From:             eyore <eyore@mindspring.com>
Subject:          New Story: FLY
Date sent:        Mon, 9 Mar 1998 13:30:18 -0500

"Fly"
by Shell Brown, eyore@mindspring.com
Copyright February 1998
SPOILERS:  Schizogeny
CLASSIFICATION:  S, A
RATING:  NC-17 for Violence and Language
WARNING:  This piece contains scenes of child
abuse and neglect.
KEYWORDS: Muldertorture, Mulderangst
SUMMARY: The events surrounding Karin Matthews
vengeful acts resonates with Mulder, setting
off a series of flashbacks to his childhood.
Angry and resentful, he puts both his life and
Scully's life in danger in attempt to avoid his
ultimate and most important confrontation with
the man responsible for the loss of his sister
-- his father. DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and
Characters of Mulder, Scully, Melissa, Skinner,
Bill Mulder and other characters you recognize,
belong to Chris Carter, Ten- Thirteen
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No copyright
infringement intended.
ARCHIVE:  Please to Gossamer and MTA.  Anywhere
else is fine as long as you keep my name
attached.
FEEDBACK:  I would appreciate your feedback,
especially anything constructive.  I promise to
respond to you.  Please refrain from flaming
me. I just don't need that in my life.
THANK YOU:  Special thanks to Abbie for beta
reading and suggesting a major plot line.  The
story comes together because of you.  Also
humble thanks to Vickie for beta reading and
editing copy.  Your encouraging words mean more
to me than I can say.

Send feedback to Shell at eyore@mindspring.com

Part 1/17

"My God, Mulder, you're bleeding" said Scully.
She instinctively took out a linen handkerchief
from her coat pocket and held it against the
wound on Mulder's forehead.  "Ouch!  Scully,
that hurts," complained Mulder.  She was in
doctor-mode again.

Although he had to admit he did give her ample
Opportunity to use her medical training.  How
many times had she used her training to help
him while on the field?  Plenty.  Was it
only a few weeks ago they were in the Florida
woods?  He was attacked and Scully took care of
him.

"Mulder, how did this happen?" she asked.

He was shivering in the Michigan winter air.
"I had a little accident in the car."

The paramedics must have arrived, he saw
someone checking out Bobby Rich.  They both had
just pulled themselves out of 4 feet of cold
mud.  Damn, it was cold.  He hoped Scully
didn't say he was in shock.  She said that
all the time.

She surprised him by lifting his muddy hand and
placing it over the wet handkerchief.  "Keep
putting pressure on that wound, Mulder.  I'll
be right back."

What?  She wasn't going to stay with him and
talk to the Paramedics?  She wasn't going to
insist he go to the hospital?  This wasn't
Scully SOP at work here.  His eyes were
following her as she approached the orchardman 
and began speaking with him.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have been in that
car wreck about a mile from here would you?"
asked a paramedic.  "Gary" was written in white
stitching over the left breast of his dark
jacket.

"Yeah, that was me," Mulder replied.  He had a
mind altering headache to prove it.

"Man, you are one lucky son of a gun.  I guess
you weren't wearing a seat belt," said Gary.

Mulder shook his head and then stopped as this
caused the world to spin.  "Can I lay down?" he
asked.

"Joe!  Get the backboard for this guy," Gary
shouted.  "This is the guy who was in that car
we passed."

"Oh, yeah?"  Joe shouted back.  "He's one lucky
son of a gun.  I'll be right there."

Mulder rolled his eyes.  Lucky?  I don't think
so.  That's not an attribute he ever applied to
himself.  He worked damn hard to get where he
was and what did all that work get him?  He had
no friends, no "significant other", no family
in his life. Heck, he didn't even have a dog
that loved him.

Before, the work was enough to sustain him.
Now. . .  He looked over at Scully who was
still speaking to the orchardman.  Now, the
work wasn't enough.  The truth that was out
there had become less relevant, less urgent.
His sister was alive and well and didn't want
to have anything to do with him.  Scully was
alive and well, thank goodness, but, their
relationship had changed since her remission
from the brain tumor.  He couldn't articulate
how or what exactly changed but they were
different with each other as well as with the
work.

"Here we go, mister," said Gary.  Gary had let
the backboard drop to the ground and had
positioned himself behind Mulder to help him
get on to the contraption.

"Mulder.  My name is Mulder," he said.

Gary shrugged then said, "Fine, Mulder.  Let's
get you on this thing and get a look at the
head wound."

Mulder sighed.  He didn't want to fight about
it.  No arguments.  Just do what you're told.
Do what you're told -- an old feeling washed
over him:  a role he was accustomed to playing
at one point in his life.  It was comfortable,
well known and understood.  The feeling carried
a sense of fear and hopelessness with it.
Mulder felt his stomach do a queasy turn.  He
was being lifted onto the tan backboard and
told to lay down.  He dropped Scully's
handkerchief when his arms and legs were
strapped into the back board by bright colored
safety belts.

Where was Scully? he wondered.

The smell of the mud that had covered him was
sour and making him fee queasier.  As Gary and
Joe lifted him up and started walking to the
ambulance, Mulder fell into the unconscious
void that he had been battling since the
accident.  Who cared if he was sleeping or
awake.  Scully wasn't there.  Why should he
care?

End Part 1

Fly (2/17)
by Shell Brown
eyore@mindspring.com
Disclaimer in Part 1

Part 2/17

I ran up the stairs to my room after baseball
practice.  About half way up the stairs I can
smell dad -- scotch and cigarettes.  Oh, man!
Now, what did I do?

I don't want to go into my room, but I know I
have no other choice.  I see my dad standing
there; his belt is in his hands folded over
once.  I hear a *snap* the belt makes when dad
pulls the leather straps quickly and tightly
together.

"Do you have any idea what you put your mother
and me through?" he asks.

"Dad, I'm sorry.  I don't know . . . "

Dad slaps the left side of my face hard enough
to make me stumble to the floor.

"Shut up, Fox!  I am sick and tired of hearing
you say, 'I'm sorry this and I'm sorry that'.
You shut up and listen to me good," dad tells
me.

I try to get to the corner of the room.  If I
can keep my back to the wall, I'll be a little
safer.  I make sure to watch what dad is doing.
His face is red and he is breathing hard.

"Where did you leave your books, mister.  Tell
me that!  Where did you leave your school
books?" he yells.

Okay, try not to panic.  Maybe this time, if I
don't panic and don't show him how much he
scares me I won't get hurt.  "I left them on
the kitchen table.  I have homework to do
before dinner, so I put them there, dad."  I
glance at the belt.  It is still in his hands,
ready to snap again.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"N-no."  I hate it when I stutter!  He'll know.
He'll know how much he scares me.

Dad comes at me.  I put my head down and my
arms up.  I am sure I'm going to be hit.  He
stops about a foot away from me.  "It's almost
6:00 p.m. Dinner time and where are your
books?" he yells.

"I'll go get them now, dad.  I'll help mom set
the table, okay?" That's good.  Maybe he'll
just let me go help mom.

Dad takes the one step he needs to get right on
top of me and pulls me up by my hair.  I can
hear my hair being ripped out of my scalp.
"Don't you ever think about anyone else but
yourself?  Do you think you're the only one who
has to live in this house, huh?  Live with your
filth?  Do you? You are selfish!  You make me
sick, boy."

"Dad!' I yelp and try to wriggle out from under
the fistful of hair he has on my head.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson that's not in
any book.  What's the matter with you?  Come
here!"  He grabs the back of my shirt and pulls
me across the room over to my bed.

I fall on my bed belly first.  My arms are
flailing and I'm trying to wriggle out from
underneath the fat, strong hand on the back of
my neck.  "Dad, no!  Please!"  I can feel that
brief moment of cool air;  that moment between
the time the belt is raised followed by the
time the belt hits me.  I close my eyes and
hold my breath waiting for that next moment and
the next . . .


"No!"  He was screaming.  His voice was loud
and he could hear an echo.  He tried to move
but his head was held down.  "No!'  he yelled
again and forced his eyes open.  He saw nothing
but white.  What?  What was happening?  Where
was dad?

"Mulder, I said can you hear me?  I need you to
say something, Mulder.  It's me, Scully."

Scully?  Something was very wrong.  He raised
his hands to his head and felt the strap of
cloth that was keeping his head immobile.  He
began pulling at the cloth when he felt hands
on his legs and belly.

"Mulder, stop it!  You're okay.  You're getting
a CAT Scan," said Scully.

"Get me out of here, Scully!"

He could hear her say, "Okay, bring him out."

His body was moving away from the white
circular contraption he had awakened in and
into the cold hospital lab.  Someone was
grabbing his left hand and lay it down along
side of him.  Soon he saw the surgical tube
that led from his arm to IV bags lying
alongside of him.

"Scully, what the hell is going on here?"

"Mulder, you were in a car accident and have
been unconscious for close to two hours.  The
doctor's are doing a CAT scan to see if you
sustained an subdural hematoma."

He felt her warm hand on his left shoulder and
he jerked away from her.  "Get away from me!
Don't touch me!" he yelled.

"What?  Mulder.  You need to calm down," she
said slowly and firmly.

He blinked hard.  Why did he just that to her?
Why in the hell would he yell at her like that?

"Sorry, Scully, I'm . . .  ah . . . confused, I
guess.  I thought . . . um . . . doesn't
matter.  Sorry, Scully."  He hoped she would
accept his apology and not scrutinize his
behavior, not in front of other people.

"Scully," he said softly, hoping only she could
hear. "Get me out of here before I go postal."

She was frowning with her head bent down that
way she does right before she tells him
something he doesn't want to hear.

"Mulder, I want you to listen to me.  You will
be okay.  You need this test.  We need to make
sure that you're not bleeding inside that thick
scull of yours."  She paused.  "Also, you've
had so many concussions in the past few years, 
you might have some serious head trauma."

"Traumatic encephalopathy," he said.  The words
sprung out of him.  He didn't even think about
it.

"That's right.  Also known as "punch drunk"
syndrome, a condition that is seen in
prizefighters.  It looks a lot like Parkinson's
but the etiology is different."  He heard what
he thought was a frustrated sigh from her.
"Look you're here.  You're prepped.  The
technicians are here and ready to do their job.
Let them do it, Mulder.  It'll take only a few
minutes.  Listen to me for once and let us
finish this test.  Okay?"  She gently put her
hand on his shoulder.

He didn't jump this time or yell.  "Where will
you be?" he asked sheepishly.

"I'll be in the control room looking at the
pictures as they come in.  If there is anything
wrong with you, I will tell you right away.
Okay?" she asked.

He needed to touch her hand, he needed to sit
up and talk with her.  He searched her eyes.
Her eyes never lied to him.

"Yeah.  Okay," he said.  He had a weird
feeling, but he couldn't quite identify it.
Not yet, anyway.

He felt a squeeze on his shoulder, "I'll be
close by.  There is a monitor inside the
scanner and I'll talk you through it.  The best
thing for you to do is to close your eyes and
try to breathe normally," she said.

"Let's get this over with," he said.

What's the matter with me?  He made an effort
to wiggle his toes and fingers.  He couldn't
feel anything.  He felt like he was floating.
What kind of drugs am I on this time? He
wondered.

"Keep your hands down at your sides and close
your eyes.  We're going to put you back into
the scanner, so you'll feel yourself slide
backwards.  I'm going into the control room.
As soon as I get in there I'll start telling
you what's going on and you'll be aware of
everything."  Her voice was reassuring.

"Okay," he said and immediately felt his body
move back into the white ring.  He closed his
eyes and began to do breathing exercises.

"Mulder, it's me.  I'm with the technicians and
everything is fine.  How are you doing?"

"I'm okay, Scully.  You don't need to talk me
through.  I'm okay," he said and took in
another deep breath to the count of ten and out
to the count of ten.  He heard the machine
whirl into action.  Just a few more minutes and
I'll be out of this contraption.

"That's good, Mulder.  Keep breathing," Scully
said.

Breathing is one of the things I do best, he
thought and began to count the breaths again, 2
. . . 3 . . . 4 . . .

End Part 2


Fly (3/17)
by Shell Brown
eyore@mindspring.com
Disclaimer in Part 1

Part 3/17

It is dark in the house.  The only form of
light comes from the flickering television.  I
came downstairs for a glass of milk and hope to
god dad is passed out.  Walking on the balls of
my sock covered feet, I try to make no sound.
I successfully get a glass out of the cabinet
and open the door of the refrigerator.

"Fox, is that you?  Come here, boy," says dad.
He is drunk, but not drunk enough to pass out.
At this stage of drunkenness he likes to have
"talks."

I walk over to the living room and sit on the
couch, a 90-degree angle from dad in his chair.
I keep my eyes down and wait.

"Let me tell you something about your mother,
Fox," he says.  "She's no slut.  I don't care
what anybody says."

I look up nervously at him.  I've heard that
word in school and I know it isn't a nice thing
to say about somebody.  Why would he say this
about mom?  Dad is sitting back in his chair,
his posture extremely relaxed.  Yes.  I'm
pretty sure this will be just a "talk" session
for now.  I fold my hands in my lap and sit up
straight and look at his dad's face.
Appearances are very important to both mom and
dad.  I must look like I'm listening intently.
Sometimes, I think my life depends on it.

Dad drank down the last of the brown liquid in
his glass and reached for the bottle on the end
table.  The bottle filled his glass halfway
before it emptied.

"Damn!" he says while staring at the empty
bottle.  "Go get me another one, boy."

I get up quickly and walk into the kitchen.
Crawling underneath the kitchen sink cabinet, I
find a scotch bottle in the back.  I pick it up
and come back into the living room.

"Put it here," dad says, pointing to the end
table.

I sit back down on the couch and resume my 
former posture.

"Listen to me, boy, I'm telling you something
important," he slurs.  "Used to be a time when
your politics were the same as your country's.
Those days are gone.  Now, you make your own
decisions and choices and decide what is in the
'best interest' of your country."  He settles
back into the chair and his eyes seem to focus
on something very far away.  "My politics have
never been my own.  Now, we all have to pay for
that.  Pay dearly.  You understand me, boy?"

I shake my head.  "Yes, dad."  I have no clue
what he's talking about, but I know enough to
just agree with him, no matter what he says.

"There's going to be some changes around here,
young man."

He said this to me before, but for some reason
I believe him this time and it frightens me.

Dad leans towards me.  "I don't care what
anybody else says.  Your mother isn't that kind
of woman.  We all have our jobs to do.  One day
you'll understand all of this."  He relaxes
back into his chair.

I look at the clock on the bookshelf.  It is
10:30 p.m.

I keep my mouth shut and watch dad drain
another glassful.  On his insistence, I tasted
it once.  It was disgusting, like drinking
poison.  Dad opens the new bottle and starts to 
pour into the glass.  "Oh, hell," he says and
throw the glass down on the floor.  He guzzles
down the scotch as if it were water.

Dad dropped the glass!  What should I do?  Oh,
no.  There are some drops getting on the
carpet.  I feel my heart start to race and I
try so hard not to breathe fast because I don't
want him to hear me.  I need to figure out what
he wants me to do.  If I leave the glass there
then dad might become angry because I'm not
cleaning it up.  But, if he is drunk enough not
to care bout the mess, he would be mad if I
stop listening to whatever "insights" he felt
he needed to share this evening. I'm trying to
figure out what to do when dad finally puts the
bottle down on the table.  I watch him
carefully for clues:  is dad ready to pass out,
did he want to continue to talk, was he sober
enough to realize the glass was on the floor?
I study him, anxiously.  I can see his eyes
droop.  Half-mast eyes.  Okay.  Just sit here
and wait for him to fall asleep.

Dad raises his head and shakes his finger at
me.  "I'm telling you something important here,
boy, don't you forget it.  It doesn't matter
what anybody else says, you make your politics
your own.  That's the only way to protect
yourself from the truth.  The truth is ugly,
Fox, damn ugly."  He stares off into the
distance again.  Is he thinking about something
or is he just trying not to pass out?

"Your mother and your sister are what's
important, nobody else and nothing else
matters.   You understand what I'm telling you
here?"

