Title: Fascination III Author: Katherine Jennings Rating: PG Category: VA Spoilers: Memento Mori Summary: Continuation of the Fascination stories by RocketMan. Scully has slid a bit further into the abyss that she looked into during the first two stories... WARNING: If you read the Fascination I and II, you know what's coming. You know that it's going to be quite dark and possibly disturbing. If you didn't read them...well, you've been warned. This story explores further the issue of self-injury. The actions and emotions depicted were not ones I would have ascribed to Scully, but RocketMan's stories struck an uncomfortably familiar chord with me, and I had to write this. Thanks to RocketMan for letting me post it as part of the series. Fascination III by Katherine Jennings Mulder drones on about the newest case we've been assigned to investigate. I'm listening, but the bulk of my attention is focused under my desk, where the fingernails of my right hand scratch with increasing firmness against the skin of my left arm. It's a nervous habit I seem to have picked up. I claw at myself with my own fingernails because there is nothing better at hand to do the job. I realize with a start of surprise that Mulder has stopped talking. I look up to see a sad expression on his face, but one that quickly hides itself. "Don't," he says. His voice is sharp. It bothers him when I do this--when I claw at myself like some kind of animal caught in a trap. The only thing that bothers me right now is the fact that my pocketknife is in my car, and I can't do the job right. Still, out of respect for Mulder's feelings, I stop. It's only a matter of time, though, before the restlessness I can already feel builds up in my fingers until they are compelled to begin again their relentless scratching. I know this. I wonder if Mulder knows as well. I wonder if he knows that it doesn't stop with the fingernails. That, when I get like this, eventually I have to take my knife or razor and hack at myself until the blood comes. It doesn't take much--just a drop or two--but it's the only way out of the mental state I seem to sink into more and more lately. I don't know what triggered today's drop into depression. I never do--never can pinpoint the cause and say "*That's* why I'm doing this." It's as much a mystery to me now as it was the day I first picked up a pair of scissors and sliced myself. I'm still at a loss to explain why anyone would do such a thing. Mulder might know...he's the psychologist. The irony strikes me as being particularly funny, and I snort lightly. His eyes are on me, dark and concerned. That concern bothers me. I don't do this for Mulder to worry about me...or do I? I wear my scars like a badge of honor won through combat, even as I try to hide them. I can't stand being in that office right now. Luckily, it's close enough to noon that taking a lunch break--if unusual--can't really be challenged. I slip out of my desk, excusing myself to Mulder. Almost immediately after I leave the room, the incessant clawing begins again. I dig in harder with my fingernails now, frustrated at the ineffectiveness of my efforts. I cut my fingernails short during one of my more rational moments, and all I get now for my efforts is a few red marks that will fade within minutes. Their impermanence seems to taunt me, choking me as I try harder to dig a gouge that will last. I have nothing. Nothing that will last. Not even my own life. By the time I get to my car, most of my lower arm is red. It's not enough; I know from experience that this irritation will be gone in moments. I fumble in my pocket for my keys with my right hand, holding my left arm in front of me so I can study my handiwork with a familiarly sick, sinking fascination. Not enough. The search for my keys doesn't really take an eternity. It just feels like it. Eventually, though, I find myself sitting in my car, staring at the knife in the open glove compartment. I don't reach for it right away, though. Part of me wants to leave it where it is, to go back inside. To talk to Mulder, let him help me. That part of me wants nothing more than to feel his arms around me while I let out all the things I've been keeping inside for so long. The rest of me, though, knows that I'm not going to do that. The idea of crying in Mulder's embrace, that image that seems so appealing to that small part of me, seems patently ridiculous. No, I'm not going to do that. Why would I? I don't feel anymore. That's what I tell myself, anyway, as I reach for the knife. The first few passes over my arm leave me with light scratches that don't break the skin, but which will remain for several days. I study my arm with a clinical detachment as I etch lines of varying lengths across the skin. First a series of lines in one direction, then shifting the knife in my hand for a set in the other direction. I smile in genuine mirth as I realize what I've done. I've carved a series of X's into myself. Wonder what my psychologist partner would say about that. As I've done before, I look very carefully at the veins in my wrist, wondering what it would be like to cut myself there. Almost as soon as I consider the idea, though, I shy away from it. That's not what I'm doing here. I don't want to die. *You're going to die anyway, Dana.* *You have cancer. You're going to die.* There is a sharp pain as I savagely make a single stroke against the side of my wrist, above the bone. Silence. My blood oozes out of the cut I have made. I grasp my wrist, squeezing the skin, urging a few more drops to flow. At the sight of the thick red liquid, the tension built up within me releases and dissipates almost immediately. It's over, for now. The voices have been silenced. The argument is over. I won. Didn't I? It finally occurs to me to wonder where Mulder is. I told him that I was going to lunch, but Mulder certainly knows me well enough to recognize that as the flat-out lie that it was. And I know him well enough to know that it would have been entirely in character for him to follow me out here. To try to help me, to stop me. I expected him to, really. The part of me that still feels emotion wanted him to. And as that part, released by the knife, grows to take up more and more of my being, it also grows angry. Angry at Mulder. It's not fair, I know. It's irrational to be mad at Mulder; I'm doing this to myself. But then, I'm not being very rational these days. I want Mulder to save me. But Mulder can't save me. I can only save myself. I just wish I knew how. END Kat Jennings Commander in Chief, Tom Colton Death Squad For links to my fanfic and the homepage of the TCDS, go to: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Zone/7852 co-founding original SSSSSSiS #1 Spooky Sick Sinfully Seductive Sink Sisters in Sync "Great minds sink alike." Proprietor, Jazz's House of Clones, #xfrp