read 
//Les Miserables//?" I asked Joseph.

His blue eyes twinkled at me.  "Unabridged," 
he whispered back, explaining, "I'm their 
gardener."

I nodded, still too stunned and weak to inquire 
further. 

"You're safe here," he assured me.  "You can 
let go."

He meant I could let go of my mother's form.  I 
did so, too tired from the effort to protest or 
to afford mistrust.  The wool suit was baggy on 
me once more.  

"Oh, dear," the woman muttered.

"Mother Prioress," Joseph said warmly, "I need 
you to hide someone for me."

The Mother Prioress began chuckling softly.

"What is it?" Joseph asked.

She shook her white-gray, veiled head.  "Twenty-
five years ago when I first took vows, we prayed 
that the dwindling numbers of religious vocations
would be filled once again.  I just never 
anticipated the Lord would fill our Cloister in 
*this* way!"

"Well," Joseph sighed in a tired voice, "you're 
the one always saying that the Lord works in 
mysterious ways."

She chuckled again, and I sensed an old 
bitterness in the dry laugh.  "Yes, but every 
day is a new surprise.  My dear," she said, 
turning to me, "welcome to the Discalced 
Carmelite Cloister of Wexford, Pennsylvania."

"She's still very tired and weak," Joseph 
reported to the Mother Prioress, who nodded 
briskly as I stepped inside.

"I'll be back soon," Joseph reassured me.  I 
didn't need to ask where he was going.  I 
nodded as he shut the door behind him.  A 
moment later, I heard the rental car pull 
away.  

"Come, dear," the elder woman beckoned with 
an even sigh, "I'll show you to your room."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Well, truthfully speaking, it was not quite a 
room.  More of a closet, to be honest.  A metal 
frame held a single-thickness mattress covered 
with plain but clean sheets, blankets and 
a pillow.  A nightstand with a single electric 
lamp was to the right of the bed.  A few pegs 
stuck out of one wall for hanging clothes; a 
brown dress hung on one peg, a plain white 
blouse hung from the next peg, and a white 
nightgown hung on another.  An old wooden 
crucifix decorated an otherwise blank wall.  
A rickety washstand with a small, expedient 
mirror was the only other furnishing.  

I sat tentatively on the bed.  It was 
comfortable enough.  My body was recovering, 
but I was still very, very tired.

"What time was your last injection?" The Mother 
Prioress asked, in the same casual tone of voice 
I might have expected her to use when asking me 
when was the last time I had eaten, and would I 
like some milk and cookies before bedtime?

I blinked at her.  "I don't remember."

She nodded.  "Don't worry, then.  We'll figure 
it out.  I'll let you sleep now."

With a grandmotherly smile, she made ready to 
depart.

But there was still one question not yet
answered which she could probably answer for me.  
"Why are you taking care of me?"

Her hand stilled on the door.  Her white brows
knit together.  In a halting, strained voice, 
at length she answered me.  "I have a . . . a 
personal stake."

My heart began to hammer.  "Are you one of us?"

The crows feet about her eyes quivered.  "No.  
I am not."  

I raised my eyes to look at hers more closely.  
Blue.  Very, very blue.  Startlingly blue.  I 
searched her hair for a sign of now gone darkness.  
If my guess was correct, she had once been blond.  
The angle of her cheekbones through her sagging 
skin, the tilt of her chin was so similar...

Absently, she raised a hand and rubbed at 
something on the back of her neck.

She was Joseph's mother.

"Am I the only one--"  I stopped.  The only one of 
what? "The only one like me here?"  I finished.

"Right now you are," she replied, her voice tight 
with checked emotion.  "Don't worry, dear.  They 
never would think to look here.  The hospitals and 
clinics, maybe, but not here.  They think that 
people of faith are no threat to Them."

The way she said "They" was clearly upper case.  
Implicit in her words:  people of faith were 
Their greatest threat of all.  

Still, how could that be?  "Aren't They tracking 
you?"

