From: Humbuggie Date: 24 Jun 2003 17:25:01 -0700 Subject: xfc: I remember you 1/8 Source: atxc I remember you A fan fiction-novel By Humbuggie San@sv-tales.com 2003 Edited by Truthwebothknow1 Find the full story at www.sv-tales.com Storyline spoiler: I remember her. And then I remember nothing at all. Background: the brilliant thriller Memento inspired this story. If you haven't seen it yet, go buy it! Rent it! Whatever it! Spoilers: A few minor for several episodes. Rating: R for some explicite language here and there. Type: MT, ST (sort of), SkT, M/Sk friendship (sort of) and much more. Slight warning to worried readers: "Trust me. I know what I'm doing." "The most common form of memory disorder involves difficulties in forming new memories. A severe example is anterogade amnesia, a rare condition that can result from brain injury or disease. Someone with anterogade amnesia will generally have good memory for the past, up until the time of the brain injury, but will have extreme difficulty remembering anything that has happened since then." -- Source: http://www.memory.rutgers.edu/ I hear your footsteps like you're walking I hear your voice like you're talking to me I can reach every moment Every caress like I'm living a dream Yeah, I remember you Feels like it was yesterday You shared my secrets and my laughter I fell in love with the light in your eyes And I believed that summer Would go on and on for the rest of my life -- Roxette I remember you Part One Chapter one: Time means nothing to me Where am I? I'm driving a car that I don't know. It feels unfamiliar. It could be anyone's car. A rental perhaps. I blink my eyelids, letting go of the steering wheel as my mind returns to this moment of apprehension. Oh god. I know nothing. Losing its controller, the vehicle swerves rapidly to the right. It cannot proceed without me. I am the driver, I come to realise. Numbly, my hands grab for the wheel and keep a hold of it, as if I've never done anything else. Yet it feels as if I have been in a recent car crash, for my hands ache and my body seems sore. I have been in enough crashes in my time to know the symptoms by heart. All muscles hurt as if shaken around by an unseen force, not even to mention the seatbelt injury that hurts my chest. I render my mind onto automatic pilot, regaining control over the situation. My instincts are in full gear. My mind is on alert. Inside its damaged cocoon, my brain works a zillion miles per hour. I struggle regain the physical strength required to actuate. I know I have to do a few things: drive. Guide the vehicle. You've done it for years. You can do it again. Secondly: look around you. Why can't you remember a thing? How did you get here? Who are you? No, scratch that last question. You know who you are: Fox Mulder, FBI-Agent. You work in D.C. You had a partner named Scully, two fish called Vic and Liz. You have a job, an apartment, and a lot of headaches. You're the FBI's Most Unwanted. That did not alter, I am sure. There's an empty bag of Mexican potato chips lying on the floor at the passenger seat, and a near-empty bottle of Coke rolls back and forth, annoying the hell out of me. Third challenge: where am I? I glance outside the clean windows. I'm on a freeway. It's warm outside, and the skies are perfectly blue. There is sand beside the lanes, nothing but dust and pebbles that lay here for years. Desert area. The sandy hills seem untainted. No one walks here. I can tell it's enormously hot. The air-conditioning inside the car is blowing wind in my face at full force and it is let me check my watch ten a.m. in the morning. There's a brightly coloured pink Post-It sticking to the steering wheel, covering the BMW-logo. Hey, I'm driving a Beamer. If you don't remember where and what you are, at least do it in style. There are a few words written on the crumpled note in my own handwriting: Anterogade amnesia. It seems an old, worn down piece of paper, fumbled with regular handling, by the looks of it. There's more: Polaroid photos. Pictures, fragments from my past maybe. Or my present? They lay on the seat next to me. I pick them up. There are several distorted, yellow-coloured photographs that must have been taken not so long, but already seem abused by extensive use. They too are torn and the patina often crackled, as if they have been sticking in my pocket for eternity. There are words written on them. I would have to stop to read what is on them, afraid that a part of my mixed up brain is going to forget how to control this vehicle, when I try and multitask. I know what Anterogade amnesia is. I remember doing a case about this guy who had it before Before what? I freeze and remember. Before Scully was killed. I almost lift my hands from the wheel, as the worst of all nightmares returns to haunt my spirit. Before she was murdered, I repeat in my skull. I remember that. I recall her perfectly. I remember the fear, the exhaustion and the defeat. I bethink that I'm not supposed to recall anything. I don't know how I got here or what I'm doing here, but I know that I can talk, drive and think. And I fathom that I am not supposed to retain the last minutes, hours or perhaps even days. Yet I exist. For now that's enough. A loud groan coming from the back of the car startles me, almost sending us swerving off the road into the dirty ditch that separates us from the dusty land. There is someone else in the car! I glare into the rear-view mirror, and see a figure lying sprawled out on the backseats. The car swerves off the road, ending on the emergency lane. I don't bother turning the engine off. I rush out, open the backdoor and stare in shock at Assistant-Director Walter S. Skinner lying on his side, face turned towards the front seat. His feet have slipped off the seat, and he's somewhere in the land of oblivion. He's bleeding above the left ear from a huge gash, and has a lump the size of a large hen's egg. I know him quite well. No, scratch that. I know him through and through. He is probably the one person in the world that I trust now that Scully is dead. I know as much about him as I know about myself. I can recall the many cases we worked on together, and the friendship he's shown me over the years. Yet he lies unconscious in the back of my car, and that is damning while I vowed to find and destroy the man who did this to her. I know that that man's name is John Marshall. Then why is Skinner here? I look down at my own right hand and see blood on it, and other smaller cuts. I hold my breath and bite my lip, trying to at least remember something. I know it's futile. I researched Anterogade amnesia before, you see. That last case we did had a man with the same condition in it. I know all the details. Resistance is futile. I grab the photos lying on passenger seat, taking a closer look at them. There is the picture of a hotel and a room with a number scribbled below it. Then there's a woman with beautiful blonde hair and a gorgeous face; another woman smiling from behind a reception area. A pub, a restaurant and a tavern or something, with the words written under it: Don't go here. Food sucks! Suddenly Skinner appears. He looks stressed peering into the camera lens, smiling that weird grin he has whenever he feels nervous. The photo is taken from behind glass, looking down on him. He probably did not know this one was being taken. Underneath his face, I have written: "He knows." I feel my body go rigid with alarm. This cannot be. I blink my eyelids and stare at the picture for a few seconds, my eyes darting from Skinner, taking in his serious reflection on the Polaroid. It's him. He is involved. He knows. How can I distrust my own handwriting? It is the only thing in this world that I have left that looks familiar and trustworthy. I don't have Scully anymore, or anyone who can help me. I have Skinner, but then why does hope obliterate itself when I decipher my jotted down notes? I remember Scully's death so clearly, and he was there. She had her hands in mine and shifted down the hill, grasping on to me for her life. She was horrified. I could hear her screams. The ledge no longer held us. My hands never sweaty sweated profusely. She slipped away from me, and then she was gone. I recall an enormous blow to the back of my head, obliterating everything in my world. The blow crushed my skull, destroyed my senses and made me a fucking mental cripple, leaving me useless to everyone. Since then, I must have gone after the killer. I found a second Post-It note scribbled with words, in the stack of photos. 'Find John Marshall in his hometown. He had help.' There is no other solution possible then. Skinner is that 'help'. I must be near Marshall's hometown. I remember that he lived in some dreaded hole in the middle of the desert near Vegas. This is not where he killed Scully. Knowing myself, I must have been mad with grief, going after the man who demolished our lives. It would seem the one thing left to do. And then what? Will I have a purpose after that? There is another photograph of a locker inside a train station. Below it I have written: "The truth". I fold up in the palm of my hand. I know the truth. My gut feeling tells me so. I don't need to know if that locker is explaining everything to me. Perhaps I don't want to know. Skinner groans louder and stirs, and I know that I don't have much time to finish my task. Frantically I stare at the scenery, hoping for something that might help me. I pass a sign. In the far distance, I can make out a few houses, perhaps a gas station. I hop in beyond the wheel again and drive the BMW Jeep as fast as I dare. My hands ache and I have a headache the size of Mount Rushmore now. I must have knocked Skinner out. I must have written that memo. So Skinner knows the truth. He knows who did this to me; to Scully. He was involved. He finally ruined us. He never was the friend I took him for. He did it all to gain our trust. I start thinking frantically, causing my headache to worsen. My mind might only work for half of the time, so I don't know how long I can hold on to these memories. Will I lose them again? Before that, it must be done. I will kill him and then it will be over. I will take a photo of Skinner's body, stick it up and convince myself he was the one. But will I remember why I have murdered? I need more answers. If I were me, where would I have hidden something? If this is a rental car, or if it belonged to me, I would have taken the most logical place: the glove compartment. Clutching to the wheel, I leaned forward to open it and a notepad and pen almost drops out. Behind it lays a Polaroid camera. I see my handwriting, over and over again. I hold it on my lap while driving and quickly scan the words and sentences. Good thing the road is nearly deserted. The same phrase over and over: Skinner killed Scully. Skinner killed Scully. Skinner killed Scully. I have written the words in big curvy letters. There it is. I drive. Keep on driving. Concentrate on