I nod.  "I understand, dad."  I feel really
scared because Samantha has been gone for
almost a year and he's talking like she's
upstairs asleep in her room.

"Good," dad says.   I watch drool escape dad's
mouth and watch it run down the front of his
chin and onto his shirt.  He disgusts me.  But
I can never let him or anyone else know that.
"The only person you have to answer to is me,
boy, don't you forget that either.  When I say
'jump' you say what?"

" 'How high', dad," I answer.

"Right.  That's right, Fox."

I watch my dad's eyes glaze over.  I have to be
sure.  I sit on the couch waiting for him to
wake up and call me into action.  

I wish mom would come home.  Then it'll be her
job to get him up and to bed.  I don't know
though. They fight so much.  I wish that they
would get a divorce and then I could go live
with mom.  Maybe we could move somewhere, far
away from him.  No, that's no good.  When
Samantha comes home, she'll come back to the 
house and what would dad do to her if I wasn't 
here?  I have to protect her from him.

I hear a sharp intake of breath and dad's head
snaps up.  I watch to see if wakes up.  No.
He's started snoring again.  As quietly as
possible, I pick up the glass off the floor.
The few drops of the whiskey didn't stain the
carpet, thank goodness.  I don't want to be
blamed for that one.  I go into the kitchen,
wash the glass, dry it and put it away.  It's
time to go to bed.  The television is still on
and dad's head is drooped forward.  I can still
hear him snoring. 

I get back into bed and look at the clock.
Midnight.  In 3 or 4 hours dad will begin the
"retching ritual."  Sometimes I can sleep
through it, but usually it wakes me up.  I hate
alcohol.  When I grow up I'm never,  ever going
to drink this stuff.  I gently turn on my side.
Dad hit me today.  He hit me on the middle of
my back and it burns.  I don't know how much
more of this I can take.  I feel the hot tears
roll down my face.  I didn't mean to cry; I
just couldn't help it.  I worry that I might
never stop.  I stuff my mouth with the covers.
No one can hear me when I scream if I have a
mouthful of covers.  Why?  Why is this
happening?  I'm a good boy.  I try so hard.
I'm a good boy.

End Part 3/17


Part 4/17

Fly (4/17)
by Shell Brown
eyore@mindspring.com
Disclaimer in Part 1

" 'M good boy," he heard himself murmur.

"Mulder are you awake?" asked Scully.

"What?  Scully?  Where are we?" he asked.

A small light snapped on above his bed, and he
watched her move closer to him.

"Mulder, do you know where you are?" she asked.

He surveyed his surroundings.  Wow!  He had one
hell of a headache.  "I'm in the hospital.  I
hit my head, again."

Scully nodded and picked up his right arm.  She
held his arm and began taking his pulse.
"That's right.  What's the last thing you
remember?"  She studied her watch as she spoke.
Then put his arm down on the bed.

He rubbed the grit out of his eyes with his now
free hand.  "Well, I suppose we're still in
Michigan.  The last thing I remember is
climbing out of a mud pit with Bobby.  You were
talking to the orchardman; the guy that lopped
off Karin Matthews' head.  What did he say to
you anyway?"

He heard the screech of chair legs being pulled
over linoleum as Scully brought a chair closer
to the bed.

"Well, he didn't say too much, really.  Karin's
body sank into the mud and no one can figure
out how or why.  The orchardman has been
charged with murder.  I was advising him of his
rights when you were taken by ambulance to the
hospital."

"Oh," Mulder said.  Ambulance?  That's right.
He was in a car accident.  He had a feeling he
was forgetting something, a very unusual
feeling for him.  He wanted to ask Scully about
it but felt ashamed for a reason unknown to
him.

"Can I leave here tomorrow?" he asked.

Scully nodded.  "Yes, you can leave tomorrow.
Your CAT scan came out normal.  Your doctor is
a bit concerned about how much you have been
sleeping, however."  She squinted at him,
"Actually, so am I.  This is strange for you,
Mulder.  You don't sleep much, even when you've
had concussions in the past.  Usually you're
pounding the walls and insisting on leaving the
hospital.  You've been fairly compliant, except
for the episode in the CAT scan lab."

Mulder snapped his head toward her.  He then
reminded himself not to do that again for a
while.  Whoa!  The room was spinning.  He took
a few deep breaths.

"Mulder, are you all right?" asked Scully.

"Just a little dizzy, Scully.  What happened in
the CAT lab?"  He rubbed his eyes again, hoping
it would help steady him.

She stood up along side his bed and stared at
him.  She looked at him a little too intensely,
he thought.

"What? Scully, what's wrong with you?"

"That's what I want to know about you, Mulder.
You honestly don't remember being in the CAT
lab and screaming bloody murder?" she asked.

He looked away from her.  He remembered, but
not with the crispness and clarity that most
memories came to him.  He closed his eyes for a
moment and felt the nausea churn in his belly.
His ears were ringing loudly.  Could Scully
hear it?

He looked up at her.  "C'mon, Scully.  That's a
bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?  I was
confused that's all."

This had happened to him before.  He would
remember something but it felt like the memory
came from a dream or it was someone else's
memories.  That happened a long time ago, a 
very long time ago.  It was back.

"What is it, Mulder?" Scully asked.

He felt so ashamed.  He should tell her.  She
was his partner and she had a right to know
that he wasn't 100%.  God, he was so ashamed of
this.  He thought he had beat this years ago.
Damn it!  Years and years ago.

"Scully, I . . . uh . . . think this last case
has affected me in a certain way.  I . . . um,
damn this is hard."  He looked into her blue
eyes hoping to find strength and courage.  "I .
. . uh . . ."  He cleared his throat buying
himself some time.  "When I was . . . "  He
threw his hands up in dismay.  "I can't find
the words," he said half laughing, hoping to
break some of the tension he had caused.

He couldn't look at her.  He felt afraid to
look at her.  Perhaps his eyes might somehow
betray his thoughts and he didn't want that,
couldn't let that happen.  He felt her petite
warm hand cover his long fingers.

She squeezed his fingers.  "Mulder, you can
tell me anything, you know that don't you?  You
trust me, I know you do.  It's okay.  Tell me
what's going on," she spoke softly,
tentatively, as if she were walking on
eggshells.

He shook his head then said, "You can't tell
Skinner.  You can't tell anybody."  He looked
up at her quickly.

"Okay," she said.

He was biting his lip, something he did when he
was nervous or scared.  "Do you remember when
we examined the hole that Phil Rich died in and
you told me that Bobby had been in therapy to
control his anger?"

Scully nodded.  "Yes," she said.  "I remember
you saying, 'That could be me.'  What did you
mean by that Mulder?"

He looked away from her.  Was he really going
to do this?  Was he going to tell the secret?
How could something that happened so long ago
still have so much power? he wondered.

"Mulder?" Scully said.  "What is it?" she asked
softly.

He took a deep breath and hated that it sounded
so shaky.  "I'm fairly sure that I was never
locked in the cellar when I was a kid, Scully.
I don't think so.  Stuff happened to me, when I
was little.  Not as bad as Karin, I don't
think.  But I used to have memory lapses back
then."  He shook his head and pulled his hand
out from hers so he could cross his arms.  This
isn't coming out right, he thought.  He felt
cold.

"I'm sorry, Scully.  I can't do this," he said.
I already said too much, he thought and closed
his eyes, cursing himself for saying as much as
he did.

He heard the scraping of the chair again as
Scully sat down.  "Mulder, it's okay.  You
don't have to tell me anything you're not
willing or able to do.  I want you to know that
I'm here for you, though, if you change your
mind."

He let his head rest back against the pillow
and pulled the thin hospital blankets up closer
to his chin.  "Thanks, Scully."  He looked over
at her.  She didn't look repulsed or offended.
That is a good sign.

His mind clouded and he began to feel numb,
especially in his arms and in legs.  He wiggled
his toes and fingers.  He knew he had willed
them to move but he was unable to feel it.  He
took a deep breath and looked up at the
ceiling.  Maybe if he counted the holes in the
tiles this wouldn't happen to him again.
Somehow, he floated up and away from his body.
He was hovering at the end of the bed.  He
could look at himself lying on that hospital
bed, shivering, holding onto the blankets for
dear life.  The body in the bed was just a
body: it was a shell, nothing more.  The
hovering figure at the end of the bed was the
*real* Fox Mulder.  The one who remembered
everything.  The one who didn't want to be
around when those memories started hitting him
again.  No way.  He's been through this before
and he wasn't going to dance this dance again.
No.  He would numb out.  What did he do when he
was a kid?  Oh, yeah.  He'd enter a book and
live in the book.  He needed something,
somewhere to go.  He needed to hide from the
memories.

"Mulder?" Scully stood up and touched his hand.
"Mulder, are you with me?  You've been staring
at the ceiling for a while now.  Do you feel
sleepy?"

A voice had suggested he was sleepy.  That was
a good idea.  The body on the bed closed his
eyes and fell into the nothingness.  Yes, sleep
was good.  The core being at the end of the bed
knew better.  Yes, let the sleep come but it
will not be restful.  It was imperative to
remain alert, turn on the radar, keep a
defensive posture.  A possibility of
unthinkable pain was within arms reach.  He was 
the guard of this shell -- this delicate shell.
He was the keeper of memories and the protector
of the shell.  He must perform the duties he
was created to serve.

End Part 4/17

Part 5/17

I can hear the sound of children laughing.  My
feet feel funny.  I look down and see my feet
immersed in seawater.  Oh, that's right.
Samantha and I rode our bikes to the beach.

"Whoa!" I say, hopefully not to loudly, as I
slip into the cold Atlantic water.  The ocean
never warmed up; even in August the water was
freezing.

"You're such a klutz, butt munch," my sister
informs me.

I make a funny face.  "Shut up, Samantha,
you're no ballerina yourself," I say.

Samantha kicked salt water and it splashes on
my face and into my eyes.

"Ow!  Cut it out.  Samantha, that hurts.  Why
do you have to be such a pain!"  I rub my eyes
and stand up.  Okay.  I have had enough of the
water for the day and I'm ready to ride home.

"Why don't you try and make me," she teased.

I hate it when she acts stupid.  "Fine.  Indian
wrestle.  Right here and right now and whoever
wins has to admit that the other is a Supreme
Being," I say.

"Fine," says Samantha.

I walk over to where she is standing.  The icy
water is over her knees and just below mine.
We put the sides of our right feet together and
clasp our right hands together tightly.

"You're going down," I say with sincerity.

She sticks her tongue out at me.  "I say 'go.'
Ready.  Set.  Go."

I pull on her arm, not very hard, she was a lot
smaller than me and I would never hurt her.  We
struggle.  I like to let her think she is
winning and then I pull back hard to remind her
who has the power.

"Say it, Samantha, and you won't have to go
into the water," I tease.

"No way!" she says through gritted teeth.

"Uh, oh," I say, watching the strands of red
seaweed come close to my sister.  She is
terrified of the stuff.  She calls it the "red
ick!"  She freaks every time it touches her.

"Samantha, watch out!" I yell and grab her
around her middle up and away from the seaweed.
She struggles and falls into the cold water.

"Fox!"

"Get up!  There's the red ick you hate," I tell
her.  "Here, I'll help you. "  I reach for her
hand and begin pulling her up and she slips out
of my grip and back into the cold water,
submersing completely.

"Samantha!," I yell and drop into the water and
find her waist.  I stand up in the ocean,
pulling her up with me.  "Are you okay?"  I
ask.

She was choking on seawater.  "I'm 'kay," she
tells me and coughs some
more.

"Fox Mulder, come here!" says a deep, booming
voice from the beach.

"Fox!  Oh, no.  It's dad!" she says, still
clinging to my arm.

I feel my body rush with heat.  "Come on,
Samantha.  It's time to go home."  Oh, god.
Please don't let him yell at me, not here, not
now, I think.

"Don't worry, Fox. I'll tell him it was a game 
and it was my fault I fell," Samantha says.

I know it that it wouldn't make a difference.
"That's okay, Samantha, don't worry about it."

She begins collecting the beach towels and
books as I walk towards our dad

"I said get your butt up here, boy!" he yells.

I hang my head but I'm looking out to the sides
to see if people are watching me.  The beach is
crowded today.  Great, just great, I think.

I approach dad cautiously.  "Samantha tripped,
dad and I was helping her up," I tell him.

Dad's mad.  He says through tight lips, "Put
your bikes in the back of the car and get in.
We'll discuss this at home."

I feel my insides turn to mush.  "Okay, dad."
I walk over to our bicycles.  Usually, I take
them at the same time, riding mine and holding
onto hers, but he's watching me.  I need to be
careful.  I go get my sister's bike and walk it
over to the car.  I watch as dad throws it into
the back of the station wagon.  Samantha is
already in the car, in the back seat,
shivering.  I go get my bike and walk it over
to the car.  I try to help dad put it into the
car.

"Get in, young man," he hisses.

Dad uses the lighter in the car to light his
cigarette.  Samantha begins to cough.  She is
allergic to cigarette smoke, but dad doesn't
seem to care about that.  No one says anything
on the way back to the house.

At the house dad gets the bikes out of the car.

"Fox, I want to talk to you.  Help your sister
with the bikes and then meet me on the back
porch," he instructs.

"Fox, I'm sorry," Samantha says.  I know she is
scared.

I don't like to see her upset.  I notice that
her lips are purple.  We were in the water for
too long.  "It's okay.  Go clean up before
dinner.  Maybe we'll have time to play a game,"
I say.  I hope that makes her feel better.

"Can we play 'Dream Date'?" she asks.

Gross.  "Yuck.  How about 'Clue' instead?" I
say.

She nods and she walks into the house in
silence.

I start to walk to the back porch. I look into
the shed in the back yard. I can see my dad's
head tipped way back as he drains yet another
bottle.  I hope he doesn't see me.  I turn away
quickly and walk onto the porch.  The cedar 
boards feel hot under my bare feet.

I hear a "whoosh!"

My dad is walking towards me very quickly from
the shed.  I can see a frayed length of
clothesline rope in his hands.  "What in the
bloody hell did you think you were doing?  I 
saw you push your sister into the water.  What
the hell is the matter with you?  Are you
stupid, boy?" Dad raised the rope.

The first hit was across my bare chest.  It
takes my breath away.  I clumsily fall
backwards over a lawn chair.  "Dad, it wasn't 
like that.  I . . . "

"Stop lying to me!  You good for nothing . . .
" dad says more but I only hear the sound of
the rope as it whistles through the air.  It
hits me across my left arm and part of my back.

"Dad! Stop!" I yelp.  I'm all tangled up in the
lawn chair.  I have to turn away from him to
get my legs clear.  I know my back is fully
exposed now.  I feel that whoosh of cold air
and then 'smack' a hit across my back.  I see
some red droplets hit the cedar on the patio.

I disentangle myself from the chair and try to
get away from him.  I put my left arm behind
me.  My arm can handle another hit but I don't
know about my back.  Whoosh! Smack!

"Ow!" I yell.  I can feel blood dripping from
somewhere on my arm.  I bring my arm up and see
that my little finger on my left hand is laying
funny and that there is a gash deep enough to
see the bone.  I sit up, my back is still
facing him but I don't care.  I cradle my left
hand in the crook of my right arm.

Whoosh!  Smack!  Another hit to my back.

"Turn around and look at me, boy!  I'm teaching
you a lesson you'll never forget," dad says.

I try to stand up.  The rope hits me across my
left cheek and forehead.  I can feel myself
stumbling backwards and I fall onto the porch.
I instinctively move into a fetal position.
Oh, man.  I can't breathe.  Metallic liquid
fills my mouth and I have to spit it out.

I think there were a few more hits before dad
sees the blood pouring from my left hand.

"Let me see that!" he demands.

I hate it when he does this.  He always makes
it hurt more.  I obey and hold out my left
hand.  Blood is dripping everywhere.  I watched
the blood drip onto the deck.  It feels like
I'm watching a movie or something.  I realize I
don't hurt anywhere at all.  I can feel some
blood dripping into my eye.  I guess I should
do something about that.  I just can't think of
what it is I should be doing.