Her stern eyes momentarily shining with 
complicity, she answered, "Not anymore."

I was shocked.  That was impossible.  Their 
Project had made it so.  "How?"

Her hand moved back down to the doorknob.  "Later, 
my dear.  There is nothing concealed that will not 
be revealed, no secret that will not be made known.  
Now, I should let you get some sleep."

She shut the door and I was alone.

As her footsteps echoed down the hall outside 
my new room, I looked around some more.  
Finally, I chose to change into the 
nightgown before crawling into the bed.

I began to unbutton the shirt my mother had 
lent me, and the mirror caught my eye.  I stepped 
closer and inspected my reflection.  The dark 
streaks of the fever were gone from my skin.  I 
also noticed the small, gold cross gleaming at 
my throat.  A symbol of my mother's faith.  

My biological mother, who believed in me.

I cleared my throat, and the sound echoed 
quickly off the close walls of the room.  
Alone.  I was finally alone.  So of course for 
the first time since I was a little, frightened 
child, I did not want to be alone.  I did not
want to be touched, but neither did I want 
this desolation, this barrenness.

I looked back into the mirror and conjured my 
biological mother, Agent Scully, back onto my 
face.  The soft, light wrinkles of impending 
middle age intensified around the expressive 
eyes and eyebrows.  I tried to summon her 
proud smile onto my transformed lips.

I tried.

I failed.  

My lips retained their cold, straight line.  
My appearance could change, but I was still 
the same on the inside.  Half human, half 
monster.  Everything had changed, but nothing
had changed.

No wonder my parents had never wanted to touch 
me -- my parents the Wexfords.  How much my 
straight-line mouth resembled that of the woman 
I had called "Mom" up until I was eleven.  My 
biology was not from them, but nevertheless the 
Wexfords had helped make me what I had become.  

The Wexfords whom I had killed.  The Wexfords who 
had not loved me as much as the Sims had loved 
Emily Beatrice.

Why hadn't they?  Was I any less loveable than 
she had been?  I must have been.  I must have 
been more the monster.  Why else had They chosen 
me, Emily clone C, out of all the other five to 
be Their future bounty hunter?

"Mommy," I choked involuntarily, and my face 
changed.  My hair deepened into a dark brown bob, 
and I was Joyce Wexford, the woman who had called 
me "daughter" but had never touched me.

"Mommy," I let myself sob, clawing at the 
mirror, imagining that if I got through the 
looking glass I could have crawled into her lap 
and pressed my cheek into her warm palm and found
it comforting.  If I imagined hard enough, she 
would have felt my cheek and my forehead to see 
if I had a fever.  She would have read to me and 
sung songs to me and fluffed my pillows.  

She would have loved me.  I could have made her 
love me.

She would have loved me.  She would have been my 
Mommy.  She would have come when I called for her 
in the darkness.  She would have been worthy of 
the name...

"...Mommy..."  

If I had known I could have killed her by 
picking up that shard of broken cup, I wouldn't 
have done it.  I had it in me to choose to be 
good, to do right.  I only had been trying to help.
And I had shown that to my mother, the woman 
who had given me the name Wexford, by trying 
to clean up after her broken mug.  

The first lesson of adulthood came to me in that 
mirror: some things about my parents I could not 
have changed.  Joyce Wexford still would not have 
loved me even had my 911 call gone through, even 
had I saved her from my poisonous blood.  

I could not have made her love me.

I did not belong to Joyce Wexford because of her 
own indifference.  However, neither did I belong 
to Agent Scully, because They had taken me from 
her before she had a chance to truly become my 
mother.  

And I did not belong to Them because I had chosen 
not to.

So whose was I?  Where did I belong?

For the moment, there was no answer to that 
question.

My sobbing softened.  I stopped scratching at the 
glass.  My face faded into the first face I had 
ever called my own: Emily Camille Wexford.

If I had chosen to live, I would have to learn 
to live with this face.  I would have to learn 
to live with myself.