that. Another sentence written in small letters on the bottom: Take him to the Quarry and finish him. Route 44, behind exit 23. I swore. Right before I passed out, I swore I would kill the one who ended Scully's life. Even if that's Skinner, I would do it. I just passed the Route 44-crossing. Without giving it a second thought, I veered the car to the left, forcing it over the central reservation dividing both sides of the freeway, and rushed back into the other direction. No one crashed into me, no one saw. The Route was as desolate as my heart. "I have a condition," I spoke out aloud and my voice sounded like that of a stranger's. "Anterogade amnesia." I know what the condition is like, what it does to people. Up until the moment someone, or something crashed into my head and destroyed that part to my brain that makes us rebuild short-term memories, I can recall every bit of my life. I recall all of our cases, the people we have met and the heartaches we have witnessed. I remember Samantha's abduction, my parents dying and Scully's sister being murdered. All of that is still there. However on the night Scully died, all of the new memories that any normal human being's brain creates can no longer be made. I don't know what's happened to me over the past days, weeks, months or perhaps even years. Time is oblivious. Time is useless, senseless and lonely. I don't know how long it has been. I don't recall how old I am now, or how long I have been doing this. I cannot remember anything. Nothing. Nada. Niente. So you see: my handwriting is the only thing I can trust. I would not have written things I find dangerous, or which would be untrue. I am the only one I can trust. The only one I can care for now. So I follow the directions towards the quarry, driving on this unknown route. Yet I must have spent time here, otherwise I would not know about the quarry. A bottle of tablets pokes out from my right pocket. I reach into it and find the nearly empty small prescription bottle. Little white pills in there. A label that says: One at 5 p.m. It's early morning, I shouldn't be taking it, I'm sure, but I don't care. Perhaps this headache is related to the memory loss. I stuff one in my mouth, dangerously lean forward to get the bottle of warm coke, flip the cap off, and swallow it. The pill gets stuck in my throat and I have to work mucho saliva up to get it through. Horrible. I park the car like I'm a Formula 1 speed racer, just in time for my boss to wake up in the back. He groans more and reaches for his head. I wish I had a gun. Wait, maybe I do. I rummage through the glove compartment again and find my familiar weapon behind the Polaroid camera. Strange, if I've been fired from the Bureau I cannot imagine that they would keep an agent with a memory condition like mine in service I should not have that gun with me. I should not have a badge either, but there it is. However, I have no time to think about it. I have a mission to accomplish: killing Skinner: destroying the man who tore our lives apart. I lock the car door, after I leave it standing. The quarry turns out to be a pit filled with huge rocks and looks like an ancient Celtic grave. I can see something that looks like a cave or tunnel behind the stacks of rocks, and I pull away some of the lighter boulders. The rocks seem to give way as soon as I work on them. Someone placed them here like this. Having made my decision, I open the backdoor and start dragging Skinner out. He's heavier than I am and not really cooperative. The blow to his head obviously knocked him around good. He's like a ton of bricks in my arms. I pull him to the ground and he grunts as his back hits the dust. He can't move, but he starts to speak, but I just carry on dragging him towards the depths of hell. My mind is a blank; my thoughts are far away somewhere. I'm not myself, but who am I really? Who ever could this man be, doing this to someone else? He starts to struggle and I release his legs. His clothes are torn, his arms are bleeding in several places and I'm pretty sure his back is one bloody mess too. I'm beyond caring. If this is where fate brings me, then it should be this way. "Wait!" he grunts, crying out in pain when the shock wears off. He struggles to open his eyes and finally I can see into them. He is without his glasses: I have no idea where they are; probably lost where I knocked him over the head. We're near the quarry now. All I have to do is shoot him in the head, bury him and forget there ever was a Walter Skinner. That won't be difficult to do, will it? I won't even remember shooting him. What a hoot. Talk about the irony of our fates. He killed himself, didn't he? He seems to know now who I am. "Mulder " His speech is confused and slurry, and even without the glasses, he must see the expression on my face. My guess is that he's been unconscious for at least a couple of hours. I probably gave him a concussion too. None of that matters now. "What are you doing?" he asks. "You know," I say and he crawls until he gets up onto his knees. "I want to finish this. Don't move! I swear I'll blow your head off." "Why?" He's dazed and confused, and his face speaks of the fear that I want him to experience. "What did I do to you?" "You destroyed my life." "I didn't!" "Lying bastard!" He seems able to retort more eagerly now. His eyes become focused, but he's still on his knees and no longer moves. "You used to trust me, Mulder. Who do you trust now?" "Only myself." "You put your faith in me. I have helped you. You asked me to come over " "Only to kill you!" "You can't kill me." "Like hell I can't," I hear myself say. "You killed her, didn't you? Why? What did she have on you? Were you in on someone's sick little plans to ruin us? Go to hell, you bastard!" I aim my gun at his heart and wait. "Do you have anything else to say?" I ask. "Are you going to execute me?" "What does this look like?" I mutter. "Mulder, please listen!" "I won't remember," I grin. "Not ever. All I know is that she's gone and you were the one who sold us out." "Mulder, listen to me!" "Too late," I mutter. Because at this moment I become one again. I have to do this, to end the life that's been shattered. I pull the trigger ... and for one infinite second, I feel absolutely nothing. My eyes shut, and I slump downwards, as if I have lost all of my strength in seconds. I drop the gun, and I sleep. To be continued Part 2 Intermezzo June 15 Scully, I miss you. I never thought I would be sitting here in some dump of a hotel room thinking of you, saying things to you that you will never get to hear. I wish I could tell you how badly your death hurts me, but it's useless. Nothing can express that feeling that lives within me now. I cared for you, Scully. You are the one that made my life complete. Your care was more than I could ever imagine. Your interests and appreciation of my work were more than I deserved. I still care for you. That will never stop. I don't even care about my memory. That is just an annoyance in this pathetic little life I'm experiencing right now. It is a nuisance that precludes finding your killer quickly. It will only bide John Marshall and his companion the time they need. Remember all the times we spent together, Scully? I hope so. I hope you are in your paradise now, and remember me. Because I remember you. I'll never stop remembering you. This condition I suffer from, will not stop that. I will fight it, and the ones who forced us into this situation. I swear to you, that I will kill him. I don't care who he is. He can be a stranger, or he can be someone close to us. He can be Skinner. I will kill him. I made that vow to you the second I watched you die, and I intend to keep it. I no longer care about my own life. I have found all the truths that I need. I know now that perhaps it's time to stop living all together. After all, what do I still have to live for? Chapter two: Salving darkness I feel sore and hurt. My entire being aches as if I've dragged about over bricks. I wonder why I feel so numb. I am walking towards a car. It's a BMW. Hey, cool wheels. It looks like a rental and probably is. I don't think I would buy such an exquisite vehicle myself. I stop and look around. I'm on a brightly lit parking space near a gas station. In the far distance I can hear the slight humming of some cars passing the freeway now and then. I probably stopped to take a leek or something. Have I done it already? I wait. Okay, yep. The bladder feels empty and my hands smell as if they are freshly washed. Good thinking, Mulder. You can still do your daily hygiene chores. Have I eaten? I try to sense if I have a rumbling feeling in my stomach and decide that I am all settled. I do carry a bag of Mexican potato chips and a bottle of coke. So I decided to munch. That always seems like a good idea of course, especially when you've lost your short-term memory ability, and don't recall if you've munched out ten minutes earlier. Since my tummy doesn't feel swollen or too upset, I gather that I haven't eaten loads of greasy things before now. Okay, just keep on walking. I'm sure you've had a meaningful purpose in life heading towards this gorgeous Beamer with a bag of potato chips in one hand, and a chilled coke in the other. I open the car door and slide in behind the wheel. It's damned humid out there. You can almost hear the buzzards munching on little animal corpses too. It gives you a sense of loneliness and despair. I suppose that any normal human being would not be caught dead sitting here alone in this car, but then I am not any human. I am me, a man without a recent past, present or future. A man, who has decided to drop everything that means something in life, ... and kill. That's what I am worried about. Would I really be able to kill if push comes to shove? I have thought about dying so many times, if I even still know my own state of mind, that is. I've wanted to destroy myself before and I know that I can do it; but when? Will I know it after I killed John Marshall? Will I be able to live on the best and worst way that I can? Will I ever know what I have done? I thought that John Marshall had an accomplice: the man who hit me in the back when I saw Marshall standing before me. Marshall killed Scully and the other guy nearly destroyed me. Perhaps he did. Perhaps I'm living in a horrible nightmare that will end as soon as I have found Marshall and his aid. Just relax, Mulder. You can do it. You're on the brink of madness, but you can still do some reasonable thinking. Immediately a number of things come to mind: One: I know that I'm suffering from short-term memory loss because I find it natural that I have no memory of where I am, and what I am doing here. Two: At least I know who I am. Three: I had somewhere to go. I just don't know where. The story of my life, I suppose. Super, isn't it that the man with a photographic memory has suddenly become a useless bastard, because he doesn't even know if he took a piss a couple of minutes