"Now you've done it, you selfish son of a
bitch," dad yells.  "Go get a shirt and put it
on," he says flatly.  "Looks like you'll need
some stitches.  Hurry up, boy, I don't have all
day."

I get up and walk into the house.  I find a
shirt in the laundry room and put it on.  I
don't care that it is dirty.  Dad said put on a
shirt so I'm putting on a shirt.

"Get in the car, Fox," says dad.  He is
standing by the car.

I trip on the way to the car.

"What's the matter with you?  You got a problem
or something?  Get up and into this car right
now, mister."

I brush the gravel off my knees and elbows and
get into the car.  Once in the car, I notice
that my knees are bleeding from the fall.
Funny, it doesn't hurt.  I feel numb. I lean
against the car door and close my eyes.  What
excuse will he use at the emergency room this
time?  Fell off my bike?  I don't know.  I 
imagine what it would be like to fly.  Fly up
and away from everything and everyone.  Just
fly like the red tail hawks I see flying around 
my house.

I want to fly.

End Part 5/17

Part 6/17

"Mulder, are you awake," asked Scully.

"Hmm.  Yeah," he said then licked his dry lips.
"I'm awake."

"You looked like you were having a nightmare.
Did you have a bad dream?" she asked with
concern in her voice.

He blinked hard and made an attempt to sit up.
He still had a headache, but it was better.  He
sat up as much as he could.  "No, Scully.  I
wasn't dreaming."  Funny, his mouth felt numb.
"You been here all night?" he asked.

Scully picked up his bag from the floor.  "No,
I just got here from the hotel.  Here are some
fresh clothes.  Get changed and we'll go home.
How does that sound?" she said.

Scully didn't stay?  Huh?  Scully didn't stay,
he thought.  She didn't stay with me through
the night.  She always stays with me.  He made
a decision not to indulge himself in self-pity
at the moment.

"Really, Scully?  Your place or mine?" he
teased.

She clucked and shook her head.  "I'm getting
coffee and then signing the papers for your
release.  Just get changed, Mulder."  She
closed the door behind her as she left.

Mulder swung his legs over to the side of the
bed and took a deep breath.  There was another
problem that filled his thoughts; he was having
the memory dreams again.  Damn it!

He got out of the bed and felt himself sway a
bit.  Must be a lack of fluids, he thought.  He
began to change into the jeans and dark polo
shirt he had in the bag.  He wondered what
happened to the suit he wore into the mud bath?
Oh, well.  I guess I'll have to expense it, he
thought.  That ought to make Skinner's day.
The thought made him smile.

He dug into the bag and pulled out a sweatshirt
and began to put it on.

"Ow!" he said.  He looked at the source of
pain, his left hand.  He saw a sterile pad held
in place with tape. There was blood on the pad.

He saw his left hand, fresh stitches and a
splint taped around it.

Mulder blinked hard and looked at his hand
again. No, his finger wasn't broken.  He
managed to sit back on the bed, before he fell.
The feeling of numbness was wrapping him like a
blanket.  The blanket would protect him from
the pain.  He could depend on it to help him.

Damn it!  He knew what was happening.  The lack
of control was the most frustrating part.  He
was having memories resurface from his
childhood.  Not the good stuff either.  He half
laughed, like there was good stuff.

He was reacting to the case -- Karin Matthews
and her abusive father.  For some reason it
triggered something in him, making his own
memories resurface.

Mulder stood and looked around for his
sneakers.  No.  They are called running shoes
now.  What in the hell was he going to tell
Scully?  Should he tell her at all?  Things had
changed between them and he didn't understand
what that change was exactly.  Sometimes, he
felt very close to her.  Other times he felt
like . . . what?

He found his shoes and leaned against the
bureau to put them on.  He turned and went into
the bathroom to wash up.  He stared at the pale 
reflection in the mirror.

Other times he felt like she was moving on and
away from him.  He felt that he was being
abandoned.

"Oh, shit," he said and sat down on the floor
of the bathroom.  The thought made his whole
body ache.  "Stop it!" he commanded himself.
Stop the thought from entering his mind and
body.  Make it unreal.  He dug his palms into
the sockets of his eyes.  "Stop it," he
whispered to himself.

"Mulder?" said Scully, "Can I come in?"

He didn't have the strength or the energy to
respond.  He didn't want her to see him like
this.  Get a grip, Mulder, he thought.  Stop
this now!

He emerged from the bathroom and opened the
door to the hospital room.  "Gee, Scully, what
took you so long?  Hey, is that coffee for me?"
he asked and made a grab for the green
Starbucks cup.

She backed away playfully.  "Hey, Mr. Grabby
settle down and I'll give it to you.  Here sign
these papers," she said and dropped a pile of
papers on the bed.

He grimaced.  "Sure, fine, whatever."  He
looked up to see if it made her smile.  It
didn't.

He signed off on the last of the paper work and
put out his hand.  Scully placed 2 pills in his
palm.

"Here.  Take these and then we're on our way."
She handed him the coffee.

He stared at the medications.  "What are these,
Scully.  What have they been giving me?"

"Actually, not much.  The IVs were a saline
solution and dextrose with water to keep you
hydrated.  They also gave you Tylenol with
codeine so you don't complain about killer
headaches, a broad spectrum antibiotic to 
prevent any infection and a sleeping pill last
night."

He nodded.  There was nothing that would make
his dreams more intense.  In fact, the drugs
might repress his REM sleep.  He swallowed the 
two pills without comment.  "Let's get out of

End Part 6/17


Part 7/17

They had a 2 hour layover at Logan airport,
before the next shuttle to Washington DC.
Mulder sat in the blue poorly molded plastic
chairs.  He had tried reading on the plane, but
a headache prevented him from seeing the words
clearly.  Sleeping might have led to another
memory dream.  He opted to type his case notes
into Scully's laptop, while she dozed.  ". . .
Rage unconfronted takes its own path" he wrote.
Who was he talking about?  Karin?  Himself?
Quickly the report was complete and he started
a series of mind numbing games of solitaire.
He was tired and felt nauseous.  His little
apartment would be a welcomed sight and a night
filled with channel surfing on the couch seemed
quite appealing.

Scully was at a pay phone making plans with a
new friend she had met at church.  That was
another change.  At some time during her
illness she regained her faith in the church.
He was happy for her.  It seemed like something
she really needed and valued in her life.  He
remembered her saying to him once that she
would be happy "to have a life in this one."
It seemed like she was getting what she wanted
and he was genuinely happy for her.

He was also terrified.  It hadn't occurred to
him until recently how much he depended on
Scully.  She was his entire support system.
Sure, Skinner tried now and again to be his
ally, if not his friend.  Trusting anyone, men
in particular, was difficult for him.  He found
it difficult to trust someone in a position of
power as well.  He was losing his best friend,
not to the cancer that had threatened to take
her life. She didn't *need* him anymore.  She
was reaching out to others instead of to him.
She had a support network that covered the
United States and parts of Europe. He and
Scully worked together and that was
comfortable, familiar and all right for now.
When would she make the decision to leave him
and pursue other goals?  Really, it was only a 
matter of time.

He tossed the magazine he had been holding down
on to the cheap blue carpet.  Here I go
indulging in self-pity again, he thought.
Maybe it was time for him to make some changes 
in his life as well.

"Mulder, let's go to Brueger's and get
something to eat," said Scully.  She was
entering something in her date book.  Hmm.  Was
it a date? He wondered.

"Sure, Scully," he said, and picked up their
bags.

The walk to the food court was relatively
short.

"Hey, Scully, let me buy you a lobster for
lunch, " he said.  He was pointing to the tank
of live lobsters at the Legal Seafood
restaurant.

Scully cocked an eyebrow and said, "I don't
think so, Mulder."

"C'mon, Scully.  You're in Boston! You know
they're fresh," he teased.

"Mulder, you know I don't like to *meet* my
food before I eat it.  No thanks," she said
firmly.

He smirked.  "Gee, Scully, I didn't know you
had such a delicate stomach.  I mean with your
slicing and dicing work, I figured you'd be
great at lobster.  Hey, I bet you do great
turkey."

She stopped walking and turned to face him.
"Mulder, you know better than to . . . "

At that moment a man in a business suit bumped
into Mulder.  He reeked of cigarettes and
booze.  "Sorry, kid," said the man.

Mulder stopped breathing.  He was paralyzed.
That was the smell of my  father.  Holy shit!
I can't get away from this.

I need to breathe, just breathe, he told
himself.  In 2 . . .3 . . . 4 Out 2 . .
. 3 . . . 4 . . . 

He felt a hand on his arm.

"What?" he yelped and dropped the bags,
stumbling backward and falling on his backside.

"Mulder?  Are you all right?" asked Scully.

He couldn't feel his feet or his legs.  There
was a chair relatively close.  I can do this,
he thought.  As he got up and began to walk he
tripped over his feet and landed face forward 
on the airport carpet.  I'm a freaking klutz, 
he swore at himself.

A memory flash of a green book and of a tape
recorder playing.  What's going on? He shook
his head trying to clear his mind of this odd
memory.

"Mulder?" Scully was there trying to help him
up.

He blinked hard.  This is not happening to me.
This is not happening.  He created a mantra.

"I just tripped, Scully.  No big deal."  He was
able to stand up with a little help and made it
into the chair.

Scully brought their bags over and faced him.
"You're not normally this uncoordinated,
Mulder."

"Oh, well . . .ah . . . actually I am, Scully.
It's just that I hide it so well when you're
around," he said hoping to get off the topic.

"I don't think so, Mulder.  I want you to see a
neurologist when we get back.  I think the
injuries from the car accident are more severe
than we thought."  She held out her hands.
"Here.  I want you to hold your arms out to the
side.  Don't let me push them down."

"No, Scully, I don't need a neuro check.  I'm
fine," he informed her.

She shook her head.  "Not from what I've seen 
recently, mister."

He rubbed his forehead.  "Mister."  That's what
his father would call him when he was pissed
off.  It made his head swim and his stomach
flip flop. Get a grip, he urged himself.  Don't 
fall apart here.

"Look, Scully.  I just need something to eat so
I can take these pills for my headache.  That's 
all," he said.  He slowly looked up at her.

She was standing, hands on hips, biting her
lower lip.  "You know, I have a friend from med
school who works at Mass General.  Why don't I
give him a call and get you an appointment this
afternoon," she said.

He shook his head.  "No, I don't need a doctor.
I need something to eat."  He rested his elbows
on the table and rubbed his eyes. 

"Okay, Mulder.  I'll go get us something to
eat, but if you're not better after you've
finished I *will* call my friend at the
hospital," Scully said sternly.

"Fine, Scully.  I'll do whatever you say."  He
sat back in the chair and dropped his hands
into his lap.

"Well, that's a first," she said with a hint of
sarcasm.

"Would you mind getting me some clam chowder?
You can't get the good stuff in D.C."

"Okay, Mulder.  You be a good boy and just sit
there.  I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Thanks, Scully," he said quietly.


They had eaten in silence.  Scully handed him
the two brown medicine vials, he flipped them
open, poured one of each of the pills into his
hand and then swallowed them down with some
Snapple iced tea.

"Hmm," murmured Scully.

"What?" he asked.

She sat back in her chair and folder her arms.
"It's just that I don't recall any time in the
past where you didn't give me a hard time about
taking medication before, that's all."

He nodded and edited the comment in his head
that maybe she wasn't the only one who had 
changed recently.

"We should be going," he said and began to pick
up the bags.  It was time to go home.


Scully insisted on driving the car from Dulles
airport to her apartment.

"Mulder, I want you to come in for a little
while, if you don't mind," she said.

He had been quiet the length of the ride to her
place.  He felt strange.  Must be the meds, he 
thought.

"Yeah, sure," he said.  "I'll get your bags
then I'll meet you in your apartment."

Scully nodded.  "Are you sure you don't need a
hand?" she asked.

"Scully!" he said annoyed.

She gave him a half smile and held up her hands
in defeat.  "Sorry.  Just trying to be
helpful."

"I'm fine!" he insisted.

He watched her turn and head towards the door
to her apartment.  She was watching him like a
hawk.  As he pulled the last bag out of the
trunk, he realized how much he missed that.  It
was the only nurturance he ever got.  Then he
wanted to slap himself.  Stop it with the self-
pity crap.  Jeez, I'm sick of this same old
song and dance, why should I expect anyone else
to put up with me.  God, I'm pathetic.

He closed the trunk and managed to put the
three bags over his shoulders.  He looked up
and saw her holding the door for him as he 
began to cross the street.

"Mulder! NO!"

"What?" he said.  As if he were in slow motion,
he turned his head and saw the car tearing down
the street.   It hit him in an instant.  He
felt himself roll into the windshield and have
it shatter across the length of his body.  The
car came to a screeching halt and he felt
himself being thrown back over the hood,
finally landing on the street.

Damn! The car must have been a Jag, he thought.
Gingerly, he touched a gash on his right side.

"Mulder!  Mulder!"  He heard a distant voice
calling him.  He fought to keep his eyes open.

"Oh my god!" exclaimed a man with a glorious
head of white hair.  "Are you okay, son?"  The
man who drove the Jag reached out a hand
towards him and as much as he wanted to reach
up, Mulder couldn't will his arms to move.

"Mulder, it's me.  Can you hear me?" asked an
anxious Scully.  Something must be covering his
ears because he could hardly make out what she 
was saying.

He looked at her and tried to respond.  The
question was too confusing.  He looked back at
the man who now held a cell phone.  Hands
pulled up his shirt -- touched his belly, his
arms.  Whose hands?  It was hard to keep his
eyes open.  He tried to tell Scully he thought
he was hurt, but couldn't make the sound work.
Volume turned off, he thought.  The world began
to fade.  Darkness around the outside of her
face until finally there was nothing.

End Part 7

Part 8/17

I am surrounded by darkness.  It feels warm
almost welcoming.  There is a pull upwards and
I find myself in the light again.  Am I flying?
No.  That's not right.  I hear noise.  What is
that?  I look around and find I am standing
behind Scully who is hovering over my body.
This is weird.  I can see red lights flashing
and if I strain I can hear what Scully is
saying.

"He's not breathing!"

"Do you know CPR?" the man asked.

Her response was to begin CPR, a breath and
then five precisely placed thumps to my chest.
She repeats this.

I look up and see a sky full of stars.  I
remember this place.

"I can't get a pulse!" Scully tells an EMT.

I've been here before, when I was dead.  I
think I saw dad here.  People talked to me.
They said Samantha wasn't there and they were
right.  She is alive.

"He's aspirating.  Let's get an airway in now!"
says the EMT.

"The trachea is tight, I can't get him
intubated."

Scully grabs my throat and it looks like she is
massaging it.

"Try again," she orders.

"Got it!" the EMT tells her.

I feel something.  It makes me turn around.
"Melissa?"

"Yes, Fox, it's me.  I need to talk with you,"
she tells me.

I feel myself shaking my head.  "I'm not going
back this time," I tell her.

She hugs me.  It feels good to be held.

I kiss her on the cheek.  "We miss you," I say.

She laughs.  "Really?  I didn't think you would
miss me very much."

She has a wonderful laugh, very throaty and
full bodied.  It makes me smile.  "Well, let's
say that I wish I had made more of an effort to
get to know you."

She smiles and wraps her arm around my waist.
"She cares for you very much, you know," she
tells me.

"I don't know, Melissa.  I think I'm holding
her back."

"Holding her back from what, Fox?"

I shrug.  "Look at her.  What is she doing with
me?  What have I done for her that gives her a
reason to stay with me?  I don't get it.
Scully should . . . I don't know.  She deserves
more and she deserves better.  She should be
surrounded by red headed kids who want to
dissect worms or something.  She should have a
husband that is totally focused on her and her
needs.  She should be happy, Melissa.  She
can't be happy with me."

I watch my body, now laying on a stretcher
slide into the ambulance.

"Fox," Melissa says, drawing my attention away
from myself.  Hmm, that's ironic.  "She can't
be happy without you."

