From starbuc810@aol.com Sat Apr 05 00:48:20 1997
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: I BELIEVE
From: starbuc810@aol.com (Starbuc810)
--------
I BELIEVE (1/1)
<starbuc810@aol.com>
OK to Archive
Spoiler:  Post "Memento Mori"
Rating:  PG-13 - R (one indiscreetly placed vulgar word)
Content: V, M & S Angst
Summary:  Dana reflects upon her life and finds it lacking.
Disclaimer:  Although  Chris Carter created them, DD & GA humanized them. 
(And they don't belong to me, I'm just borrowing them but I promise I'll
put them back)
NOTE:  This is (kind of) my first post - let's see if THIS one gets
through...any and all feedback welcome.


TITLE:  I Believe
By Erin E. Averill

<<March 23, 1997
     From the Journal of Dana Scully


        Another sleepless night.  The headaches have lessened
considerably.  That's what I tell *him* - that's what I tell them all.  I
believe the standard, almost flippant reply to their inquiries is "I'm
fine."  

        Even I don't believe it anymore.

        I want to go outside.  Take a walk.  Run, jump, laugh, cry.  Live.
 I want to do so many things - things other people - normal people - take
for granted.Things that, even in excellent health I never considered
doing.  This is too undignified, that too silly.  This, illogical. That,
unrefined.  Not my style.  I made a list yesterday - at the top of the
page I wrote "Fifty Things To Do Before I Die."  Before my eyes, the list
filled up, past fifty several times over, of all the things I had wanted
to do, promises I made to myself and never kept.  

        I have seen many strange things.  Unexplained phenomena.  But I
never believed in them.  In *him*.  Until it was too late.  

        I'm sorry, Mulder.  

        It was always a power struggle for me.  A constant, illogical need
for control.  To have the upper hand in all affairs.  That is my
goaldeals.  Science could not always explain away the myseries, the
horrifying freaks.  Mulder could, and did, and still I lived my life with
eyes closed.  Even when science could not answer my questions, I refused
to believe that other side.  To even consider it.

        In some perverse way I delighted in discounting Mulder's theories
- not for the sake of Science, but for my own sick need to see the utter
frustration written on his face.  My own insecurities regarding my faith,
my ideals, caused me to lash out at Mulder's.  I was absorbed in him, with
little more than a vague recollection of self, and this was my way of
distancing myself from him.  He always seemed so certain, so sure!  So
knowing.  His faith - I want that faith.  The faith to simply believe.  In
anything.  Science, or the Extraordinary.  Myth, or Truth.  Blind faith,
and Trust, and the courage to keep looking, even when Cancerman sneaks up
from behind and slits your throat.

        I was so completely immersed in self, in logic, and the
explainable, that I knew not how to handle the fantastic.  Science cannot
save me now.  That Truth in which I tried so hard to believe - is gone. 
Realize this!  I want to, I have to.  Place your faith where it belongs,
Dana.  Make a gift of it to Mulder.

        I consider my own emotions:  so carefully hidden - (so vain of me
to think so!) The emotions lie beneath the surface, barely concealed by an
icy masque.  Fury, uncontrollable rage, anger, sadness, love - loss. 
Ready to erupt with little or no provocation.  It has always been thus.  

        This loss of control over self is overwhelming.  I don't know if I
can do this alone.

        He is a rock, my partner.  And I have come to believe that his
strength is the foundation on which my sanity now precariously rests.  He
doesn't know that I need him to be strong for me, that if he should fall,
so would I.  

        I am not strong.

        I have been labeled as such by many people, but this is my own
Truth.  I do not know what they see when they look at me.  I only know
what I see:  the woman in the mirror is a pale, pathetic, weak imitation
of --?

       Of nothing.

        A dying woman whose only thought in life was to find a Scientific
Truth, though it meant her life.

        The consequences are great, and the rewards few.  

        We came close, so close! - to finding a Truth, and I was punished
for it.  As was Mulder.  I know that this hurts him, to have to watch me
die.  Mulder, too, is affected by this.  

        I was given the Cancer, a deadly Gift - their means to my end.

        A gunshot to the heart would have been kinder.  

        Now I watch my once-strong body decay.  I watch my loved ones
suffer with me.  Perhaps they suffer more.

        I often find myself comforting them.  Comforting Mulder.  My rock.
 My foundation - crumbling before my eyes.  And there's not a damned thing
I can do about it - but watch - and wait for the Dark Visitor who may come
for me at any moment.

        I hear Him in the strains of Mahler - listen!  It is so obvious,
so penetrating, like a thousand voices in my head, calling -
screaming...The funeral march, from Mahler's Symphony No. 1.  How
appropriate.  How fucking appropriate.  The soft sounds, textures, colors
- gravitate from utter despair - to the eerie brooding I see written in
Mulder's eyes when he looks at me.  (This is not your fault...)

        And then the ironic joy, the playfulness! The heart-rending
playfulness.  Never have I come so close to completely losing control as I
did that night, when I heard Death in the music of Mahler.

        The tickets to the symphony that night were a gift from Mulder -
simply a way for us to connect on a deeper, more intimate level without
crossing any of our self-imposed lines...

        I felt the first tears fall within moments of the third movement's
opening phrase.  Mulder knew instantly, of course, and held onto me - my
rock - until I was able to regain control.  And even then my hand remained
clasped in his for the remainder of the evening.

        As for the Dark Visitor, who sprang to life for me during that
evening -  I hear His footsteps everywhere now.  Perhaps they are no
closer today than they were yesterday, but still they exist.  I wonder,
how long can I run before He catches up to me?  

        I'm in no hurry.

        As I reflect upon past events leading to this moment, I realize
that Death needs no introduction.  I have faced Him before, without fear,
and I will do so again.  No regrets.

        Only questions remain.

        Have I done all I should?

        What have I left undone?

        Have I accomplished anything noteworthy in my abbreviated life?

        I established close ties with few people.  

        Will he think of me with regret, with sorrow, with grief - when
Death arrives to collect His due?>>


----------------------------X------------------------------

        "I didn't know, Scully,"  Mulder said softly, feeling, perhaps for
the first time, a sorrow too deep for tears.  "I heard Him, too..." he
said slowly.  "But you were wrong.  About so many things.  You're so
strong, so vibrant, so full of life.  You are the strong one, and it is
your strength now that gives me the courage to leave you.  To go on."  He
gently placed the flowers - her flowers - all her favorites - in the vase,
and slowly turned and walked away.

        He turned once, looking back at her, tears finally falling as the
golden-red, vibrant rays of the setting sun kissed the headstone,
illuminating the words inscribed upon it:

                             Dana Katharine Scully
                                                        
                             Born February 23, 1964
                             Died February 29, 1998
                                                         
                             Daughter, Sister, Friend

                                      "I Believe."



END