ago? Four: I need to make a note to myself to shave. I feel as if I'm touching cactuses when I rub my chin. Five: another mental piece of information I somehow need to jot down before I forget it again: Get a shower. You smell horrible! Yet I have this strange sensation that I might have taken one earlier today. It could have been last year, for all I care of course. Six: I think I might have done something bad. I feel horribly sore, and there are cuts on my arms that say I probably ran into a glass window or something. Seven: Stop thinking, and start writing before you forget points one to six again. I turn on the knob so the radio starts playing. Instantly the air-conditioning blows air in my face. It feels cool, yet warm at the same time. I know I should be turning off the radio in order to spare the battery, but for now I don't care. Perhaps I'll think about it later too. Radiohead's Paranoid Android is on. I love that song. Scully often sang to it. She had a good voice, even though she does a lousy 'Joy to the world.' Tears spring in my eyes, forcing back the memories that come to sting me like sharp knives. To me she died yesterday. I watched her die then. I can remember her screams, her anguish and her mortal fear. She told me once that she was not afraid to die anymore. She's had a near-death experience after her abduction and believed there was nothing to fear. However, every human being cries out when it dies, just like every animal struggles to grasp that last bit of life given to it. Scully was no different than anyone else. Her death did not come gently or sweet. It came harsh, rough and destructive. It was a useless death, a meaningless one. She should not even have been standing on that ledge, but Marshall was ruthless and evil. He had no regard for human life. I switch channels until I found some stupid midnight talk show. I don't start the car, even though I am not sure what I am waiting for. Funny, how I can remember bands names and music, but not what I had for breakfast this morning. Inside this expensive car it has to be a rental - I recognize notes and photos that will help me. There are a couple of things lying on the seat next to me, that I obviously left there nonchalantly when buying the chips and coke. I tear open the pack and start nibbling on them. Mexican chips are my favourites. I love Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice-Cream too. I don't think the midnight store at the gas station would've had that, or I would have bought some. Perhaps, if I can remember it long enough, I might go back in and see if I can find it. I scan the insides of the car to see if I recognize something that might help me. I have no memory, but somehow that doesn't feel strange to me. It feels awfully familiar actually. It's like meeting an old friend for dinner, only you don't know what you're going to serve, because you'd forgotten he'd be coming around. My mind seems to accept that I'm sitting behind the steering wheel doing nothing, going nowhere. I have no destiny, no path, and no goal. I see a Post-It note stuck to the wheel. Anterogade Amnesia, it reads in my own penmanship. Sounds like a horrible disease, and I actually know what it is. I remember a case not so long ago. This guy had it. I know what it's like, and what it does, because we researched it. Now I have it. So I obviously knew previously that I did. My heart aches suddenly. I recall what has caused this. It is the last thing that happened to me right after Scully died. She fell over a ledge, careening down a hill covered with rocks and sharp stones that would kill in an instant. There were trees all the way down the ledge too, but they never broke her fall. I wanted to go after her, over the edge, to find her body, but as I moved, something struck me from behind, plunging me straight into oblivion. Yes, those recollections are still trapped inside my skull. I know myself. I know what I would have done. I would seek out her murderer and let him pay for this. That is probably why I am here right now, going through the stacks of photos that lay on the seat next to me. Scully. Just thinking about her creates a piercing ache in my heart. When did she die? How long ago was this event? Has it been a days, or have I been searching for her killer my entire life? I pull the rear-view mirror towards me to scan my face. Yes, that's me. I don't seem much older than when she died. I am not an old, disgusting man who devoted his life to pursuing him. I might be close. I don't know. I do have a gash on my forehead and I almost seem like I've been beaten up. I was definitely in some sort of an accident. I find pills in my pocket. The label reads: One at 5 p.m. I glare at my watch. Nearly 1 a.m. and I have a simmering headache that the Mexican chips did not resolve. Great. Perhaps those pills will help. To hell with 5 p.m. I stuff one in my mouth and swallow it, almost draining the bottle of coke. Replacing the lid, I leave a bit in it for later, dropping the bottle on the floor. The chips are gone. I throw the wrapper next to the bottle and sigh. I need to do something, I suppose. Sleep maybe, and wait until it's early morning. I just can't. I'm wide-awake and eager to learn more. Tomorrow morning I will probably not be able to recall anything. I grab the notepad lying on top of the photos and read. John Marshall, scumbag, one of my jots says. Underneath it I have scribbled his address. I also have the file on him that I probably stole from my own office. I think I'm in the dessert somewhere, in or near a town close to Vegas. He lives there. Or did. I have this vague hope that he might be dead already, but it's probably not true. Otherwise I would not be here. My gut feeling tells me I'm still looking for the truth. I'm on my own, but I will find it. My eyes catch something in the rear-view mirror. Shocked and dazed I turn around to see a man lying in the back of the car. He is sprawled out over the seat and seems completely out of it. He's obviously unconscious and unresponsive. Immediately, I know who he is. I see the head, face and body of Assistant-Director Skinner ... and there is a note in my right hand that says 'He knows.' Oh god. I've obviously made my mind up about killing him. I was the one who knocked him out: I can tell by my hands covered in his blood. I wince as I twist my body around to take a closer look at him, to see if he's already dead. He isn't. I can feel a faint pulse. I don't know if I should be happy with that or distressed. I see my gun lying next to me. Would I be able to pull the trigger on him right now? Shoot his fucking brains out and get it over and done with? An intense anger takes over my senses. I have him to thank for this. It has to be this way. I perceive the information I have given myself, taking in the stack of notepads, photos and stupid little Post-It notes that probably get lost as times passes us by. This salving darkness that surrounds us, forces me to become a prisoner within this car; my body and mind in a quandary until there is a way to re-grasp all that's important to me. I am here, with Skinner, and with the wisdom of truth. I hold the man prisoner who became my enemy, over the course of the past eternity. I cannot imagine that I have helped Skinner escape a more ugly fate; fleeing maybe from someone who is after us. If I were his saviour instead of his captor, would I not have delivered him to a hospital instead of this desolate nightmare? No, I have to accept that I took Skinner prisoner, and that I did it with a reason, a specific purpose. The intent to kill him breathes and surges inside of me, and I can feel it blistering my soul. I will have had many ideas about this, many ways to deal with him. I have a note that tells me to bring him to a quarry to kill him. Have I stopped the car here because I don't know my way around this dark place, and had to wait until the return of the blazing desert sun could guide me towards that spot? For someone like me it would be a disaster to drive around mindlessly. I would either kill or be killed. I try to stir Skinner, but he doesn't move. Then I reread all of my notes over again, trying to grasp all that had obviously become clear to me in the past. Oh yes, I know all about Anterogade amnesia. There was this guy. His name was Jack McCauley and he had the same condition, or disease, if you can call it that. Jack was a normal, regular forty-year old banker who had everything he ever wanted in life. He had a wife, two kids, a good job obviously and a bunch of friends whom he cared for, but you see the thing is, that one day, Jack decided he'd enough of life and wanted to step out of it. It probably had to do with that gorgeous mistress he had set up in Manhattan. He loved to go to New York of course, but instead of spending his nights in super deluxe hotel rooms, he spent them with his girl. Until one day that beautiful girl was found dead in her apartment. Apparent suicide. Our Jack was so infatuated by her, that he took the plunge, literally, and was found floating face up after jumping off a cliff at Cape Cod. And there lies the irony of the fate of Jack McCauley. Instead of being killed, he was saved. The freezing cold water kept him alive long enough for a few men to pull him out and resuscitate him; but he had an enormous gash on the side of his head, and he was diagnosed with irreversible brain damage. When he woke up in his hospital bed, he saw his wife, smiled and greeted her. He seemed to have forgotten how and why he had gotten there. Until a few moments later, he started to remember what he had done. The thing is that the second time he saw his wife, he again greeted her and asked her what happened. And the third time, and the fourth, and the fifth. Every time they had to repeat to him that he'd had an accident and was not well. No one believed him. Of course they didn't. They thought he was playing games with them, and so did his wife. She decided to test him. The next time she came into his room, she convinced him of the fact he had been in hospital for two weeks for psychic evaluation which he wasn't, he had only been there for two days and asked him to tell her the truth about his affair. She'd known about it for ages, and decided to steer him into a confession. He was in tears as he told her everything. She smiled, told him she forgave him and left. An hour later she returned and did the same. He did not remember what he had told her previously, and again burst out into tears whilst telling her the whole story. She watched in amazement at the game she thought he was playing, and became upset with him. It was bad enough that he had lied behind her back for so long, she thought but to keep lying again and again? No, she couldn't stand that. Yet somehow, in the back of her mind, she began to believe him. It was then that she decided to abuse his ordeal for her own benefit. How better to kill her wealthy husband who had a death wish anyhow, than to misuse