I give her a half laugh and shake my head.  "I
can't see that."

"I know you can't, but you will.  That's why
you have to go back."

"I don't want to go back."

"I know.  You have a rough patch in the road.
But your destiny has yet to be fulfilled.
Believe it or not there is a master scheme and
you have a role in it," she says.

I smile at her.

"Well, it's not like you are the center to this
scheme, but your role is as essential as anyone
else's.  Only you can fulfill your role."

I drop into a squat and hold my head with my
hands.  "Why can't somebody else do it,
Melissa.  I'm tired.  Worse than that, I don't
even know what I believe any more."

Melissa is beside me, running her fingers
through my hair.  It feels comforting.

"Then believe in Dana.  She'll help you find
your way back to your path."  She holds my face
in her hands.  "Believe in that, Fox."

I see tears in her eyes or am I looking through
my own tears?  I don't know.  What I do know is
that it's time to go back.

We stand up together.  "She misses you so much,
Melissa," I tell her.

"I know.  I miss her, too.  Good luck, Fox,"
she calls out as I start to run.  I need to
catch up with the ambulance before it leaves.

There is a flurry of activity as I climb into
the back of the ambulance.  Jeez, I didn't need
to see all those tubes coming out of me.  There
are two rectangular patches on my chest.

"Still no conversion," an EMT tells Scully.

"300 joules," she tells the EMT.

"Doctor, he's gone.  Let him go," the EMT
responds.

There's a tube hanging out of my mouth and some
sort of football contraption hooked up to the
tube.  Oh, that's right, an airbag or
something.

"No!  I said 300 joules, now," yells Scully.

I hear the high pitched sound of the
defibrillating machine.  Time to go home.  I
walk over to my body and lay down over it.

Oh my god!  The pain is incredible.

"Mulder?  Mulder?" Scully's voice.

There is a regular "bleep", "bleep" sound.  I
blink my eyes.  I want to say her name but I
can't.  I reach out for her hand and catch it.
It's so warm.  I squeeze her hand.

"It's okay, Mulder.  You're going to be fine,"
she tells me in that wonderful low voice.

I nod and blink one more time before I finally
lose consciousness.

End Part 8/17

Part 9/17

I can feel myself leave this body and begin to
fly.  I turn around and see my battered body in
the family room at home.  I'm lying on the
braided rug grandma made.  Blood is everywhere.
I can hear mom crying.  It doesn't matter.
Fly.

Up I fly away from that house.  I fly past the
park where there is a pick up game of baseball.
Hey Nick!  Hey Sandy!  Look at me I'm flying!
I fly towards the water.  I fly low so I can
feel the spray of cold salt water on my face.
And then I fly high, so high that the Vineyard
looks as small as my thumbnail.  Over the
airport I fly, playing tag with the commuter
planes.

I swoop down to visit Christopher Columbus Park
at the North End of Boston.  There is an old
man tossing bread crumbs from a bench near the
water.  I am hungry and I gratefully accept a
few of the generous crumbs.  Up I fly, towards
the fragrant dogwood blossoms at St. Leonard's
church and then over to sit on top of the Paul
Revere statue.  Here I will watch the people.
There are tourist and groups of school children
gathering around the statue.  No, there are too
many of them.  It's time to leave.

I fly up and soar again, higher than the peak
of the Old North Church, higher still.  I am
intoxicated by the smell of anise used for the 
pizzels and biscottis that are made every
Thursday at the North End bakeries.  Flying
higher now.  Yes, it feels good to be free of
an aching body and overwhelming feelings of
guilt and shame.  No, don't think about that
not now.

High I fly to the North Shore, to visit Singing
Beach.  People walk on the sand crystals and
their footsteps create a cacophony of bright
sounds that constitute a haphazard yet
beautiful choir. I perch on top of the building
that sells ice cream cones and tonics to
children.  This was a good place to be, indeed
a joyful place.


A familiar sound.  Yes, he recognized the tone
and cadence.  What?  Who?

No. He wouldn't allow himself to be drawn into
that other world.  He was going to stay here,
at Singing Beach and watch the children play.

"Mulder! I want you to try and move your
fingers.  C'mon, just move your fingers for
me," urged Scully.

Slam!  He was back in his body.  The vertigo
was almost unbearable.  He didn't want to be
here.  He wanted to go back to the beach.

"Mulder, please, wake up," she insisted.

It was lost already.  The ability to go back to
Singing Beach.  He did what he was told.  He
was a good boy.  Right now, someone was asking
him to wake up.

He opened his eyes slowly.  The sounds, the
smells, the colors were familiar to him.  He
was in the hospital.

"That's it, Mulder, open your eyes.  Can you
hear me?" Scully asked.

He turned his head toward her voice and nodded
slightly.

"Good.  Good.  Can you tell me how you are
feeling?

Feeling?  He didn't know.  He felt numb.  I
need to concentrate, he thought.

"Confused," he said, noting the rasp in his
voice and the discomfort in his throat.

Scully nodded.  "How do you feel physically?"
she asked.

He sighed.  I don't want to know.  I don't want
to do this.  He couldn't ignore her request,
not one from Scully.

He raised his head slightly and saw the plastic
IV tubing in his right arm.  His right side was
on fire.  He rubbed his hand across his belly
and felt some sort of contraption made of cloth
wrapped around him.  Oh, no.  He had a foley
catheter.

"Mulder?" she said softly.

"I think I'm a mess, Scully."  He tried to
swallow and get some moisture in his throat.
"What happened?"

She took his left hand and held it in hers.
How could such a tiny hand radiate so much
heat? 

"You were in another car accident, right
outside of my apartment.  Do you remember any
of it?"

He became aware of beeping sounds.  Looking
over to the right he saw a EKG read out.  Why
would he be hooked up to an EKG? he wondered.

"At your place, got your stuff out of the car,
started to cross the street and BAM!  here I
am.  I'm a little afraid to ask but what's been
going on since then?"

She lowered the bed rail and sat gently down on
the bed.  He swallowed the scream of pain that
leapt to his throat when she did so.

"I need to know why you would walk in front of
a moving vehicle?" she asked.  Her eyes were
downcast.

He brought up his right hand and started to rub
his forehead; it was covered in gauze.  What?

"I just wasn't paying attention, I guess.  I
don't know, Scully, it was an accident," he
said.

She shook her head and did that thing with her
mouth, a half frown and a half pucker.  "I
don't believe you.  You've been acting strange
since the last case.  I almost think that you .
. . " she closed her eyes and took a deep
breath.

Uh-oh.  Here it comes.  "Just say it, Scully,"
he said louder than he had intended to.

She looked at him.  "If I didn't know better,
I'd say you were trying to hurt yourself."

He smiled.  Not because what she said was
totally ridiculous but because possibly she was
correct.  She got right to the core of the
problem and he was ashamed.  The shame made him
smile.  It was either that or cry and he didn't
want to cry.

There was an uncomfortable pause.  He had no
witty comeback, no dashing repartee.

"Mulder, you've been asleep for close to four
days.  You have some injuries, but nothing that
would cause you to be unconscious for this
amount of time.  We've run every test and what
we could come up with is that you didn't want
to wake up."

He shrugged.  "I don't know what to say."

She got up from the bed.  "Don't give me that
bullshit, Mulder.  I've spent the last few
months fighting for my life.  Fighting to be
here on this planet.  I didn't fight so damn
hard just for you to give up on me.  You owe me
answers.  You owe me."

He heard the beeps increase in frequency on the
heart monitor, betraying his feelings.

"It's not that easy, Scully."

"That's bullshit!  Surviving cancer isn't
easy," she yelled.

"What do you want me to say?  I know that what
you've been through hasn't been a cakewalk.  I
was there!  What do you want from me?" he
yelled back.

"The truth, Mulder, I want you to tell me the
truth!"

He felt his face contort in different brown
furrowing poses.  "It's a shameful thing.  I
want to tell you but . . . " he looked up at
her.

"But what, Mulder?" she asked softly.

He searched for the words to tell her.  Well,
gee, Scully, you know I was a regular punching
bag when I was a kid, but that's okay.  I
protected Samantha when she was around and then
later when she wasn't I accepted the beatings
because I figured I had it coming to me.
Right.  Just tell her that, he thought.

His ears closed up and that blanket that caused
his body and mind to become numb had descended
upon him.  Oh!  What a relief.  Yes, that is
much better.

"Mulder, stop it.  Do you hear me?  Stop it?"
Scully pinched his arm.

He looked towards the direction of the pinch
but said nothing.

"I know what's happening," she said.  "I know
you have been in and out of dissociative states
since sometime during the Bobby Rich case.  The
temporary lapses in memory, your lack or
coordination, the inattentiveness all are
classic symptoms of a dissociative state.  What
I don't know is why and what I can't possibly
begin to understand is why you are so hell bent
on getting yourself killed!"

The core stepped back and away from the shell.
He hovered near the body but not too closely.
He observed Scully.  Why does she care if I'm
alive or dead?  I'm not sure if I care, he
thought.

The core found the words and allowed the shell
to speak.  "I don't know if I can tell you.  I
mean, I don't know if it's possible.  It's like
something is preventing me from forming the
words and telling you."  He noticed the pitch
of his voice was high and that his speech
sounded strange.

He watched her come closer to the bed and pull
up the railing.  She was leaning against it.

"Look, Mulder, I'm tired.  If you want to try
and explain things to me, fine.  I'm here for
you.  But, if you're just going to lay there
with that stupid expression I'm going home and
getting some rest.  I can only do so much for
you."

He nodded.  "Why don't you go home, Scully.
You're right, you should rest.  I need some
time to think."  He looked up at her.  "So, why
don't you go home.  That's a good idea," he
said evenly.

Her head dropped down.  After a few very
uncomfortable minutes, she walked over to the
chair and put on her coat.  "If I can, I'll try
and stop by later."

He licked his lips and nodded, not trusting his
voice.  He watched her thrust her hands in her
coat pocket.  One of us should say something,
it occurred to him.  She paused just for a
moment and then she walked out of his room.  He
wondered if she had just walked out of his life
as well.

End Part 9/17

Part 10/17

His dad's fingers dug into his shoulder as he
shook him.  "Get up you piece of garbage!  You
are so lazy.  You make me sick, boy.  Do you
hear me?  Get up!"

"I'm sorry, dad, I was asleep," he said
hurriedly.

"Agent Mulder, are you okay?" asked A.D.
Skinner

"What?" he replied.

"Agent Mulder, are you awake?"

He blinked hard then rubbed his eyes.  He could
hear the tattletale of the heart monitor, once
again betraying his fear.

"Yeah, I'm awake."  He swallowed hard.  "I'm
awake."

Skinner nodded.  "Glad to hear that, Agent
Mulder.  How are you feeling?"

That question again.  He hated that question.
"Fine, sir, I'm fine."  He struggled to sit up.
Pain!  He forgot about the pain in his side.
He saw blood seep onto the hospital gown.
Breathing brought the pain to a new level.
Great.  What a wonderful show you're putting on
for the boss, he thought.

"Mulder, do you need some assistance?" Skinner
asked.

Mulder nodded and listened to Skinner's heavy
footsteps leave his room.

He threw his arm over the bed rail and rested.
He couldn't do any more moving by himself.

He saw two pairs of feet enter the room.

"You shouldn't be moving around like that, Mr.
Mulder," said a baritone voice from above him.

The nurse, Jack Stone, RN, according to his
nametag, moved him on to his back.  Jack closed
the curtains and then came over to the bed.
Without any explanation, Jack threw down the
covers, took off Mulder's gown exposing him to
the world.

Mulder heard a  "rrrrrrriiiiiiippppp!"  And the
cloth around his rib cage now lay flat on the
bed.  He saw a large sterile gauze square with
lots of blood on it.  Jack ripped off the
bandage.  "Ouch!" cried Mulder.

"Looks like you popped a few stitches.  I'll
clean this would up and redress it," he said
before turning around and walking out of the
curtained off area.

"Great," Mulder said aloud.  Sure, just leave
me like this.  Let the whole world see what Fox
Mulder looks like with no dignity.  He sank
back into his pillow.  If he could just reach
that sheet . . .

"Okay, this won't take much time," Jack said as
he reappeared with a handful of supplies.

"Uh, Jack?  What happened to me?  No one has
really explained to me what's wrong.  Obviously
I have this cut here but, I don't really know
anything."

"Well, you have about 30stitches here.  You
were in a car accident and you managed to tear
yourself open pretty good.  You have some
cracked ribs and that's why you wear this
binder.  You have multiple cuts and abrasions,
especially on your forearms and hands.  You
must have used them to protect your head.  You
had a cut on your forehead when you came in and
now you've got a new pair -- one towards the
center of your forehead and its mate, one on
the back of your head.  While I'm here, I'll
take a look at that and change your dressings."

Now I have even more questions, thought Mulder.

Jack secured the binder across his ribs,
causing Mulder to see the world begin to fade
to black.

"Oh, no.  Just keep breathing, Mr. Mulder.
You're going to be fine.  Breathe in and out.
That's better."

"Mulder," he said above a whisper.  "Just call
me Mulder, okay?"

Jack shrugged.  "Call yourself Queen of the
Nile, I don't care."

Mulder sighed.  This is what you get when you
pay for a quality HMO.

Jack dressed him in a fresh johnnie, as he
called it, and covered him with a clean sheet 
and a very warm blanket.

Mulder watched the sterile gauze squares drop
away from his head:  one, two and three.  Oops!
The last one fell behind his neck.  A thought
occurred to him.

"Jack.  Do I now have a bald patch on the back
of my head that has nothing to do with male
pattern baldness?" he asked.

"That's right.  You got a few stitches back
there.  The doctor needs to see what he's
stitching up.  Don't worry, Pal, it will grow
back."  Jack patted him roughly on the
shoulder.

This is a banner day, Mulder thought.  "Hey,
can I get off this EKG?"

"I'll ask the doctor.  I think they want you on
it for another 24 hours, though," Jack
explained.

"Why am I on it?"  Mulder asked.  "I don't have
a history of heart disease or anything, I don't
understand why this thing is attached to me."

Jack smirked.  "Hey, I just work here.  The
doctor wants you on the machine therefore you
stay on.  When I get an order to take it off,
I'll make sure it comes off.  Your doctor is 
making rounds now.  You can ask her when she
comes around."

Mulder's head snapped up.  "Oh.  Okay, I'll ask
her then."

"Okay, I'm finished here.  Your wounds look
good.  They're not decompensating.  If you need
anything else, just push that button by your
right hand," Jack said.

He looked over and saw the palm sized remote
control/speaker/nurse call button contraption.
"Right.  Thanks, Jack."

The curtains were opened and Mulder watched
Skinner come back into the room from the
hallway and take a seat.

"All better, Agent Mulder?" he asked.

Mulder furrowed his brow feeling the gauze move
at the same time.  "I guess so, yeah."

"I read your report on the Bobby Rich/ Karin
Matthews case.  Like most of your work, it's
pretty strange.  I was wondering if you could
explain to me what happened out there right
before Karin Matthews met her demise."

Office stuff.  I can do this, thought Mulder.
He folded his arms across his chest.  "I
believe, sir, that Karin Matthews internalized
all of the verbal and physical abuse she
suffered as a child.  In the end it was too
overwhelming for her and she became confused as
to who was the victim and who was the
perpetrator.  I think that to some extent she
believed all of the hateful things her father
had told her and that she was not able to
separate what he said from reality.  She was a
psychotherapist and she should have had
knowledge that such splitting can occur.  You
know the saying, some psych students are there
to learn how to help others and some students
are there to learn how to help themselves."

Skinner nodded.  "Understood.  Which kind of
student do you think she was, Agent Mulder?"

"Well, I suppose a little of both."

"Which kind of student were you?" he asked.

A cold shiver went down his spine.  "Excuse me,
sir?"

"When you were studying psychology at Oxford,
which category did you fit under?" Skinner 
asked.

Mulder counted breaths until he hit eight.  "I
don't find that particularly amusing, sir."

"It wasn't meant to be.  Agent Mulder, I was
wondering if you could explain to me, why one
of my best agents called me today and said she
wouldn't work with you until you got over your
death wish."