his illness against himself? Even if the doctors didn't believe that he had this condition because there were no real frames of reference to establish she would put him to the ultimate test, which would eventually cost him his life. Scully and I were at the hospital at the time of Jack McCauley's admittance. We had just solved a case and had put our suspect in hospital a well-aimed shot to the shoulder by yours truly did it and heard doctors talk about McCauley. Scully, fascinated by it, told me the details about anterogade amnesia. I did some research on it too. She went to see the man, talked to him and came back to tell me she believed he was the genuine article. I remember her interest so well: she was almost as giddy as a child to see someone with this rare condition. I saw Jack McCauley once, right before we left the hospital, and told the doctors I believed he was the real thing. He wasn't faking it. If he did, he was a damned good actor. A few days later we heard that he was dead, and his wife had been arrested for his murder. Every hour since she'd brought him home, she had fed her husband one of the pills he'd been prescribed to take for extreme migraines. It was strong medication and should only be taken once a day. She fed him one, and then an hour later told him he still needed to take it. She repeated that over and over again until he fell into a deep coma, and ultimately died during the first night of his homecoming. She told the doctors she didn't know he had been taking them: she had paid no attention; however, they didn't believe her. Her fingerprints were on the prescription bottle, she should have warned him and guided him through it. The fact that she did nothing to aid her husband, made the cops suspicious. It didn't take too long to get her to crack. She admitted she wanted him dead and she pulled it off. "What use is a freak to me?" she had said. So that's what I call myself now: a freak. Someone with anterogade amnesia can no longer create short-term memories. He lives through the day and becomes old like anyone else, but he doesn't know what he has done an hour beforehand. He does not know his age, or how long he has been going through this. Neither do I. All I know is that my watch tells me it's June 15, 2003. I think Scully died on the 7th of June of this year. That means that I have been wandering about for a week now; the first week of my new life. Welcome to the world, Mulder. Skinner is obviously not going anywhere right now, so I step out of the Beamer and pace around it. What to do? I need to kill Skinner and take a picture of his body to persuade myself that I have found the answers. What do I know thus far? Let's face some details: Fact: Skinner brought us on the John Marshall-case. He knew Marshall from 'Nam; they had been comrades. He must have known Marshall had paranormal abilities. What if he wanted to protect Marshall? What if Marshall had saved his ass back then? Fact: Marshall pushed Scully over the ledge. He watched us struggle. I lost my grip on her hands and she fell. I wanted to attack Marshall. His accomplice knocked me over. Skinner was at the scene too, but was very conveniently away from the site when Scully died. He might have been Marshall's handyman, standing behind me and ready to knock me out. Fact: Marshall escaped and has not been seen since. Fact: Scully is dead. Fact: I have this condition. According to my own notes Skinner found me here in Red Town and wanted to take me back to D.C. We argued a few times. Why would he come here in the first place? Was he here to stop me from killing Marshall? Or was he here to help me? No; he must have been here for the first reason. My own handwriting screamed back at me telling me he couldn't be trusted now. 'He knows'. What does he know? The real truth about the setup that destroyed our lives? Was it his intent to get rid of us in the first place? What did I not know? Why? Nothing in my notes explained that to me. Why had he done it? Was he bribed? Overwhelmed with friendship for Marshall, stronger than what he had for us? Did Marshall save his ass in 'Nam and had he promised something in return? A cover-up, maybe? Someone, help me. Scully, tell me what to do. I miss her so badly. Standing out here in the humid air I feel so desperately lonely. I need her strong-willed stubbornness, her input and advice, and her help. If I am to go through this for the rest of my life, I need someone by my side that can offer me support and care. Someone who knows how to deal with all this confusion and save me. Save me from destroying myself from the sour oblivion that comes as time passes by. What have I left now? I lock the car and walk back to the gas station shop, only a few hundred yards away. I hear a woman moan and look at a van parked nearby. The vehicle shakes. A stab of jealousy rushes through me. I will never know how to love again. How can I find someone like that when I won't even remember who it is? My memory will not be able to grasp that intense feeling of ultimate passion that comes as time passes by. I would look at the same woman over and over again, and never even recall falling in love with her. I don't even know if there could be anyone else after Scully. I know that I loved her, even though she was never my mate. If I will ever allow myself to think that way about someone. I shake my head, focusing on the few pebbles before my feet and hurry into the shop. A firmly built, tattooed man stares at me. "Back again?" he says. "What do you want now?" I look at him. "I've been in here before, right?" "Yeah. Twice now. Are you making fun of me?" "No," I hasten to add. "I have a condition that well, I can't " "-Rebuild memories? Yeah, yeah, you said that before too." I tilt my head a bit. "Did I ask if you had Ben & Jerry's before too?" He groans. "Yes, and I said "no" twice to to that." "Oh. Okay." "Now, are you going to buy something useful, or bother me again in a few moments?" "I'll write down a note to me saying I shouldn't," I grin evilly and return outside. Okay, someone else I pissed off. Good work, Mulder. I'm sure that he'll be telling his story about the forgetful-geek-who-wouldn't-stay-away for the next days or so. Perhaps, when they find my body after I've thrown myself off a cliff, as steep as Jack McCauley's choice, they'll go, "Remember that nutcase that couldn't remember? Well, there ya go." This is not the way to end our lives, Scully, but there is nothing to be done about it. I'm here, and you are in Heaven, or so I hope. You know I'm not a Christian. I can only pray that you're somewhere where you are taken care of, and that you're watching me. And that you are not slightly pissed that I'm about to kill Skinner. Can anyone become a murderer? Yes, I believe they can. I don't even know that, when I go to sleep, I will wake up with the same dysfunction of recollection that I exist in now. I have to hope. It's better than nothing, is it? I return to the car and shove everything into the glove compartment: the gun, my badge, and the notepad. I just leave the photos and Post-It's because they are my best friends. They tell me who I have become and why I'm doing this. I liked you, Scully. You were my haven. Will my killing the people responsible bring back peace into my life? Will I ever see you again? I hope so. In the morning I will head out onto the road and drive to the quarry; and there, I will kill Skinner. Intermezzo June 15 There is this movie I saw some time ago. It's about this guy called Leonard who saw his wife die and then suffered from amnesia. Isn't it odd that everything that I was and am leads to this point, Scully? That I with such a brilliant memory should be forced to deal with one of the worst fates possible? Yes, I shall never grow old. Yes, I shall never see what my life was like, but it is not a gift. Every time I look into the mirror, I will see a man growing older and more fatigued, and sick maybe, but I won't remember how I became this way. I won't even recall how my life passed me by. I'll forget my birthdays, Christmases, Easters and Thanksgivings. I will see people and not recall their intensity or personality. Every day will feel like Groundhog Day. I will repeat it over and over, without growing old inside my mind. My body will not follow, unfortunately. Is this my ultimate fate, Scully? Shall I end up a helpless man? No. I will stop that from happening. I just need to finish this job, and then I will forget there ever was a Fox Mulder, brilliant profiler and FBI's Most Unwanted. I will come back to you, and when I die, I will remember what you were like. I miss you, Scully. More than I can ever say. I should be carving your name in my arms and legs, or burning it on my skin like Leonard did. Instead, I survive on stupid little notes and meaningless hours. I should not think this way, but I do. Every day of my life, I will remember you. Chapter three: About stunning BMW's and fabulous women Walking. Where am I going? I don't know. Look around, Mulder. A hotel. I'm outside the main concourse of some hotel, walking past the pool towards the reception area. I slow down and shake my head. How did I get here? Why? With whom? Am I alone? I must be. Perhaps I left someone behind in my room. Scully, maybe. No, not Scully. She's gone. I have things in my hands. I look at them. A gun, strapped in its holster; that's in my right hand. It looks like my weapon. Damn it, why I am carrying it? I see people coming out of their hotel rooms, going towards the lobby. I have to hide it. I shove the gun inside the pocket of my leather jacket, and nod at the older man coming towards me. "Good morning," I mumble and pass him quickly. "Mr. Mulder!" the man says loudly, stopping me confused in my tracks, "How's it going today?" "Good," I say numbly, wondering who the hell he is. "You don't remember me, do you?" he asks. I try to retort with something witty, but all I can do is truthfully shake my head. "No." "I'm Malcolm! Malcolm Roberts, from 204. We spoke a couple of times. Remember? You are staying in 203, right next door. You're a quiet neighbour even though you did make some noise yesterday. I hope everything's okay?" "Sure." He looks at me inquisitively. "I guess I'll have to start the introduction again from the beginning, right?" "Yes. I " "Yeah, I know. You said before. You have this condition. Some sort of memory loss, was it?" "Yeah." He taps with a finger on my chest. It feels like a familiar gesture, as if he has done this before. Perhaps he's a creature of habit. Or perhaps I know because that exact spot on my chest feels sore. "Don't you worry, son. Some day all the pieces will fall together," he grins broadly, not in the least worried by my confusion. He grins broadly again, revealing a near-empty mouth, devoid of all teeth, that were probably once white and shiny. I can smell breath filled with liquor coming towards me. "Gotta go," I say. I turn quickly and proceed towards where I think the exit is. "Hey, where you in an accident or something?" he yells and waves his hand. I continue my trip outside. Looking down at my hands again I notice that they seem painful. I touch my forehead and feel a large scratch with my fingers. My face feels sore too. Strange, what did I do? In my left hand pocket I find photos and a Post-It note that reads: anterogade amnesia. Another note tells me to take my pills at 5 p.m. I glance at my watch. Nearly five. I should probably take them now, but how can I know in a couple of minutes that I have already taken them or not? No, wait until five exactly. At least then I can't get confused. Right now my head feels like it's exploding. Perhaps I should take them soon after all. I have Polaroid photos in my pocket too. One of them has Skinner grinning awkwardly into the camera. It seems recent. It's not wrinkled, torn or scratched. Is he around here somewhere? A message to me: "He knows." That's all. 'He knows.' He must be here. I wouldn't write this if he weren't. "Mr. Mulder," a voice at the reception alerts me, "Your car is waiting." "My car?" I repeat and turn to face a beautiful woman. "Yeah, you ordered a rental for five p.m. Don't you remember wrecking the other one?" "I wrecked it?" "Yeah, you have the bumps to prove it," emphasising her words. She's right. My entire body feels kind of wrecked. "What happened to me?" I ask the receptionist. "You went reckless going around the corner. Lost control over the wheel," she explains. "You scared us all. I thought you'd have at least broken a few bones." "I don't recall that. You see " "Yeah, yeah, the amnesia thing." She sounds impatient. I wonder how many times she has already listened to my story. She looks at me and thinks that I'm a perfectly normal guy on the outside, but a wacky psycho underneath. She's probably terrified of me; her eyes dart nervously and she seems ready to run in case I come nearer. She shoves the car keys onto the counter and makes sure she doesn't make hand contact with me. Anterogade amnesia doesn't mean that I'm crazy. It just means that I wouldn't remember if I have fucked this woman's brains out, or not. No short-term memory, doll. You were fabulous last night, I'm sure, but I can't remember. Sorry, Let's do it again sometime! It's a physical thing, so you might as well help get me cured. I know where I stand. I will grow old and not know how I became a frustrated eighty-year-old guy with nothing to prove, or show for in life. In my mind, I will forever stay forty-two, the age I was when Scully died. As Claudia said in 'Interview with the vampire:' I shall never grow up. Strange, isn't it? I, with the perfect memory, have become a joke. Ah well. I decide to get the car. Perhaps then I will know what to do, or I might have to check those Post-It notes and see what I was supposed to do today. I'll just go with the flow. A man is waiting for me: he's tall and dark-haired and obviously works out twenty times a day. I feel small. "Fox Mulder?" he says. "Yeah." "Sign here." I do what he asks. He doesn't ask for a passport or anything else in the way of I.D. Neither does not tell me when to bring the car back. I would forget it anyhow until I jot it down on the notepad I found in my pocket. "Cya." "Yeah, thanks and cya." I stand there with the keys in my hand and don't know where I'm going. I see the receptionist waiting for me. She has that look in her eyes again: He's cute, too bad he's a nutter. Perhaps I can screw with his mind. He won't remember anything anyhow. My watch lets out a loud alarm. I almost shriek. Five p.m. Time to take that pill. But where is it? I look inside my pockets and find a small bottle. I have taped a torn up part of a Post-It over it. Once every day, it reads. One pill. I dry-swallow it ; it sticks in my throat like glue. Fabulous. I can't lean forward and drink water from the pool, can I? With enough saliva to swallow it I finally manage to get that sour taste out of my throat, and I clasp the keys. I open the car door and look inside. Luxury beckons me. It's an amazing car. I wonder if I have too much money, or if I just booked it on the Bureau's expense account. Either way, here I am. The guy leaves and I park the car in front of the building where I think I might be staying. There is one large building and a smaller one that also holds rooms. I came from the large one, so I reckon that's where I am. I close the car door, and return to room 203 where the old guy said I was. I cross past the pool again and notice a fire escape in the back. The hotel seems kind of sleazy. It's not exactly new and has a dirty feel to it. It's like one of those places you stay because you can't afford a better hotel while travelling through the US, or one where you need to hide out in for a while. I think I fit in the second category. So, if that's my room, I should have most of my stuff there. Apart from the gun, badge and my wallet, there should be a duffel bag or a suitcase at least. I have a key in my pocket that holds the same room number. I unlock the door and almost trip. In the hazy darkness it's difficult to make anything out. The curtains are drawn and make the room very dark. From where I stand, I reach to the right and pull at one curtain. Bright light enters the room at once, revealing the tied-up body of Walter Skinner lying on the floor. He's conscious and staring at me, terrified. My god! I close the door rapidly and stare at his body. I step forward and a cracking sound beneath me scares the hell out of me. I look down. His glasses are busted. "Sorry," I mutter, leaning forward to release him from his straps. He has a cloth stuck in his mouth: a tape keeps it in place. "Mulder, release me," he says as soon as I have freed his mouth. "Now." I was untying his hands, only to stop and stare at him. Why is he here, in this room? Why is he tied up? Did I do this? I must have, because he's looking accusingly at me. "Why did I tie you up?" I ask coolly. He relaxes his back and sighs deeply. "Mulder, you're confused and sick. You are not yourself and haven't been since the day Scully fell. You should listen to me. I'm here to help you. You have to let me get you back to D.C. You need medical care and attention. I came here to tell you that." "But I attacked you." "Yes, you have to remember that!" "I don't," I interrupt him bluntly and show him the piece of paper I found in my pocket. "Amnesia. I have it, don't I?" "Yes," he admits grudgingly. "So I don't remember where the hell my life is heading, do I? I'm after Scully's murderer. I must be. It's the last thing I remember. If she's dead, I know I will go after him. I would do that. I would go nuts if I didn't, wouldn't I, sir?" "Mulder, it's not what you think. You have to listen to me. You have always trusted me. You should trust me again now. There is nothing else you should do right now. Just untie me and let us deal with this together." "Well, I can't do that, can I?" I retorted bitterly. "Because the only reason you would be tied up in here, is because I know the truth. You destroyed us, didn't you? I always thought you were a bastard. A few times I actually believed you had betrayed us, and were working for that smoking scumbag. After all these years the truth has finally revealed itself, hasn't it? You're the one and I wrote a note to myself to prove it." "Who do you trust?" he asks coldly. "Your notes or me?" I kneel down so our faces are close. He strains to persuade me. It doesn't work. "Wrong question," I say. "I only trust myself." "How can you, when you don't know what you've done?" I blink my eyelids. "Whatever I've done, I did for the good reason. Tell me, is John Marshall dead, sir?" My voice sounds cold and disrespectful. Good. It seems that I'm in charge here and I want to know why. He swallows. "Yeah, he is. He's been dead for over a week. But you don't remember, do you? And in a few hours maybe, you won't remember again. You won't understand how you came to be this way " "Oh, but I do know. I was hit in the back of the head and it destroyed some of my faculties. I'm a raving, grieving lunatic now, sir. I don't think anyone would blame me for killing you. Justification serves me right, doesn't it?" "Killing me?" he asks horrified. "Why?" I shrug. "Honest to god? I don't know. But I'm sure I have good reason." I stand up and look outside the window. The car is parked below the window. I'm on the ground level. All I have to do is guide Skinner out of that emergency exit, into the car and I'll be on my way. I'm sure I wouldn't be stupid enough to kill him here. They would find me with his corpse, and I wouldn't recall killing him. I don't think I can do it here; or even if I can do it at all. "Mulder, you have to hear me out," his voice sounds horrified. "I cannot begin to explain everything to you. I have told you so many times already. You really need to come home with me. It's imperative that " I turn in anguish and force the cloth back into his mouth. "Shut up!" I scream. "I don't want to hear another word from you, bastard!" His eyes close in frustration. I force my mind back into thinking mode. I need to make some conclusion here. Skinner is here, tied up. I must have done that to him, because this is my room. That can only mean that I know Skinner's been double-crossing me. He knows that I know about his betrayal. He is afraid. No, afraid doesn't cut it: terrified sounds more like it. I kneel down by his side and look straight into his eyes. "I don't listen to you anymore," I whisper calmly. "I won't. Not now. Not ever. We're through." He tries to speak but the cloth in his mouth stops him. He just sighs deeply and rests his head on the ground, as if defeated. I turn my back to him and rummage through my bag looking for something to eat. My stomach aches. I must be hungry. I will wait for nightfall to leave with Skinner. I'll push him into the car and drive him somewhere. The quarry I have mentioned on a note perhaps. It seems fitting. I'll dump his body there and leave him to the vultures. I am surprised, shocked and amazed at the downright fury of my own actions, but I couldn't go back now. This was it. However, I felt a strange feeling of satisfaction. I must have dozed off a while because I woke up hearing strange, unfamiliar sounds in the room. I'm still in my current memory-lapse. I could tell because I instantly remember where and when I was. Skinner's in the room. He is trying to get up. He is up. I get up too, ignoring the instant dizziness that surges through me, lunging after him. He pushes me aside, knocking me to the ground. I get up and hit him on the back of the head with my gun. He goes down without a sound. He still has the cloth in his mouth and his hands are tied. I look at him. He opens his eyes and glares at me. I knock him out for the second time, this time hitting his forehead. A huge gash splatters blood across the carpet and bed. "Damn it," I mutter and look outside to see if anyone heard us. How the hell am I supposed to