I can't believe she called Skinner! he thought
angrily.  He had almost told her his most
intimate secret.  Thank goodness he didn't tell
her.  She'd probably be working on the memo
broadcasting it to the entire bureau.

"I'm waiting for an answer, Agent Mulder,"
Skinner said sternly.

The betrayal hurt him, deeply.  He found
himself trying to focus and find the words to
explain to his boss but the words were not
forthcoming.  He felt hot.  A rush of emotions
overwhelmed him and wouldn't go away.

"Take your time, Mulder.  I cleared my
afternoon schedule to spend time with you,"
Skinner said sarcastically.

Terrific.  That's such freaking GREAT! Okay.
Just breathe.  Breathe.  Yes. The mantle that
caused him to feel numb fell across his head
and chest.  He looked at his fingers and
pinched his thumb against his index finger.  He
felt nothing.  Good, very good.  I'll just go
away for now.  He settled back into his pillow
and allowed the numbing to take over his body.
Wow, was he tired.  He closed his eyes.

"Agent Mulder, I'd like to give you an
opportunity to answer before I take you off
active duty status," said Skinner.

Gee, that should bother me, but I don't really
care, he thought.  He swallowed.  "Sir, I don't
know why Agent Scully said that, you'll have to
ask her.  All that I can tell you is that I
have been in 2 car accidents inside a week and
I'm feeling a little confused and dazed.  If
Agent Scully interpreted that as something
else, that's her problem.  I'm happy to discuss
this matter with her at anytime.  Now, if you
would excuse me, I really need to rest."  Oh,
yeah.  That was good.  He felt proud.

He heard Skinner sighing hard.  He did that
when he got angry.  It reminded him of a bull
that was being antagonized.  That image almost 
made him smile.

"Fine, for now.  When you are discharged from
this hospital, I will call Scully into my
office and if she still does not want to work
with you, she will be reassigned or you will be
taken off the active duty list.  Is that clear,
Agent Mulder?" he said angrily.

Mulder nodded.  "Yes, sir."

Skinner leaned down and spoke into his ear.

"I don't believe that bullshit story you just
gave me.  Is your head clear enough to
understand that?  It's insulting to me but more
importantly it's insulting to your partner.
That makes me sick."  He moved away and picked
his coat up from the chair.  "Give that some
thought," he said.

Mulder heard his heavy footsteps leave his
room.

End Part 10/17

Part 11/17

Mulder didn't have to time to fall asleep
before he heard the shuffle of footsteps enter
his room.

"Mr. Mulder, I'm Dr. Shane.  How are you
feeling today?" she asked.

Here we go again, he thought.  "I'm fine and
please call me Mulder, just, Mulder."

He regarded this doctor.  She was mid-40ish
with long black hair that fell to her elbows.
Her jewelry was large pieces of turquoise and
silver artfully made.  He could see under her
hospital lab coat that she wore a loose fitting
dress in a paisley pattern.  She was a
psychiatrist.  He was sure of it.

"Mulder, most patients in the hospital aren't
'fine'."

"Yeah, well, I am," he said angrily.

She opened what he assumed was his "chart".

"Let me see, here.  According to your chart
you've been sleeping quite a bit.  It doesn't
seem to have any medical correlation," she
noted.

"I'm tired.  I was in a car accident.  I got
hurt.  I need my rest," he responded tersely.

Dr. Shane stared at him for a moment.

Mulder was happy to challenge her to a staring
match.  He could stare down any psychiatrist.

The EKG began to beep more quickly.  He really
hated that thing.  He had enough of it.  He
tore down his hospital gown, grabbed the leads
to the EKG and pulled them off his chest.  He
dropped the collection of wires on to the
floor.

"I don't need a psychiatrist," he announced.

"Really?" she responded.  "From what I've just
seen you could use someone with whom you might
discuss your considerable anger."

He clucked and shook his head.  He folded his
arms across his chest.  Scully must have said
something, he thought.  Her betrayal was
growing by the minute.

Jack ran into the room.  "What's going on?" he
asked.  "His monitor went flatline on us at the
nurses station."

Dr. Shane replied.  "Mulder prefers to have the
EKG leads off of him at this time.  I'll stop
by the nurses' station after I leave here and
you can put them back on.  Thank you, Jack."

Jack nodded and left the room.

Dr. Shane said, "It's obvious that you are not
pleased that I'm here.  I was asked to do a
psych consult with you and that is what I am
going to do, even if it takes a court order."

His arms uncrossed.  "Are you kidding me?  A
court order?  For what?  Listen real carefully,
Dr. Shane.  I am recovering from physical
trauma as a result of a car accident.  I
require a medical physician, not a
psychiatrist!"

She closed the chart and placed it on the edge
of his bed.  "Intent to harm self or others is
considered a crime, Special Agent Mulder.  I
can get a court order in less than 24 hours.  I
was hoping to save you the embarrassment, not
to mention the possible repercussions with
regards to your employment," she said sternly.

He crossed his arms again.  "Fine, then.  Let's
get this over with.  What do you want to do?
A standard in-take?  Maybe some psych testing?
I don't see a case that might hold Rhorshach
plates.  They can be so entertaining don't you
think?  But they're not my favorite.  I prefer
the Thematic Apperception Test.  I think it's
more revealing, don't you?  Oh, I am oriented
times 3 by the way so we can skip that part.

Dr. Shane moved the chair by his bed so that
she could face him when she sat down.  "Was
that meant to impress me?  I am aware of your
psychology education.  Let's just talk for a
few minutes, I'll save the psychological
testing for a day when your affect has
improved."

He looked over at her.  "Fine.  I didn't try to
kill myself, by the way.  That's something my
partner at work dreamed up."

"Really?  Why would she make this up?"

He relaxed a little.  What was he doing?  The
memories, the dissociative episodes were strong 
indications that he was in trouble.  Acting
like a jackass wasn't going to help resolve
anything.

"Look, Dr. Shane, I admit to being somewhat
preoccupied and perhaps a little clumsy.  I've
just finished a difficult case, and I'm tired.
I wish people would . . . " he stopped himself.
What am I saying?  I know I need help.  What's
it going to take to make me understand that?
Do I need to walk into another speeding car?
He hung his head.

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.
"This last case was difficult because it dealt
with kids being hurt."  He felt his face flush.
"As soon as the case was resolved it started
happening."

"What started happening?" she asked more
evenly.

"I . . . ah . . . that is . . . after . . . "
Oh, yeah.  That's impressive.  Show her how
articulate you can be, he thought.  He felt his
hands digging into his arms.  "Could you shut
the door, Doctor?"

She took a deep breath and looked at him
somewhat suspiciously, he thought, before
getting up and closing the door.  She took her 
seat again in the chair and looked at him.

"Thank you," he said sheepishly.  "Okay, I
admit I'm having some problems.  I don't want
everyone in the world to know about this.  I
mean, I have this image in my mind of my
therapy bills being posted on the web page at
the FBI."  He looked to see if he had made her
smile.  Nope.

He continued.  "I realize that I need some help
but I want it confidential.  I'll pay the bills
myself.  I can't do this until I know that what
I'm going to say stays between the two of us."

Dr. Shane nodded.  "Fine.  I understand that
you want to keep your private matters private.
I promise that I will make every endeavor to do
so.  However, if you have intentions of harming
yourself I am under legal obligation to report
that.  I have no other choice.  Do you
understand that?"

He nodded.  "Yes, I understand."

"Good," she replied.  "You say you've been
having some problems.  What do you mean by
that?"

He looked away from her and closed his eyes.
Here we go, he thought, noting the pounding
that had begun in his chest.

"You know I've been through this before.  When
I was at university, I started to have some
memory flashbacks and some other problems.
Actually, I fell down a flight of stairs and
that put me in hospital.  That's where I 
started this process.  Hmm."  He shook his
head.

"What?" Dr. Shane asked.

"I just thought I had everything under control,
you know?  I mean I already dealt with this
stuff and moved on.  I didn't realize that I
could be so totally overwhelmed by all this old
stuff again," he said.  "What happened to make
me lose control of all this?  Can you explain
that to me?  What did I do to deserve going
through this again?"

Dr. Shane nodded.  Her eyes never lost contact
with him.  "You haven't been specific about
what you've gone through in the past or now and
that's okay.  You tell me when you are ready.
I can tell you this.  When a psychological
trauma has been inflicted it doesn't just go
away one day no matter how hard you work on it.
As you just said, it's a process and it's
cyclical in nature.  Sometimes things from our
past are brought up for whatever reason and you
work on these issues again.  But this is what's
most important -- this time you confront your
issues with a whole different set of skills, a
whole different attitude and a whole lot more 
knowledge than you did that last time.  Does
that make sense to you?

He nodded slightly.  "Yes, intellectually.  I
have to tell you that in my gut, I don't
understand it and it makes me real angry that I
have to go through this again."  He lay his
arms down on either side and relaxed into the
pillow.  "It's weird.  These things from my
past have so much power.  Jeez, it almost got 
me killed."

"Are you saying that you tried to hurt
yourself?" Dr. Shane asked.

"No. No.  I was totally dissociated and unaware
of my environment.  It's a good thing I wasn't
working on a case.  Something really bad could
have happened."  He recalled what Scully had
told Skinner.  She was right.  She wasn't safe
around him right now.  If they were out in the
field and his weapon was drawn he might . . . 
What if he drew his weapon on her because he
was confused?  The realization of this fact
made his chest burn and he could feel his heart
beat quicken once more.

"You said before that it was a case that had
brought some memories to the surface?  Is that
right?" the doctor's voice broke his train of 
thought.

"What?" he asked.  He placed his hand on his
chest.  Man, this is starting to hurt, he
thought. "Oh.  Yeah, but it wasn't just the
case.  My life has changed in a very big way
recently and I think that's probably what got
things in motion.  This last case just brought
everything to a head."  It hurt to breathe.
Okay, just try and relax, this is no big deal,
he said to himself.  Breathe in and breathe
out, you've been doing it your whole life.
Breathe . . . 

Dr. Shane was standing next to him.  When did
that happen?

"Mulder, tell me what's happening?" she said.

He shook his head and pretended not to notice
that his hands were balled into tight fists.
Just like he tried not to notice that he was
losing feeling in his face and in his arms.
"I'm fine," he croaked.

Suddenly the pain got more intense.  He heard
himself cry out and felt his body attempt to go
fetal.  "I think I'm having a heart attack," he
didn't mean to say that aloud.
Dr.  Shane pressed the nurses button.  "Bring
me 20 mg of diazepam IV right now," she
ordered.

He couldn't breathe.  He could see a hand
around his heart and this hand was squeezing
tighter and tighter.  He grabbed on to the side
rail of the bed and he held on to it tight.  If
he could sit up, maybe he could breathe better.
Wait.  He had to rest, the pain was too
intense.  He leaned his forehead against the
rail.

Hands were on him.  They pushed his shoulder
back toward the bed so he was laying down.  No!
Didn't they know what was happening?  He still
couldn't breathe.  He was going to die.  There
was no air in the room.  Hands placed an oxygen
mask over his face.  There was no air.  Hands
taking off the gown.  Hands placing something
wet and cold on his chest.  No!  It was too
late.  The room began to fade.

Oh, no, he thought.  I'm dying and I didn't
have time to tell Scully that I'm sorry.  Oh,
god, Scully.  I'm so sorry.

End Part 11/17

Part 12/17

It is Christmas eve and people are coming over
to the house.  Sometimes momma drives me and
Samantha around at nighttime and we look at all
the pretty lights on the houses.  Some are real
fancy and some just have a few lights in the
tress.  I like to look into the houses and
wonder what it's like to be a little boy in
that house.

Momma put a shirt and a sweater she made for me
on my bed and told me to change into them.  She
says I have a problem with colors.  I don't
think I have a problem with colors, but people
tease me sometimes at school.  I have a bad
owie on my tummy.  It's dark and it hurts when
I touch it so I don't touch it.  I have big
owies and little owies.  They're all on my
tummy and on my back.  No one can see them,
except momma and dad.

Yum!  I cam smell cookies baking!  Momma makes
the best peanut butter and Hershey kiss
cookies.  I put on my clothes so I can go down
to the kitchen to help her.

Dad has made a fire in the fireplace and he is
throwing a new log on.  Momma likes having a
fire going.  She says it reminds her of when
she was growing up and they depended on the
wood stove to heat her house.

"That's a nice fire, dad," I tell him.

He looks at me funny.  Not like he's mad, but
like he doesn't care for me too much.  I wish I
could turn invisible right now.

"What would you know about anything?" dad says.

"I don't know," I say and go into the kitchen.
Momma has on her "party" dress and she is
filling a big plate with cookies.  She's been
making different kinds all week.  Samantha and
I helped her with some.  Tonight we're supposed
to help by not eating all the cookies before
company comes.

"You look pretty, momma," I tell her.

"That's nice of you to say, Fox.  Come here and
help me with this cheese and cracker platter."
She shows me how to put sparkly toothpicks in
the little cubes of cheese.

"I wanna help!" says Samantha.

"Here," I tell her and give her a handful of
toothpicks.  "You give these to me one at a
time, okay?"

She nods.

The doorbell rings.  "Go ahead and get that,
kids," says momma.

I help Samantha off the chair and we walk/skip
to the door and open it.  It's the Farley's
from down the road!  "Hi Mr. and Mrs. Farley,"
we say together.

The doorbell rings a few more times and more
neighbors join the party.  I get one of the red
plastic plates and fill it up with cookies and
one piece of a really gross looking cake that
Mrs. Merrymead brought.  Momma said I had to
try it  Momma helps me get some cider, but not
the spiced cider from the big bowl.  I get the
kids cider from the kid's bowl.  I can't see a
good place to sit, so I go up the stairs, just
a few steps.  Wow!  I can see everybody from
here.

A lot of the ladies are oohing and aahing over
Samantha.  She's only two and she doesn't talk
very good but she's very cute.  The ladies are
playing with her long wavy hair.  I hear a
burst of laughter coming from the group of men.
Dad must have told one of his stories.  People
tell me that dad is very good at telling
stories but he never wants to tell one to me.

There are a lot of people here from my
neighborhood.  Ow!  I touched one of my owies
by mistake.  Do all the dads hurt their little
boys?  I have a feeling it's wrong and it's
bad.  I know I'm not supposed to tell, never.
Sometimes the older kids in the neighborhood
will come over and watch Samantha and me so our
parents can go out to dinner with their
friends.  Dad says he needs to be with "adults
for a change."  I know some of the kids who
watch us have seen me with owies but they don't
say anything.  People must think I'm really
stupid or silly because I always have owies and 
sometimes I wear a cast for really bad owies.
Sometimes I wish one of the neighbors would ask
me and Samantha to go stay with them.  We could
see momma during the day and then leave at
night when dad gets home.  I wish someone would
help me.  I try so hard to be a good boy.  Dad
says I'm "damaged goods."  I'm not sure what he
means.  It's not like I'm a dented can at the
grocery store.  Maybe that's why no one will
help me.

"Fox, come here," says dad.  "I was just
telling Mr. Blake how you knew the names of all
the Massachusetts senators dating back to
Adams.  Go, ahead boy, tell them."

This is the only time dad seems to like me.  I
go to the circle of men and tell them all these
different things I know from books and stuff.
I do what I'm told.  I'm a good boy.  Aren't I?


Thwack!

"Damn!" came a voice from the hall.

Startled, he awoke quickly and accessed the
situation.  He was in the hospital.  He was an
adult.  It was just another memory dream.  He
sighed and tried to relax.  He could hear his
heart beating quickly via the EKG.  Don't these
things have a volume control?  He had a wicked
case of dry mouth.

"Hello there.  I see you're awake," said a
female voice.

"Scully?"

"No, I'm your physician, Dr. Patel."

He watched the petite dark hared woman walk
across the room and over to his bed.

"It's nice to finally meet you.  Every time I
come in here you're asleep."  She began to
write in the chart.

"Um, could you tell me what's going on?  I know
I was in an accident but no one has really told
me anything," he said.

She continued to write in his chart.  "Just a
moment."

A nurse walked into the room.  "Dr. Patel, here
are those test results you asked for."

"Oh, thanks, Jeanette," the doctor smiled and
accepted the paperwork.

"Excuse me," he said.  "Can I have some water
or something?" he asked Jeanette.

He watched her look over to the doctor.

"He can have some apple juice, herbal tea if
you have any around, Jeanette," she informed.

"I'll take anything," he told the nurse.  She
smiled and left the room.

"Let's get you up to speed," said Dr. Patel.
She dropped the chart on top of the EKG machine
and he jumped.

"Exaggerated Startle Response.  Typical," the
doctor murmured.

"Excuse me," he said.  Now is not a good time
to lose my temper, he thought.

"You arrived in the emergency room 6 days ago.
At the scene you arrested and revived via CPR
and defibrillator.  That's why you've been on
the EKG.  You have four cracked ribs on your
left side, and a five inch wound beneath your
ribs on the right.  All is healing nicely.  You
suffered a concussion, and have minor head
wounds that required only a few stitches.  You
have several abrasions on your body, most
notably arms and hands, nothing serious.  Do
you have any questions at this time?"

He couldn't think.  "I'd like to have this
catheter removed, as soon as possible.  When
can I go home?"

"I'll order the removal of the foley today.  I
don't know when you can go home.  Psych wants
you admitted as soon as your medically ready."

What?  "I don't want to go to the psych ward.
I'm fine.  When can I go home?" he asked more
aggressively.

"You can discuss your psych admit with your
psychiatrist.  Apparently, you had some sort of
panic episode yesterday and she wants to start
you on some medications before you're released.
As far as I'm concerned, I'd like to see you
eat something and be able to use the toilet and
then you can leave."

The indignities of being a hospital patient.
The only time when discussions around your
toileting habits are so important it's
documented.

"Then can I get rid of this EKG?" he asked.

"Yes.  Your test results are all normal.
There's no need to record how many panic
attacks you have in a certain time period," she
remarked.

Pick your battles, Mulder.  "Fine, Dr. Patel,
thank you."

"You're welcome.  I'm sure the staff on the
psych unit will treat you very well.  Goodbye."
She picked up his chart again and walked out of
his room.

She didn't even call me by my name, either of
them.  He felt like he had inconvenienced her
and that pissed him off.

"Hey, partner.  Heard you were thirsty?"

"Scully!" he said smiling.

She walked over to his bed and handed him a
bottle of apple juice.  "How are you doing?
And if you say 'fine' I may have to kill you,"
she said with a hint of a smile.

He smiled back.  "I have no idea how I'm
feeling.  Is that okay, or should I be worrying
that the safety is off of your weapon."

She was putting ice in a plastic cup.  "No,
that answer is acceptable."

He nodded and watched her pour the juice into
the cup and stick in a straw.

"Here you go.  Take it slowly, you haven't
eaten anything in a while."

The first sip was incredible.  He would have
chugged it if she weren't watching him.  "Did
you catch my doc's act just now?  I feel like I
should apologize for interrupting her day."

"Yeah, I caught it.  Mulder, I think it's a
good idea for you to move to the psych unit
until you're stabilized," she said.

He felt his smile dissipate.

"Mulder?  It's just to get you started on some
meds and then you can leave.  It's no big
deal."  She crossed her arms and looked at her
shoes.

He felt like a raw nerve.  Many emotions
cascade through him accompanied by no thoughts
in particular.

"I think you're right, Scully.  I'd rather go
home and just come in to the clinic everyday
though."

When she lifted her face he could see that her
eyes had brightened up.

"Gee, Mulder.  I didn't expect a positive
response.  I've spent most of the morning
coming up with retorts to all of your negative
and snide comments.
You surprise me," she said.

"Is that a good thing?" he asked.

She nodded.  "Yes.  That's a very good thing,"
she said.

At once they said to each other, "Look."  After
a slightly uncomfortable laugh he said, "You go
first."

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry I got
Skinner involved.  I was wrong.  I should have
trusted you to know what you needed and to do
the right thing."

"Hmm," he said.  "And when have you known me to
know what I needed and to do the right thing?"

He watched her as she rocked back and forth on
her heels, her eyes scanning the ceiling.

"Okay, Scully, whatever.  You were right to go
to Skinner.  You have a duty and a right to
protect yourself from anything harmful and that
includes me.  Look you're making me seasick.
Would you sit down, please?"

She pulled the chair around and took a seat.

"Thank you," he said.

"It's good to see you back to your old self
again.  Well, sort of, I guess."

"Okay, I think," he replied. 

"What are you going to do?  About Skinner, I
mean," she said.

He took another sip of juice and considered her
question.  "I'm going to ask him to keep this
incident to himself.  I think that as long as I
follow whatever Dr. Shane says, he'll agree to 
that."

"What if she says you need to be admitted to
the psych unit for evaluation?"

He shook his head.  "I don't think she'll say
that.  We already have an understanding.  I
realize I have some work to do and she knows
I'm willing to do it."

"That's good, Mulder.  I'm happy to hear you
say that," she said and rested her head on the
back of the chair.

He looked away from her.  "I . . . uh . . .
think I should request a very temporary leave
of absence until I know that it's okay for me
to be working again.  Well, and until you think
that you want to work with me again.  I want
you to feel safe round me, Scully.  I couldn't
stand it any other way."  He raised his eyes to
meet hers.

She nodded and he thought she saw a tear well
up in her right eye.

"Thanks, Mulder," she said softly.  "I needed
to hear you say that."

He nodded and dropped his gaze.  They sat in a
comfortable silence, a silence that could only
be shared among true friends.

End Part 12/17

Part 13/17

"You've been home for two days how does it
feel?" asked Dr. Shane.

Mulder liked her office.  It didn't look like a
typical shrink's office.  She had her desk in
front of the window facing inside the room with
two comfortable armchairs in front of it.
There was also a long couch that he was
currently taking advantage of.
"It's good to be home.  I like my stuff and
that's where my stuff lives, so it's good.  I
appreciate your seeing me this way instead of
making me go to the psych unit.  Thank you," he
said as he absentmindedly picked at the Band-
Aid on the inside of his left arm.

She nodded.  "I think I can trust you to take
your meds and of course, blood work never lies,
so don't give me a reason to admit you," she
said sternly.

He stopped picking.  "I won't."

"How have you been sleeping?"

He shrugged.  "Okay, I guess.  The
Nortriptyline makes me really groggy and I can
fall asleep without any problems.  I've been
taking the lorazepam regularly and it's helped
with the panic attacks."

"Do you find the dosage okay on the lorazepam
or do you want to increase it?" she asked.

He took a deep breath and then his ribs
reminded him not to do that.  "Ow.  Uh, I think
I would like to add one or two tablets PRN,
just in case.  I never want to go through
another scene like I did at the hospital."

"When you thought you were having a heart
attack?"

"Yeah.  I'd like to avoid that if possible," he
said.

"That's not a problem, you can go ahead and
take up to two more tablets a day.  Are you
dreaming?  How are you doing with the
memories?"

"Well, the memories are coming up during the
day.  I haven't had a memory dream since I left
the hospital.  Once I realized what was going
on it was as if a pressure valve was released.
That's not to say that I don't have some really
strong reactions when memories come up, but at
least I don't feel like they control me.  How's
that for progress doc?"

She smiled.  "That's good.  But if you do start
having memories creep into your dreams that
doesn't mean you've lost your control.  You're
still new to these meds and you aren't at
therapeutic levels, not yet.  I don't want you
to set yourself up for a fall.  Does that make
sense to you?" she asked.

"I've been thinking about that," he replied.
"I know it's wishful thinking to believe that
now that I'm out of the hospital and I'm
working on my stuff it means I'm not going to
hurt again.  I expect to have some down days as 
well as the good days."

"That's very good.  I'm glad you're aware of
that.  What's happening at work?"

"I'm going to start working half days on
Monday.  I can't do too much with cracked ribs.
My partner said I should work on clearing my
desk.  She said she figures that ought to take
about 6 weeks," he said.

"You're getting along well?"

"Yeah, we're okay.  There is some stuff we
could talk about, but I'm not ready.  I have a
feeling that she really wants to talk about
some things, but I . . . "

"What's stopping you?"

"I don't know.  Scully's ready and I'm not,
that's just the way it is right now.  It's not
that I haven't thought about things I want or
need to tell her.  I'm not ready. Life is a
little overwhelming right now and I'd like to
get some of this old stuff under more control
before I get into anything with her.  Do you
have any feelings about that?" he teased her
with the standard therapy line.

"I *think* that what you said makes a lot of
sense," Dr. Shane replied.

She never took notes.  That impressed him, for
some reason.  Maybe because it made him feel
like she was really focusing on him instead of
worrying about keeping her notes up to date.
Hey, at $200.00 per therapeutic hour she should
be very focused on him.

He shifted in the couch, moving the pillow
around until he was more comfortable.  "I've
been thinking about what you said to me when I
was in the hospital," he said.

She raised her hand to place it under her chin.
"Really?  What in particular?"

"Well, I've been thinking about how this is a
cyclical process and how I'll be dealing with
these issues from my past from time to time."

"Uh-huh.  What have you been thinking about
that?"

"That it really pisses me off."  He struggled
to a sitting position.  "It's very frustrating!
I thought I had moved beyond this and then
things have happened recently and I just
thought that the past was finally in the past.
But, here it is.  Again.  I'm angry that my
past still has so much control over me right
now.  I want to move on.  I have to move on,
damn it!  And I can't because I am barraged by
memories and feelings and sensations that are
so powerful they make me feel like I'm dying."

He needed to relax.  He lay down on the couch
again and closed his eyes.  "You know, I don't
want to be one of those people that blame
everything that's wrong in their life on their
parents or their past.  I don't want that.  I
want to move past all of that.  I think that is
a reasonable request.  Don't you?"  He began to
rub his forehead, ignoring the gauze patches
that still covered his wounds.

"Mulder, I understand your anger.  I do.  It's
very popular right now to say that you live in
the here and now and any problems you might be
having is not related to your past. "  She
shook her head.  "From what you have told me
and from what I observed the abuse you suffered
as a child is tremendous.  What your parents
said, what they did or didn't do has been
internalized.  It's very difficult to just turn
that off, no matter how much you want to do
so."

He groaned.  "I thought I dealt with this and
moved on.  I'm angry that it happened, I'm
angry that it's back and I'm angry that it's
screwing up my life right now."

Dr. Shane nodded, "You have every right to be
angry."

"But what do I do with it?  All this anger
that's inside?  Sometimes I . . . " he bit his
lip.

"Go on, finish what you were going to say," she
encouraged.

"Sometimes I think that if I allow myself to
really feel all the anger that it's going to
take over, somehow.  I'll start on a rampage
and not stop until I've destroyed everything
and everyone around me.  It's too overwhelming.
I'm afraid that I might not be able to control
this anger like I have for the past 15 years or
so.  I don't know what to do."

She shifted in her chair and crossed her legs.
"I think it would be a good idea to talk about
some safe ways for you to let go of your anger.
You say you've been able to control it in the
last 15 years.  What kind of things did you
do?"

He realized he had started biting his nails.
Something he did as a kid.  He shrugged.
"Sports, mostly.  I used to play baseball and
basketball but I've gotten into more
independent activities like running and
swimming.  Unfortunately, that's not an option
I have right now.  Not until I heal
physically."

"What about your support network, your friends
or family members that you can talk to."

He laughed.  "There's just Scully and she's got
enough on her plate right now.  She doesn't
need me to burden her life right now.  Friends?
I guess I lost the ability to make friends
sometime when I was a kid. I don't know."

She leaned forward.  "You probably stopped
interacting with your peers because it was a
dangerous thing for you to do when you were
growing up.  The secret couldn't get out.  It's
a lot easier to keep secrets if no one is there
to tell them to."

He never thought of it that way.  He always
felt that there was something intrinsically
wrong with him. "That makes sense."

"What about girlfriends, or significant
others?"

Yow, go for the hard stuff lady, he thought.
He crossed his feet on the couch.  There must
be some way to lay on this thing and feel
comfortable.  "Once in a while I'll have an
occasional relationship with someone, but it
never lasts long."

"Why is that?" she asked, leaning back into her
over stuffed chair.

"I'm not an easy person to be around."  Forget
lying down.  He stood up and began to walk
around the room.  There were boxes of toys and
a white board for drawing.  She must work with
kids, he thought.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, Scully could give you a definitive list
but I'll have a go at it."  He picked up a
cloth doll that had no face and then he found
the bag of felt "faces" used with the doll.  He
sat down in one of the "kids" chairs.  "I'm
moody, I tend to focus too much on work and not
people, I am incredibly self indulgent and I
have no tolerance for stupid people."  He
looked in the bag for a good nose.

"Hmm."

He stopped what he was doing.  "What do you
mean, Hmm?"

"I find it interesting that so far in this
session you've mentioned Agent Scully four
times.  She's very important to you."

He looked back at the doll.  "Yes, she is."

"Why do you work so hard on shutting her out?"
she asked.

"I don't!" he said.  He threw the doll down
onto the table and crossed his arms.

"I think you do.  Maybe you tell yourself that
you are protecting her by doing so, but that's
not really the issue.  You're afraid to make
connections with people.  You're still hiding
the secret."

He stood and began pacing the floor.  "That
doesn't make any sense to me."

"Mulder, you impress me as a person with a lot
of secrets.  I don't believe these secrets are
confined to childhood experiences.  Do you know
that since we've been meeting the only emotions
you discuss are anger and fear. There must be
more going on.  Why don't you talk about that?"

"I think our time is up for today," he said
stopping in front of her chair.  He picked up
his leather jacket.

"Not so fast, I have homework for you," she
said.

He rolled his eyes.  "You're kidding right?
I'm not going to start a journal and bring it
in here every time I see you."

She walked to her desk and sat in her chair.
"That's actually a good idea. You may want to
start a journal for yourself that relates what
is happening to you as you go through this
process.  It might be very helpful for you to
do right now and to have in the future.  No, my
homework assignment is something else entirely.
If possible, I'd like you to share with Agent
Scully something of importance about yourself."

"Like what?" he said putting on his jacket.

"Like how you feel about her."

He was stunned.  "No.  No way.  That's too
much, I can't deal with all of that.  No."

"Okay, then what can you deal with?"

"I don't know," he said and thrust his hands in
his pockets.  "I'm not trying to be flippant, I
really don't know."

"Well, think about it.  If you are able to come
up with something that you can share with her,
great.  If you have some ideas but want to
discuss them here first, that's fine as well.
It's up to you."

He smiled.  "What do you know.  I have a little
control back in my life, huh?"

"Take my advice, Mulder.  Don't try and be a
therapist to yourself.  That's why you're
paying me the big bucks."

"Right," he said, and dropped the check on her
desk.

End Part 13/17

Part 14/17

"I can't believe I agreed to this," he told
Scully.

"Mulder, quit complaining.  You know you may
actually enjoy this.  At the very least you'll
be doing something positive for your body," she
scolded.

She did look sort of cute in her Quantico
sweats.  "C'mon, Scully.  Me and yoga?"

She put both mats under one arm and used her
other to drag him out of the car.  "You are
going to at least give it a try."

"There's no way I can possibly get out of this
is there?" he asked.

"Nope."  She had that determined sound in her
voice.

She had been tugging at the hood on his
sweatshirt for the last few minutes.  "Okay,
I'm getting out of the car.  Cut it out,
Scully."

After he was completely upright she handed the
thin floor mats over to him and locked the car.
"I promise to take you out for ice cream
afterwards, okay?"

He smiled.  This was . . . fun.  "Okay, but no
tofu-fake ice cream stuff."

"Arghh!" she said, grabbing his elbow.  "Let me
help you across the street.  The trick is to
look both ways before you cross.  You wouldn't
believe the amount of accidents you avoid if
you get in the habit of doing this."

"It's revolutionary, Scully.  It's earth 
shattering.  I'm cured!" he raised his hands,
teasing her.