get Skinner into the car now? I unlock the door and peer down the hall. I'm the second door to the right, almost next to the fire escape. However it's only nine p.m. someone could come in at any time and see me carrying off his heavy body. I need to wait for a while longer. The dizziness subsides slowly. I sit down and munch on a biscuit, hoping that I will remember this long enough to carry Skinner's unconscious form to the car. Then, I'll leave a note to myself telling me what to do with him. Time passes by very slowly. Skinner is still unconscious. I untie his hands to help him lie in a better position. I don't think he'll wake up any time soon. He's completely out of it. I wish I could do it here and now. I wish I could put the gun to my head and shoot myself. I want out of this life or at least this way of living. "Scully," I groan as I sit down and watch Skinner. "I miss you." To my shock I find myself crying. I can feel hot tears drip onto my hands. No, don't cry. It's no use. You need to do this. Don't back out now. Alas, I am suffering from a heavy, horrified heart when I drag Skinner towards the fire escape around midnight, watching out for anyone coming in and out of the main entrance. We are very much alone. I almost wish we weren't. I pack up my things and leave the motel room. I clean up the splatters of blood on the dark rug. No one will see this, I hope. I have paid in advance for everything, or so a message to myself tells me. Just leave the keys in the room. Slowly I put everything I have in the car: the overnight bag with dirty clothes in the trunk, the photos and notes up front, my remaining belongings next to me, and Skinner is in the back. I still have to make a note to remind me of what to do exactly with Skinner's body, and why I should do it, but as I start driving, following my self-made directions, I start feeling very, very tired. I drive up to a parking lot and park the vehicle in the darkest space. I have to do something, but what was it again? Intermezzo June 15 I have the feeling that today is the last day of my life. It's June 15, my watch tells me. Life as I am leading it right now has lasted only a week, yet I have the feeling Scully died this morning. To me, she did. Even when I'm eighty years old, I will remember that she died falling over a ledge, hurled into the trees that at first broke her fall, and then gave up their lofty strength, leaving her to smash onto the rocks below. Her terrified cries will stay with me forever. Oh, if I could just close my eyes and forget it. Once, I thought I would go crazy without her and it turns out that I am. I must be. I urge my mind to sink into oblivion, yet I want to stay alert for as long as I can. I don't think I sleep much. I want to believe that this amnesia thing only shows up when I'm asleep. I don't think it does. Yet I force myself to try and stay awake, stay with the game and on top of things. I don't think it's working. Yet somehow, today, I feel that this life is coming to an end. I feel you near me, Scully. Wherever you are, I am there too. A part of my soul is gone. Without my memories, I will never be the same man. Without my eidetic abilities, I might as well be a human vegetable tied to machines keeping him alive. Without you, I am nothing. Is it any wonder then that I dream of putting that gun to my head? Long for the end? To be continued Part 3 Intermezzo June 15 I have the feeling that today is the last day of my life. It's June 15, my watch tells me. Life as I am leading it right now has lasted only a week, yet I have the feeling Scully died this morning. To me, she did. Even when I'm eighty years old, I will remember that she died falling over a ledge, hurled into the trees that at first broke her fall, and then gave up their lofty strength, leaving her to smash onto the rocks below. Her terrified cries will stay with me forever. Oh, if I could just close my eyes and forget it. Once, I thought I would go crazy without her and it turns out that I am. I must be. I urge my mind to sink into oblivion, yet I want to stay alert for as long as I can. I don't think I sleep much. I want to believe that this amnesia thing only shows up when I'm asleep. I don't think it does. Yet I force myself to try and stay awake, stay with the game and on top of things. I don't think it's working. Yet somehow, today, I feel that this life is coming to an end. I feel you near me, Scully. Wherever you are, I am there too. A part of my soul is gone. Without my memories, I will never be the same man. Without my eidetic abilities, I might as well be a human vegetable tied to machines keeping him alive. Without you, I am nothing. Is it any wonder then that I dream of putting that gun to my head? Long for the end? Chapter four: Note to self, escape from Skinner. Or kill him. I am hungry, I think. My stomach rumbles. Message to me: get some food in you. "Mr. Mulder," the receptionist calls out when I walk past her with a short nod, "Your rental car will be here around five." "Oh. Thank you." I walk further without remembering why I would need a car. "Are you okay now? You still look a bit pale." I look at her, not understanding, nor comprehending. "Oh, you don't remember that you were in an accident, do you?" I shake my head. "Don't be shocked then when you look into a mirror." Her voice becomes a little bit annoyed, as if she can't stand the fact that I am sick. Although I think I must be. Can't recall much of anything, really. Where was I going, anyhow? I turn to her. "Where am I staying? I assume this is my hotel?" "Room 203." "Oh. Thanks." "You're welcome. You have no messages." I wouldn't know who could find me here anyhow, I guess. Or someone would be assisting me as I walk through the valley of oblivion. I enter the building using the larger of the two keys I have in my hand. I hope that the other one will fit my door. I don't know where I come from or how I got here. I did see a taxi speed away after I regained some sort of consciousness. Perhaps he dropped me off here. My hand is bandaged, and I feel a bit under the weather. In fact, make that crappy. It's like something hit me and I kept on bouncing ever since. An accident? Or an attack? Anything could have happened. Oh well, it will pass I suppose. I unlock the door to my room and walk into darkness. It is a dreary room with pink, faded curtains, a matching spread and blankets, and even worse matching night-lights. My god. I wonder how anyone could stay in a room like this and not go stark raving mad. The TV probably doesn't even have my favourite porn channels; dumb ass thing. I shudder, switch on a light and am dazed and confused by the amounts of information that lie here. It's all mine, I'm sure. There are notes jotted down in my familiar handwriting, photos that have obviously been taken with the Polaroid camera, lying on a chair, and my overnight bag rests on the table by the window. My life has turned into a pathetic little soap opera. I need to find the truth and it escapes me over and over again. Let's say what I have here. Lots of notes and things jotted down. I sit down, trying to remember the last thing that was embedded in my mind. Oh yes, that blow to the head. That hurt; before that, more startlingly, the tragic loss of Scully. I wonder if this aching feeling inside of me will ever stop. It doesn't feel like it will ever be ok again. I walk into the tiny bathroom and flip on a light. Note to self: you look like crap. My face is obviously bruised, and a large scar runs past my left eyebrow over my forehead. It is stitched and little band-aids keep it together. I struggle painfully as I shuck off my shirt and stare at my torso. It is badly bruised too. My belly feels sore and damaged somehow. My shoulder is not doing too good either. I see where the car safety belt cut into my body, irritating the vicious angry scars all over my chest. Good thing I wore that, or I would not be here right now. Or, can I really call that a positive point? I remove the bandages on my hand and inspect the wounds on top of it. My right hand is scarred too. They both feel sore. It hurts to even move my hand up to my face. I haven't shaved in some time. That is not a five o'clock shadow anymore. More than anything I'm startled by the expression in my eyes. They look cold and numb. The pupils are dilated, probably from the good stuff they gave me in hospital. Yes, I am fairly certain now I have been in a hospital. I probably took a taxi to this hotel. I decide to take a shower to freshen up and clear the cobwebs out of my head. I need to get a few points straight. The notes told me all I need to know for now. One can manage with notes, you know. It's not so difficult. It's just a drag to see the same people over and over again, and not know their names or their intentions. I wonder if that receptionist fancied me. Perhaps we had a good lay in this very room? Nah, I wouldn't do that. Somehow that doesn't feel right. I strip, step in the shower and let the hot steady force of water rush over my body. The water feels hard against my skin but I don't complain. I feel alive. Have I ever felt like this before? After half an hour or so, I reluctantly turn off the shower and dry up using the heavy hotel towels. They smell off some lousy wash softener with a distinct lavender scent. It seems that I don't have many clothes left. Most of them lie dirty inside the stuffed overnight bag. I can't find a suitcase or anything else that carries my stuff. Note to self: go shopping. I decide to fish out some jeans that don't seem damaged or soiled. The ones I had on me had blood stains all over them, and seem torn here and there. I might have been wearing that when the accident occurred. My shirt has gone to hell too. In fact, I don't even recognize it. I wonder where I got it. I dry my hair and decide to leave my chin unshaven chin for now. I need to get some rest. My body warns me that it has done quite a bit today. Perhaps I should just lie down a bit, close my eyes and take a good nap. Then I should probably decide what to do next. Perhaps someone will come to find me, instead of me going after them. John Marshall, if he is in this town, will be looking for me when he knows I'm here. I should just keep my gun closer to me and wait. I slid into the clothes and look at my face. Yes, I suppose I seem a bit better now. If only that blasted headache would go away. I glare at my watch. Four p.m. and nothing to do for the time being. Can anyone actually get bored in life when he has nothing to remember? I open the door to the bedroom and toss the wet towel on the bed, and then I hold my breath, reaching for my gun in a flash when a figure steps out of the shadows towards me. A strong hand holds my wrist, preventing me from grasping the gun. "What the hell!" I yell when I recognize Skinner's tall form. "Mulder, it's me," he says in Scully-fashion, still holding onto me. My fingers grope for the gun but can't reach it. He pushes me gently backwards and waits for me to calm down before releasing my hand. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I hiss, horrified that he would startle me like this. "How did you know I was here?" "You told me," he replies. "Remember?" I stare angrily into his face. "I don't remember shit. Remember that, sir?" He sighs tiredly. "I hoped it would be different by now." "How can it be different? Anterogade amnesia is an irreversible condition." "That's what I came here to talk to you about," he says, "and we do need to talk, Mulder. After your little escape run from hospital, you gave me no choice but to come here." "Hospital?" "Yes. You were in an accident this morning. You were admitted to hospital. I came to find you. I promised to come back later to talk to you because you were out of it. Next thing I knew, you were gone." "Why?" I ask coolly. "Why what?" "Why I was out of there so fast?" "I don't know. I guess you were confused." "Don't lie to me," I say sharply, forcing myself to calm down a bit. "There must have been a good reason." "You had an accident, Mulder. Why should there have been any reasons for you to be upset, apart from that? I think you're entitled to that, especially with what is going on." "How did you find me here?" "I guessed you would be in this hotel." "No, in this town. This is not Washington." "No, it's Red Town." "Where is that?" "Near Vegas. You flew in two days ago. After all that happened, you couldn't stay in D.C. That was normal of course, considering the circumstances." "Am I still an FBI-agent?" "Yes, but you're on sick leave." "I still have my guns and ID." "Only because you took them. Mulder, please sit down and talk to me. I need to explain a few things." "Such as?" "Why you're suffering from this condition." "I know why. I was attacked." "Yes, you and Scully were, by Dr. John Marshall." "Doctor?" I ask coldly. "He isn't a doctor. He hasn't been for a long time." "He was still practising. He misled all of us." "He is your friend." "I thought that he was, but he lied to everyone. It nearly cost you your life." "It did cost Scully's." "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Mulder. Scully is " "- Dead." "No, she " I raise my hands. "Don't say it out loud, Skinner. I don't want to hear it. You don't know what it's like to watch her die." "I saw it too, Mulder. I " "What?" I rise up sharply and face him. "You saw it? You weren't there! You came later, in your own car." "No, I was there. I saw her slide down the hill. I saw Marshall too." "How?" I ask. "How did you get there so quickly?" "Marshall said something about his other victims and how they had to fall to meet their Maker. That ledge was the only place in town where he could have taken them. You came to the same conclusion, only you were there earlier than me. When Scully called me to warn me where you were headed, I was already on the way." "So you saw. Everything?" I repeat. "Then why the hell weren't you there to save us?" "I was too late to stop it. I saw Marshall's wife hit you in the back of the head. I shot her but couldn't help you. Marshall escaped, but not for long." "He's dead?" I ask surprised. "Yes, he's been dead for a week." "How?" "We found him. He resisted arrest and died in the process." "That can't be. I'm still looking for him," I blurt out. "My notes tell me so." "Don't believe your notes, Mulder. You are working with a very confused and distraught perspective right now. You don't know what has happened this past week. That information has been taken from you, but you should know that it can be stopped." "Yes," I agree slowly, as I try to gather all the pieces that are building up in the confines of my head. Skinner was at the site and yet he did nothing to help me. Should I believe the story about Marshall's wife? Or am I looking into the face of the man that helped Marshall? Skinner had been acting strangely all the time we were in Graystone solving our case. He was upset when I profiled the killer, accusing Marshall of the murders. Skinner could not believe it, yet he knew Marshall had been very ill during their tour of duty. He said it himself: Marshall was not the same man he used to be. Does that not prove, that the bond between the men was much stronger than we had ever expected? How can I find out the truth? I have betrayed so much in the past. I cannot follow up on my past friendship with this man when I know that a human mind can easily be altered and persuaded. On the other hand: how can Skinner be blind for Marshall's faults when he sits so high in the FBI's ranks? I glare at Skinner who scans the room nervously. He has his hand near his gun and his darting eyes unexpectedly find mine. "You don't believe me," he says finally. "I don't know what to believe." "Mulder, I have to tell you this it's about Scully. It's the reason why I came to see you. I've told you this before but you've forgotten it because of the illness you're suffering from so gravely." "Not a disease, a condition." "Whatever. You are very confused right now and need medical attention. I can provide you with a means for that. We can do it." I just look at him warily. "What are you going to tell me about Scully?" I ask wearily, defeated for a long moment. "She's " A loud knock on the door rattles us both. I look at Skinner who glares back at me. I walk past him and open the door to find a gorgeous dark-haired woman looking nervously at me. "I came to warn you that your guy is back," she says. "Be careful." "Who are you?" I ask. She smiles sympathetically. "If I tell you, you will have forgotten anyway. Just watch out." I nod and she closes the door. Seconds later, I feel Skinner's very strong-arm and hand around my neck. He forces me into an arm lock, pulling me against his chest. I can hardly breathe let alone struggle to break loose. "Easy, Mulder," he says, holding me. "Easy now, and listen to me. You have to, for your own sake." My mind goes crazy. I can feel sensations ripple through my consciousness like a pebble impacting touching the ocean surface. Somehow the fog seems to lift a little. It feels like dj-v. I have been here before, struggling with Skinner. I don't know the whole truth. I go crazy. I have to fight to free myself from him, to struggle hard against the emotions that rush through me; the unbearable panic that almost sends me into oblivion. My entire being aches: my body fights hard to ignore the horrid pain that shoots through me as he holds fast onto me. "Okay, okay," I groan and he releases me just a little bit, so I can take deep breaths again. I slump forward, against the bedside and hold onto the mattress. He slumps down alongside me, still grasping onto me. He doesn't want to let go. "Easy," he speaks quietly, almost gently, as if he knows what goes I'm going through. Something not entirely of my control shoots in action. My senses start up again in self-defence mode. I want to hurt this man. He's the cause of all my misery and pain and I just want to kill him. If Marshall is truly dead, he is the only one remaining I can make suffer for my pain. I elbow him in the groin with one smooth motion from my right arm. My elbow connects to his balls, sending him careening backwards. He growls in sheer pain, falling onto his ass and back, lurching over onto his side as he tries to protects his nuts. He moans and keeps on moaning. I don't hesitate for a second, I ball my fist and connect it with his face, knocking his glasses off and sending him into the land of oblivion. He stays down for the count, limp hands releasing his grip on his balls. I sigh heavily and breathe deeply; In and out, in and out. I struggle to stay alert, for I too feel as if I have fought off a lion. He lies there, and I see his face and it looks distraught, even in his unconsciousness. I grasp the gun, thrusting it into his face, putting the gun butt to his mouth. He doesn't move, and I know in that second that I can't go through with it here and now. I need time to think, to get things straight. What the fuck just happened? Did he really attack me? That bastard! I feel sick. Everything that's inside my stomach needs to find a way out. I drop the gun onto the bed, rush into the bathroom and puke my guts out into the toilet bowl. It seems to take forever. I close my eyes and just let it happen. Afterwards I sink on the ground and flush the toilet. I need to get up, rinse my mouth, freshen up, and then kill Skinner. There's no other way. Yes, I need to kill him. But how? How can I do that? I sink on the carpet, raising my eyes to Skinner's unconscious form. He groans. Quickly I pull the rope off the curtains and tie his hands up with it, forcing his arms behind his back. He moans but remains out of it. Then I lean back and sit like that for some moments, and time passes me by. I have made my decision. 'He knows,' that Post-It note screams at me. And indeed, he does. My instinct's tell me. I get up and ignore the soreness in my legs. I leave Skinner in the room and walk outside, into the fresh air. I have a rental car to pick up, and it will be waiting for me around five p.m. I'll use it to take Skinner to the quarry, and there I will destroy him. I leave my room carrying my gun. I want to see if there is someone else strolling around these premises. Intermezzo June 15 It's like dj-v all over again, Scully. I think my weary mind has left some room to recognize or distinguish some thoughts and forms. Sometimes I go places and I think that I've have been there before. It feels like that anyhow. I walked into a bar just now and drank a coffee and this woman looks quite oddly at me and says, "Back already?" And I looked up and asked her why she asked that. "You were in here before," she then explained. "Drinking coffee on that exact same spot you're sitting now." And I didn't even notice. The greasy fingertips on the counter could have been mine. The plate still standing there could have been the one I ate from. I like eggs Benedict too, you know. I could have eaten from it. She could have spiked my coffee and I still wouldn't remember. Funny, isn't it. Life's little irony. I am being punished for letting you go, Scully. I shouldn't have given up so easily. Your hands slipped out of mine, but I should have grabbed your wrists and pulled you back up, with every once of strength I could muster. I think I dream at times. I believe that I can hold onto some of those subconscious visions somehow. They seem as vivid as life itself, and I try to remember if they mean something more than just an imaginary thought. In my dreams you are still alive. You crawled up that ledge again, bloody and hurt, and you held me in your arms and told me that you would make it. Everything was going to be all right. In my dreams I am the one dying. I live in a non-existing world where nothing is what it seems, and everything is turned upside down. I become a killer and kill the ones who hurt us in cold blood. Why? Revenge, baby. Pure and simply getting back at someone. Is that not