"Shut up, Mulder," she said dryly.

They walked into a three-story brownstone.
According to the white board the beginning yoga
class was on the second floor.  He noticed the
stacks of New Age newspapers and flyers for
different alternative medicines.

"Hey, Scully.  Maybe we should go to this guy.
Primal Scream Therapy.  What do you think?"

"I think, Mulder, that I'm going to start
screaming at you any second.  It will probably
be very therapeutic, but trust me, you don't
want to get me started."

He shrugged, "Jeez, Scully.  You really ought
to be more open to new experiences."

He watched the back of her head shake from side
to side.  He was profoundly grateful that he
was unable to see her current facial
expression.


The room itself was okay.  The room was quite
large but the temperature was already too warm
for him.  He took off his sweatshirt and hung
it up on the wooden peg rack.  The floor had a
nice thick carpet and there weren't a whole
bunch of mirrors like he had imagined.

A tall woman dressed only in a black leotard
came out of a smaller room.  Her long hair was 
braided, falling to the base of her back.

"Let's sit in a circle," she said.

It only took a few moments for people to find a
place.  There were 6 participants and that
seemed to be a good size for this sort of
thing, he thought.

She put her hands together as if she were about
to pray and bowed her head slightly saying,
"Namiste."

The other participants and Scully returned the
gesture and greeting.  He looked at his partner
quizzically.

"I'll explain later," she said.

Whatever, he thought.  He didn't have trouble
maintaining the lotus position, he had always
been hyper-mobile.  Although, sitting up
straight was a little painful.  Between his
cracked ribs and the gash on his side, sitting
in an upright posture was miserable.

"For the new participants, my name is Eileen
Murphy, and I have been practicing yoga for 20
years.  Welcome to the group," she said.

"Uh, thanks," he said.  He saw Scully smile and
bow her head toward Eileen.  That probably
would have been the right thing to do. 

A green book and a tape recorder playing
flashed in his head.  What was that? He
wondered.  It had something to do with his
dad's office in the house in Chilmark.  Okay,
no big deal, he thought.  Not everything is a
harbinger of bad tidings, he chastised himself.

"We will begin with what is called the hero's
pose.  Please, everyone stand up," Eileen
instructed.

All stood up and followed her instructions on
how to do this pose properly.  The group
watched and moved with their instructor.

A memory surfaced.  "Come out of my office now,
boy.  Don't make me bring you out myself," he
heard the voice of his father.

He shook his head.  Forget about it, Mulder.
Concentrate on what's going on here.

He was able to get through the movement part of
the class fairly well.  No more voices, but he
kept flashing to the memory of the book and the
tape playing.

Eileen announced, "This is the meditation and
final section of our class today.  Everyone
please return to either the lotus position or
if that is uncomfortable, you can sit back on
your heels.  I'm going to turn down the lights
and turn on some music.  Then I will talk you
through the meditation."

Mulder returned to the lotus pose and watched
the other participants get comfortable.  He
felt a tap on his hand.  He turned to see
Scully giving him just a hint of a smile.  He
shook his head and felt his own dumb grin creep
onto his face.

The music had begun.  Something new age-y.  It
wasn't that bad.  It seemed very appropriate
for what they were doing, he thought.

"Now class, if you would please close your eyes
and attend to your breath.  Feel your breath as
you inhale through your nose, feel your belly
rise and then exhale through your mouth.  Let's
do this for a few minutes," Eileen said.

I am damn good at breathing, he thought.

He could feel himself relax, his shoulders
coming down and his back releasing tension.

He heard his father's voice.  "You don't know
anything, boy.  You hear me!  You don't know
one damn thing!"  He shakes me.  I can feel the
back of my head hitting the wall, hard.

I am not doing this, he shouted to himself.  He
focused again on his breathing, trying to
ignore the pain creeping into his chest.  This
doesn't have to happen, he thought.  It's just
a memory.  A memory can't hurt me.  He can't
hurt me anymore.  He is dead.  This is only a
memory.

"Mulder, are you all right?" Scully whispered.

He looked over at her and nodded.  "I'm fine, "
he said.  Could she see the sweat that just
dripped down the side of his face in this
light?  He hoped not.

Flash on the book again.  The book has numbers
and a name.

Just breathe, Mulder.

Eileen was speaking.  "Imagine yourself as part
of the universe.  See yourself floating among
the stars.  The universe wants you to be
healthy and happy.  The universe can handle any
problems you might be having in your life right 
now.  Give your problems, your worries,
anything that gets in the way of your healing
over to the universe.  Do it now."

I guess it can't hurt to try, thought Mulder.
The abusive words of his father can go into the
void of the universe.  He didn't need to hold
that memory anymore.

Dad yelled, "I said, you know nothing!  If you
don't start to believe that I'll have to knock
some sense into you!"

Damn it!  Leave me alone!  He thought.  There
was something about the book and the tape and
these threats it was something very bad.  He
couldn't remember.  It was  . . . His chest had
tightened up and he couldn't breathe.  He had
to lay down.  He was hurting.

"Mulder, it's me.  I need you to tell me what's
wrong," Scully said.

He opened his eyes.  Scully was there and the
teacher, Eileen was watching him.  Oh, shit!
This is not happening.

"Get my pills, Scully," he managed to say.

"Where are they, Mulder, in your jacket?" she
asked.

He nodded.  The pain in his chest got worse.
As if admitting it was there gave it validity
and the pain fed on this.  He tried to curl on
his side.  NO!  That hurt.

Scully was there with the lorazepam.  He held
up two fingers.  The pain was intolerable.

"I'm not going to take this crap from you
anymore!  I have taken enough from you, dad.
Now tell me! Where is my sister?" he yelled.

"Mulder, what the hell are you talking about?"
Scully yelled.

He felt the two tiny white tablets being put in
his mouth and he chewed them down.  I just need
to breathe, then I'll be okay, he thought.
Fuck breathing, I need some help here!

"Scully, help me," he said.

She scooped him up and lay his head on her lap
and she gently rocked him.  "Shh," she said.

In her arms he could breathe.  In her arms he
could feel sane.  In her arms he could relax
and let go of the pain.  In her arms he felt
like he could fly.

End Part 14/17

Part 15/17

"Thanks for driving me here," he said.

Scully was concentrating on finding a parking
space.  "No problem, Mulder.  Can you tell me
what happened back in class?"

He shook his head.  "I 'm not sure.  I'm hoping
that talking to Dr. Shane will help put these
pieces together for me."  He leaned against the
window, cradling his sides.

"You look like hell, Mulder, " she said.

He turned his head slightly in her direction.
"Gee, thanks, Scully.  When you say it, it
makes me feel all warm and tingly inside."

He watched her roll her eyes.  "Seriously,
Scully.  Would you come in with me and stay
with me for this one?"

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him.  He
loved it when she gave him the "Spock Look."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

He nodded.  "I'm sure."


Dr. Shane opened her door and greeted them.
"Hello.  You must be Dr. Scully," she said.

He saw Scully give him a quizzical look and
then she answered, "Yes, I am.  It's nice to
meet you Dr. Shane."

Mulder went straight to the couch and lay down
on his back.  He covered his eyes with the
crook of his right arm and sighed heavily.

He heard Dr. Shane ask, "What happened?"

Mulder frowned.

"I took Mulder to a yoga class," said Scully.
"He seemed to be having some kind of trouble.
I don't know what, exactly.  He began to
hyperventilate and asked for two tablets of
lorazapam.  After about a half an hour, he
asked me to call you for an emergency
appointment."

He grunted.

"Mulder, what happened?" Dr. Shane asked.

"I started seeing things and hearing the voice
of my father.  He was yelling at me," he said.

"I see.  Mulder, does the imagery and what your
father is saying make sense to you?  Do you
recognize this as a memory?" Dr. Shane asked.

He put this arm down and rearranged the sofa
pillows so that he was propped up a bit.  "Yes,
I mean no."  He shook his head.  "Yes, I know
it's a piece of a memory, but no it doesn't
make sense to me."

He watched her look over at Scully and then
back to him.  "Exactly what is it that you
wanted to do here, Mulder?"

He watched Scully become suddenly fascinated
with her shoes.  "I want you to hypnotize me.
I want to go back and recall this memory
completely," he said.

Scully looked up at him, her mouth slightly
open.  "Mulder are you crazy?  You had pieces
of this memory come up and it caused you a
major panic attack.  The memory will come to
you when you're ready.  Why do you want to push
this?"

Dr. Shane was nodding.  "She's right, Mulder.
Your body and your psyche know when you are
ready to handle remembering the trauma.  You've
been remembering a lot in the last few weeks.
Don't push a memory if you're not ready to
handle it."

"I've thought about that," he said.  "If all
that is true then even under hypnosis I won't
be able to recall the memory.  If my psyche is
determined to protect me from this it will."
He looked at Scully.  "I think this is
important.  I need to know.  I don't want to
spend the next few days or weeks wondering if
I'm going to remember this thing today or not
and I don't want to deal with this piece meal
shit if I don't have to do so."

He watched Scully nod.  She always understood
his need for the truth no matter what the
consequences.  It occurred to him that maybe
given a choice she wouldn't want to be around
for what might happen.  "Scully, I would
understand if you would prefer to not be
involved with this.  I'll warn you it's not
pretty.  It's my problem, not yours.  I was
selfish in asking you to stay with me.  I want
you to know that what you need and what you
want is important to me.  I'll understand if
you decide to walk out of this room."

Her eyebrows raised.  He watched her fold and
refold her hands in her lap.

"Mulder, thank you.  What you said means a lot
to me.  I want to stay for you but I also want
to stay for myself.  What happens to you is
very important to me.  I want to be here for
you, now," Scully said.

He didn't realize how tense he had become.  He
allowed himself to relax into the couch.
"Thanks, Scully," he said.

"I can't say that I'm comfortable with this,
Mulder," said Dr. Shane.  "I don't think it's a
good idea to put this much stress on yourself.
You are still healing from physical injuries.
You are not at therapeutic levels of your
medication.  I think the timing of this
couldn't be worse."

"I understand that, Dr. Shane, but I'm telling
you that I am willing to take the risk.  No, I
need to take the risk," he said.  Dr. Shane
didn't look convinced.  "Look, I'm here with
two medical doctors.  This clinic is attached
to a hospital.  If I'm going to have some kind
of bad reaction this would be the place to do
it."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"I'll be right back," said Dr. Shane.  He
watched her leave the office and go out into
the hallway.

That feeling started to creep up on him again.
He could feel himself lose feeling in his
fingers.  No, that blanket that had been such a
comfort to him was not welcome now.

"Scully, talk to me.  I'm starting to
disassociate and I don't want to do that."

"Mulder, maybe that's a sign that you are
pushing yourself.  Maybe Dr.  Shane is right.
Why don't you consider waiting even if it's
just for a day," she said.

"No, Scully.  I have been having flashes of
this memory since we are at Logan airport.  I'm
ready to find out what it is and start dealing
with it.  Do you understand?" he asked.

She nodded.  "Yes, I understand."  She pursed
her lips and looked down.

Dr. Shane returned to the room with a metal
tray containing a hypodermic needle and a vial
of medication.

"Okay, Mulder.  This the only way I will let
you do this.  I have on the tray some diazepam
in case you become over anxious.  I have a
gurney outside this office and two staff
members on stand by in case you need to be
restrained or taken into the ER.  What do you
think about this?" she asked.

"Fine.  Scully, are you still okay with this?"
he asked.

She nodded.  "Yes."

"Let's do it," he said.

Dr. Shane turned down the lights and then
returned to her chair.  "Okay, Mulder.  I want
you to take a few nice big breaths and try to
relax as much as possible."

He nodded and took three deep breaths.  "Okay,
I'm ready," he said.

"I want you to imagine a place where you feel
safe.  Do you have something already?"

"Yes," he said and shifted a bit on the couch.

"Good.  I want you to feel your body relax
totally.  Let's start with your toes and feet,"
she said.  She continued until they had reached
his face and head.  Then she said, "I want you
to imagine your are walking down a flight of
stairs.  At each floor you become more and more
relaxed.   We'll start at 10.  Begin walking
down the first flight of stairs--9."  Pause.
"Continue down the next flight of stairs--8.
You are feeling more and more relaxed.  Your
eyelids are heavy.  Continue walking down the
stairs-- 7.  Allow your body to feel heavy and
relaxed."  She continued until he reached the
first floor.

His breath was slow and regular.  He felt
extremely relaxed but still aware of where he
was and what was happening.

"Now, I want you to remind you that you are in
a safe place and nothing can hurt you here.  Do
you understand?" she asked.

"Yes," he responded.

"You've told me that you were remembering
objects.  What are those objects?"

"I remember a green book and a tape recorder
playing," he said.  His mouth felt dry and he
licked his lips.

"Okay, what else do you see?" Dr. Shane asked.

He took in a deep breath and tried to see where
he was and where these objects were placed.  He
felt fear and anger.  "I can't see anything but
I feel .. . WHOMP!  He was out of his body and
back in the house he grew up in.

"Mulder can you hear me?" asked Scully.

"Yes," his voice sounded strange to him.  It
sounded frightened and young.

"Where are you?" Scully asked.

"I'm home in Chilmark.," he answered.

He heard Dr. Shane's voice.  "What's
happening?"

"Something terrible," he replied.  "Something
that will change my life forever."

End Part 15/17


Part 16/17

I was home sick, with bronchitis this time.  I
miss a lot of school.  No one at school gives
me a hard time about it.  I always keep up with
schoolwork.  Mom and dad don't really seem to
care as long as I keep bringing A's home on my
report cards.

I feel pretty good, but the doctor says I need
to stay home for a week.  I am so bored!  I
decide to go into dad's office and try and work
on my sociology paper.

I love my dad's desk.  It belonged to my great
grand father.  Mom complains that it is too big
and awkward looking.  I love the old dark
mahogany and the leather blotter with the gold
leaves painted around the sides.  Dad doesn't
like me working in here.  I think he is worried
that I will mess up his stuff, but I am always
very careful to put things back exactly as I
had found them.

I open the drawers looking for some blank paper
to write on.  I knock over the pencil holder
and watch the contents fall on the brown
carpet.  Oh, great.  I get on my hands and
knees and retrieve everything.  Hey, what's
this?  I can see a key taped underneath the top
drawer of the desk.  I mark where the tape was
with a pencil and then I carefully remove the
tiny key.  I wonder what it belongs to?  I open
the large drawer on the bottom right:  Files,
papers, books, a box of reel to reel tapes and
also a few cassette tapes.  Hey, dad's joining
the 20th century.  Wait a minute.  Here is a
book:  "1974 General Motors Corporate Financial
Report" There might be some cool pictures in
here.  I carefully remove some papers off the
top, noting where they were so  I can put them
back properly.  I lift the book out of the
drawer and it feels weird.  It's a box! There
is a small padlock where the pages should open.
I use the key that I found and it opens the
small lock.

Wow!  There are three green books bound in
leather.  This one says "Accounts Payable 1975
"  There are also some tapes, mostly reel to
reel and a couple cassettes.  I open the book.
There are 4 columns.  I see my dad's neat
handwriting completing the lines of the book.
The heading of the ledger reads, "Project
Populous".  The columns read: "Merchandise
received," "Account #," "Delivered to:,"  and
"Payment to:".  The last entry read:  "7562",
"610512", "V. Klemper", "$10,000"

I don't understand what this means.  Project
Populous?  I pop in one of the cassette tapes
into the player/recorder that sits on the desk.
I rewind it to the count of 10 and then hit the
play button.  It's dad's voice.

"Klemper and the other scientists are getting
greedy.  They want more from us always there is
something more.  He insists he needs to update
the computer system to make it faster.  He
already has the best and newest technology in
the lab.  R and D have come up with some new
product.  The group has agreed to deliver 10
units of merchandise for testing for this
quarter and another 20 before the end of the
year.  My god.  When will this end?  I
authorized this project.  There must be a way
for me to shut this down or compromise it
somehow.  Dan Burrows' is going to lose his son
because of this project.  I can't take this
blood on my hands any more.  Not after the
sacrifices I have made."

I had so many questions.  Dan Burrows?  I went
to baseball camp with a kid named Scot
Burrows.  Is this who dad was talking about?
I'm nauseous.  This sounds like dad is involved
in some kind of white slavery ring or
something.  He's just a stupid accountant for
the state department!  My head was spinning.
Oh man! It's 3:30pm!  I need to put this stuff
back the way I found it.  There's so much to
think about.  I suddenly feel like it's real
important to give Scott a call.

"Hello?" says a woman's voice.

"Hi, is Scott there?" I ask.

I hear the woman start to cry.  Oh, man.  I
hate it when girls cry.  "Who is this?" demands
a man's voice.

"This is Fox Mulder.  I'm a friend of Scott's
from baseball camp this past summer.  I wanted
to call and say hi.  Is he there?"

He's muffled the phone somehow, but I hear him
say, "It's okay, honey.  It's a friend of
Scottie's from camp.  He couldn't know."

"Fox, Scott isn't home," he tells me.

"Oh, okay.  Well, just let him know I called
and I'll try again later."

I hear him clear his throat.  "I'm sorry to
have to tell you this, son, but Scott ran away
from home about six weeks ago.  We haven't
heard from him."

"Gosh, Mr. Burrows, I didn't know.  Can I do
something to help find him?" I ask.

"I don't think so, son.  If  . . . if Scottie
contacts you for any reason you give us a call,
okay?"

"Yeah, sure, Mr. Burrows.  I'm real sorry."

"Thanks for calling, Fox."

I hang up the phone.  Six weeks ago!  I grab
the calendar off the wall in the kitchen and
count backwards.  6 weeks ago would be February
6th.  That was the last entry in the book.  The
account number!  Jeez, it's Scott's birthday
May 12, 1966!  What have I found here.  Oh my
god!  What is dad doing?

I need to go back into the office and look at
the book again.  I had to know.

I find a different green ledger marked
"Accounts Payable 1973" and turn the pages.

I see my dad's handwriting half way through the
page it becomes sloppy.  "Project Populous"
"Merchandise received 731127" followed by 
"Account #651121"  "Delivered to: The Group"
"Payment to - $0.00."

The received date is the day Samantha was taken
from the account and us number is Samantha's
birthday.  Dad knew something!  He knows where
Samantha is or he knows who has her or
something.  I have to ask him.  I have to do
it!  I start to put everything back in the
desk.  I need to think how to ask dad?  I need
to find out the truth about Samantha!

The lights snap on.  I hadn't realized it was
dark.

"Fox, what are you doing in here?" dad accuses
me.  I now have a new definition of "seething
mad."

"I was going to work on a report for school,
dad." I tell him.

He just stands there staring at me.  I don't
care. I'm so angry! Let him stare at me.

I stare back, in a silent dare.  "I called a
friend today.  His dad told me he ran away from
home about six weeks ago.  February 6th, dad."
I look for a reaction.

His face becomes very red.  I know I should be
frightened.  I don't think I've ever seen him
this angry before.  But I find strength in what
I know and it makes me feel calm.

"Dad, where is Samantha?" I ask him.

"Get away from that desk, Fox.  Do it right
now."

I shake my head.  "No, dad.  Not until you tell
me where Samantha is and if she's okay."

"Come out of my office now, boy.  Don't make me
bring you out myself," he says.

"I need to know, dad.  Where is my sister?"

He comes into the office and grabs the back of
my bathrobe and pulls me out of the chair.  I
do nothing.  He can try to take me but I'm not
going to make it easy for him.

"Get on your feet, boy!"

I refuse.

He pulls me across the carpet and into the
hall.  I go limp.

"Stand up like a man!  You're no baby, stand
up!"

I refuse again.

"I said STAND UP!"

He's never been this mad before or maybe he's
never been this afraid before.

"Not until you tell me about my sister," I say
without emotion.

He grabs my shoulders and lifts me up pinning
me against the wall.  "You don't know anything,
boy.  You hear me!  You don't know one damn
thing!"

He shakes me.  I can feel the back of my head
hitting the wall, hard.

"I know this, dad.  You know something about
Samantha and Scott Burrows.  I'm going to go
get my sister, now.  So just tell me where she
is, dad," I say as calmly as possible.

He slaps me hard across the left side of my
face.  I'm stunned but I'm still standing.
"You forget about this nonsense, boy.  Do
yourself a favor and forget about whatever it
is you've come up with."

I shake my head.  "No, dad.  I don't know the
whole story, but I know enough."

"You know nothing!"

"I know you had something to do with Samantha's
disappearance!" I yell and for the first time
in my life I make a fist and I hit my father
with everything I have in me.

Blood is pouring from his split lip.  He looks
stunned.

I'm feeling stronger.  "I'm not going to take
this crap from you anymore!  I have taken
enough from you, dad.  Now tell me! Where is my
sister?" I yell louder.

He punches me in the gut and I see stars.  I
can't breathe.  He grabs the back of my robe
and pulls me out of the hallway and into the
family room.  I wriggle out from under his
grasp and stand up as straight as I can.  I'm
not going to just take it anymore.  I know that
he just knocked the wind out of me.  I just
need a minute to catch my breath.

"I said, you know nothing!  If you don't start
to believe that I'll have to knock some sense
into you."

"Go ahead, dad," I gasp.  "I dare you."

"You little son of a bitch!" he yells.  He
punches me and it lands on my left cheek.  I'm
still standing.  I think it infuriates him.
But I am not going to give in.  Not this time.

He hits me again and I fall, hard on the floor.
He kicks me in the gut and then my ribs.  I can
feel a rib break there's one more and then
another.  It's hard to breathe now.

I try to get up and he kicks me in the back
"Coward!" I yell as loud as I can.  I turn
myself around so that I can see his face.

"Your going to be sorry you said that!" he
says.

He pulls a gun out from behind him.  Shit!  I
knew he had a gun in the house but I didn't
know he carried one with him!

"Tell me where she is, dad!"

"Shut up, Fox.  Don't make me do something I
don't want to do."

I manage to get up on to my knees and face him.
"So don't do it, dad."

I feel something hard hit the back of my head;
an explosion of pain fills my head.  I'm going
to be sick.  Damn it!  I will not.  I'm not
going to let him get away with this!  I force
myself to stay alert and I look up at him.  His
hands are shaking.  He still has the gun on me.

Slowly, I start to stand.  Stop! Pain in my
sides.  No, I'm going to stand up and look him
in the eye.  I'm up, but I know I can't stand
up for very long.

"Bill! Fox!  What's going on here?" says mom.
She's dropped a bag of groceries on the floor.
There is glass all over the place.

"Tell her, dad!  Tell her you know where my
sister is dad.  Tell her!"

Mom starts to cry.  "What is he saying, Bill?
What have you done to my boy?"

"Don't go near him, Tina.  Leave us alone," he
tells her.

"Bill.  Put the gun away," mom says.

"Tell her, dad!  Tell her about Samantha, or I
will!"

I feel incredible pain above my collarbone and
then I hear the sound of the gun firing.  Oh,
god!  I see my blood spray across the braided
rug.  I can't stand up anymore.  I fall on my
hands and knees and start to cough.  Blood is .
. . Jesus . . . it's everywhere.  All over me.
All over the floor.  I look up at my dad.  He's
saying something but I can't hear him.  I look
over at my mom.  She looks like she is
screaming but I can't hear her.  I'm tired and
I can't breathe.  I need to lay down now.  I
lay across the wool braided rug.  It's soggy
with my blood.  I know I should be scared.  I
know that I'm dying.  I just want to see my
sister.  I just need to know the truth about
what happened to her.  That's all.  The truth.

End Part 16/17

Part 17/17

He sat up quickly.  "Oh my god, Scully!  He
knew all that time!  *I* have known all this
time!" he said.  He couldn't force himself to
stop crying and he couldn't stop shaking.

Scully moved to sit with him on the couch and
began to rub his back.  "I'm sorry, Mulder.
I'm so sorry."

He wanted to tell her that he was glad she was
there and for god's sake don't stop rubbing his
back.  It took every effort on his part not to
fall on the floor and curl up into a tiny ball.

"Here you go, Mulder," Dr. Shane said, offering
him a glass of water.

He didn't feel confident that he could hold
onto it.  He shook his head no.  It was too
dark in the room.  "Turn the lights on, please"
he said.

The lights blinked on.

The brightness of the lights made him a bit
dizzy but he felt safer with them on.  He took
in a shaky breath and wiped his eyes and nose
on the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"Can you talk about it?" Dr. Shane asked.

"W . . . what did I say?" he asked.  "I don't
know if I told you everything that happened or
I just saw it, so what did I say?"

Scully spoke softly.  "You told us that you had
found ledgers in your father's desk.  You found
references to your sister's disappearance as
well as a childhood friend's.  You fought with
your father and he pulled a gun on you.  He
shot you, Mulder.  I can't believe a father
would do that to his son."

He nodded and sat back on the couch.  He
grabbed the hand Scully was using to rub his
back and gave it a squeeze before he released
it.  "Why didn't I remember this?  I have a
photographic memory?  I don't understand why I
didn't know this?"

Dr. Shane turned to pick up a file from her
desk.  "Well, I think I have the answer for
you.  These are your files from the hospital on
the Vineyard and records from Deaconess
Hospital in Boston."

"Let me see that," Scully said and took the
file from the doctor.  She opened it and began
reading it through quickly.

"According to your records you had an ischemic
event, a stroke, shortly after you were taken
into the emergency room.  You were transferred
to Deaconess.  The neurologists there tested
you for post stroke symptoms such as dysphagia,
hemiplegia, dyspraxia and you came up normal
except for one thing.  You couldn't remember
the incident that led up to your being shot,"
Dr. Shane explained.

"You mean some kind of intermediate amnesia?"
he asked.

"Yes.  If it was psychogenic or posttraumatic
in nature is not clear."  Dr. Shane said.

"You were shot above the clavicle and that may
have caused an interruption in blood flow to
the brain, causing the stroke," Scully said.

"Well if that's true and the memory loss was
due to a retrograde amnesia then I wouldn't
have been able to recall this memory.  Is that
right?" he asked

"That's a hard call to make with you, Mulder.
You have a photographic memory and that makes
this more complicated.  The fact that you had
no other symptoms might suggest that the memory
loss was psychogenic in nature.  It's too hard
to know," said Dr. Shane

"Mulder, listen to this," Scully said.  A note
from a Dr. Maynard says:  "After discussing the
accident with the parents of this patient, it
has been decided that he not be informed of the
events leading to this unfortunate accident.
Staff is instructed to route any inquiries the
patient might have through me."  Scully slapped
the page.  "Mulder, they lied to you.  Everyone
lied to you about what happened here.  Do you
remember being in this hospital when you were
13?" she asked.

He lay down on the couch again.  "Yeah, I think
so.  I had bronchitis and I was told that I had
a very high fever.  They said that I fell down
the cellar steps, but no one knew why I would
be going down to the cellar.  I just accepted
whatever they said.  It's what I did when I was
a kid."  He winced at the pain in his sides.
At least he had stopped crying.

Dr. Shane said, "It's amazing you were able to
recover that memory at all."

Mulder nodded acknowledging her comment.  He
closed his eyes and hoped the nausea he was
feeling would pass by quickly.

"Mulder, you said you saw the name V. Klemper
and the numbers you mentioned were on those
file folders we found in West Virginia," Scully
said.

"No, the account numbers are different from
what we saw in the mines," he told her.

"Who received the money?" Scully asked.  "You
said that someone involved in Scott Burrows
kidnapping was paid $10,000.  Who got that 
money?"

He shook his head.  "I don't know, Scully.  It
didn't say"

Scully stood up and threw the file down on the
floor.  "I can't believe someone was making
money off of this Project Populous or whatever
the hell it was called.  My god, Mulder, you
lost your sister because of this project."

"He knew all along, Scully.  He was in on it,"
he said with disgust.  "He's probably known all
those years where she was and he didn't tell
anybody.  He didn't tell me."

Dr. Shane said, "This was the biggest secret of
all."

Mulder nodded.  "Yeah, he was willing to kill
his own son to protect it."  He felt the tears
well up again.  He hit the couch cushion hard.
"God Damn it!  This stupid project was more
important to him than his family."  He sat up.
"Scully, you know what makes this worse?"

She shook her head.  "No, Mulder, what do you
mean?"

"I've become my father without even meaning to
do it!  I've shut people out of my life to go
search for the truth.  I've hurt my mother and
my sister because I was more concerned about my 
needs than theirs."

"No, Mulder, this is very different," Scully
said.  "We've been working at finding out about
this secret and letting people know the truth.
You've been trying to bring your family back
together, Mulder.  Don't compare yourself to
that hateful man, not ever!" she said.

"I don't know what to believe, anymore, Scully.
I just don't know."  He buried his face in his
hands and let the tears come.

She came over to him and sat beside him on the
couch.  He felt her hand running through his
hair and it felt comforting.

"I'm lost," he whispered.

"No, you're not," said Scully.  "I'm right here
with you.  Nothing this bad will ever happen to
you again.  I promise."

He raised his head and laughed nervously.  "How
can you say that?  How can you be so sure?" he
asked.

"Because I know you.  I know me.  We're both
stronger for having gone through this one
together.  We know what to look for," she said.

He shook his head.  "That's not good enough,"
he said and leaned back into the couch, wiping
away the tears.

She smiled.  "Well, if I can shoot you to
protect you from yourself, I can shoot anybody
else that might hurt you."

"That doesn't sound very healthy to me, " Dr.
Shane said.

They both laughed.  This defied explanation.

"What do you want to do, Mulder?" Scully asked.

He sighed.  "I don't know, Scully.  I guess I
want us to talk more."

She cocked her head and looked at him
quizzically.  "What do you mean?"

"I want to know what you need and I'm not
talking about office furniture," he said.  She
still looked confused.  "You know, talk like
Eddie Van Blundht, talk more."

"Oh!" she said and sat up very straight very
quickly.  "Are you saying you want to . . . I
mean you want us to start . . .?  What are you
saying, Mulder?"

He smiled.  "No, I mean I don't know about
that.  I just need to feel connected with you.
You are the only person in my life that hasn't
lied to me, Scully.  You know you have my
trust.  I need to know what you need from me.
I'm . . . "

"Go ahead and tell her, Mulder," Dr. Shane
said.

Scully's eyes were wide.  "Tell me what,
Mulder?"

He swallowed a few times, not trusting his
voice.  "I need you, Scully.  I'm afraid that
one day soon you won't need me anymore.  Hell,
I'm not sure you need me now.  That scares me."
He half laughed.  "It really scares me."  He
looked down at his hands.  The admission made
him feel raw and vulnerable.

"I'm not going anywhere.  I promise you this,"
she said.  "Mulder, I can't imagine my life
without you in it.  I'll always need you in my
life."  She took one of his hands and held it
between her two hands.

He nodded and gave her the best smile he could.

She gave him that quizzical look again.  He
squeezed her hand and nodded.  They didn't need
to talk.  At some point they had created a
vocabulary of gestures and looks that were
uninterpretable.

She blinked and smiled at him.  She stood up
and offered her hand to help him up.  This is
what he needed from her.; a gesture that meant
they would be staying together.

It was time to move on and maybe even make some
changes in the months and/or years to come.

"What do you say I take you home?" Scully said.
"We'll be quick.  I'll fly you right home."

He smiled.  "Scully, I think I'd rather walk."

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Did you know that school
officials, school nurses, medical and mental
health professionals are legally obligated to
report signs of child abuse or neglect to your
state's Department of Social Services?  If you
suspect a child is being abused or neglected
confront the parents.  If you are not satisfied
please contact someone who can help.  Parent's
-- please don't hurt your kids.  You do have
choices.  Make the right one and do the right
thing.

Namiste

I honor the place in you in which the entire
universe dwells.
I honor the place in you which is of love, of
truth, of light and of peace.
When you are in that place in you, and I am in
that place in me, we are one.


Comments please to Shell
eyore@mindspring.com