what the law says? If someone does something to you, do something back. Oh wait, that's not in the law. Whatever. I want to get back at someone. To do some real damage. At least then, I can go out with a bang. Chapter five: You're in hospital, Mulder. Remember? White. Bright white room with a huge window, which allows the immense warmth of the sun to enter and warm me up. It's cold in this room despite the obvious hot weather out there. I shiver underneath the blanket and sheet that covers my body. I feel sore but alert. My head aches a lot though. I have difficulty remembering where I am, or how I got here. The last minutes or days are a total blank to me. I lean back and wonder if that is normal. Then my eyes fly open. "Scully!" I shout on the top of my lungs, hoping that someone will hear. A nurse rushes inside, as if she was waiting for me to wake up. "Mr. Mulder!" she reassures firmly, "take it easy. You're okay." "Scully, where is she? Is she dead? Did you find her?" She doesn't understand obviously. "Who is Scully?" she asks. "You were in a car accident, Mr. Mulder." "Where am I?" "In Red Town." "Red Town?" "Yes, near Las Vegas." "How did I get here?" "They brought you in this morning. You crashed your car. You've been in and out of it for a while. The doctor thought you had a concussion at first, but it turns out that you didn't. You just got a good bump on your head. Other than that, you suffered from nothing serious. You should be released tomorrow, after observation." "How?" I close my eyes and lean back in the pillows, totally confused by this situation. I watched Scully die. I saw it happen. And then that blow to the head; there was more, afterwards but I cannot recall that. There is something wrong with me and it has nothing to do with this accident. I need to find out what it is. "What day is it?" I ask as she fluffs my pillows and helps me to drink some water from a chilled pitcher. "Sunday." "What date, I mean?" Her eyes reveal her open curiosity. "June 15." June 15. A week after Scully died. What happened to me over these past few days? Have I suffered some sort of amnesia? Did I sleepwalk through life, after her death? She suddenly seems to understand. "You're suffering from a rare form of amnesia," she explains. "You can't remember the short-term past. I thought it wasn't true but you really don't remember waking up here this morning, do you?" I shake my head and groan as I shift my body into a better position. Just looking at her busy activities tires me, but I try to focus on what she says anyhow. "You had some sort of accident before," she continues. "Dr. Morgan told me about it but I didn't really believe it." "Did you think I was faking it?" I ask wearily, pretty sure I probably encountered more people like her during the past week." "Yeah," she admits. "I'm sure you're not the first one." "I'm sure I'm not." She nods nervously and suddenly seems eager to leave the room. I watch her go and decide that's she's not the right source to get some information from. I don't know if there is anyone here who can explain all this complexity to me. Perhaps I can explain it to myself. I decide to slip out of bed and find my things. If I suffer from this condition, I will probably have left notes for myself to guide me through life. My feet touch the cold tiles, and I scan my body for any damage done. I'm wearing just a hospital gown. A bandage on my forehead reveals an injury there. One of my hands is bandaged too. The IV sticking in my right arm stops me from moving too far. I pull at it until the needle slips from my flesh. It stings a bit and bleeds a little. I shuffle towards the closet, open it and find a bag with clothes in. I pull it onto the bed and sit down slowly, looking at the torn and bloody items I was obviously wearing when I got here. I must have been unconscious for a while. I also find a notepad with Post-Its sticking between the pages. The first note seems very much well read and says anterogade amnesia. It's in my handwriting. So it's true. Damn it. I wish it were a dream. I groan and look at the other notes. The one stating 'Skinner knows' shakes me up. I stare at it for a few seconds. If Skinner knows, he might be in town. What if he walks into that door to get me? What would he do to me? I know I would be looking for the truth. I don't have to assume it. I'm the type of man who wouldn't sit around and let the world pass him by, injustices unanswered. Scully died and I'm here searching for her killer. I know that John Marshall came from Red Town. This is his hometown and probably the only lead for me to track him down. I must have been here for a week by now, stuck in some dreaded hotel room while searching through the evidence over and over again. That is what I would do. It might take me years to find him, but I will succeed. That is who I am. It is the last bit of sanity I have left in me. I feel like an old man, ready to fight whatever is stopping me. I have to get out of here. I don't feel sick enough to be forced to stay, even though I wobble on my feet. I just have a hunch Skinner might be around. I find a bottle of pills in my pocket, read the label and decide to take one. Whatever these things do, they are obviously meant to help me, or I wouldn't have them on me in the first place. I sip a bit of cooled water and then strip as quickly as I can from my gown. I have my boxer shorts still on. Thank god: no delightful Foley catheter sticking out down there. I wince as I put on the jeans. Then I realize there's no way I can put on the T-shirt. It's ripped to shreds. They just put it in the bag to keep my clothes together, I gather. I sigh. I can't walk around this place bare-chested, can I? I take my stuff with me. There's my wallet. No gun or badge. I must have left that somewhere. One of my notes tells me to go to the Garden Inn Hotel on Oak Tree Avenue, wherever the hell that is. I find two keys without a room number or address on them. There must be some way for me to get there though. The nurse told me I had been in an accident. So I must have wrecked my car. That means I need new wheels. What to do? I reach for the phone and dial '0' for operator. "AT&T, how may I help you?" "Yes," I say, "I'm looking for the number of the erm Garden Inn Hotel in Red Town." "Hold on, sir." A few seconds later I am put through. "Garden Inn Hotel." "Yes, this is Fox Mulder speaking. I think I have a hotel room at the Garden Inn and I " "Oh yes, of course, Mr. Mulder. How are you? We heard about your accident. Horrible, isn't it? Your boss came around earlier to tell us and " "My boss?" I interrupt her. "Yes, Mr. Skinner. He was very concerned about you." "He didn't take my stuff, did he?" "No, he just came by to tell us, and he arranged for your car to be towed back to a garage near the hotel. He said you would probably be back later to collect your things, or he would return." "I see." "Can I help you, Mr. Mulder?" "What is your name?" "Janice," she says and now starts to sound impatient. I have asked this before, I'm sure. "Janice, could you do me a favour and arrange a rental car for me?" "Any preferences, sir?" "Not really. Something nice." "Sure. Are you coming back here then?" "Yes, I'll be there shortly." "Okay, see you then." "Thanks." I hang up and stare down at the phone. So Skinner is here and he knows where I'm staying. Swell. I finish putting on my socks and shoes and take a peek outside the room. A nurse crosses the hall and walks into a nurse's station. I slip into the first room to my right, and to my relief find a young man asleep. I am quiet when I open his closet door and fish out the first T-shirt I can find. It's a bit small but fits perfectly. I slip it on. The text:'F%$k my family, I'm moving in with the Osbournes', I'll take as an extra. When I turn, the young guy looks at me. "Room Service," I grin wryly and am out of there before he can muster another word. I walk through the door towards the other side and take the stairs instead of the elevator. So far, so good. Downstairs I find the ER to my left, and the reception to my right. I go for the reception. There should be taxis waiting there for me to use. If I can get into one, I should be home free. But where is home? I force myself to take slow steps and proceed cautiously towards the exit. If I act as if nothing is wrong and I am just a visitor, no one will stop me. Walk. Keep walking. Outside a taxi stands still in front of the building. It is extremely hot out there. It's too warm for the time of year, even for this place. The heat seems to burn holes in my skin. I shake my head, keep my face down and hurry towards the vehicle. "Garden Inn Hotel," I say. "And hurry up, please." "Sure, buddy." The driver obviously is not someone who has ever worked in New York or other big cities. He takes his time even driving off the lot. I slid back in the seat, hoping that no one will come rushing out the hospital looking for me. I imagine that I must look pale and I hate the dreaded bandage on my forehead betraying I have been hurt. "Going home?" the driver suddenly asks, getting me out of my stupor. I'm shaken back into reality and look in his eyes using the rear-view mirror. "Yeah," I say. "You're not from around here, are you? I know a whole bunch of people in this town, buddy, and you sure don't like a Red to me." "D.C.," I blurt out, knowing I have already said too much. "Ah. What brings you here then?" "Friends." "But you're staying at that hotel." "Never mind," I groan. "Are you always this chatty?" "It's my job to be. A cab driver is a friend, a confident and often a shrink, you know." "In New York, maybe." "Red Wood is not so different. Okay, we don't have Fifth Avenue, but at least we have a nice shopping area. People from all around come here." "I'm sure they do," I sigh, turning my head as a token the conversation is finished. He won't listen though. "You know, I've heard there's this guy from D.C. in town. They say he lost his memory and is some sort of fruitcake. If you say something to him, an hour or so later he might not even remember it. You won't happen to be him, would you?" I turn my head towards him again. "Why?" "So, if I charge you fifty bucks for this ride now, and I drive you around until you lose your memory, you wouldn't remember you'd already paid me, would you? Interesting." "I could also shoot you and not remember it, and plead insanity," I say coolly. "Not a single soul in this world would convict me. In fact, I would have the law behind me because I'm a Federal Agent." He pales. "Hey, I was just kidding, buddy." "So was I ... buddy." I guess this little titbit is enough to shut him up. I see him glare in the mirror constantly, wondering if I am really flying over the cuckoo's nest. And every time I look at him and nod, as if to confirm that I still remember who he is and what we are doing here. I take out the notepad, a Post-Its and scribble on one: Don't pay the taxi driver twice. He's a shit head. I almost laugh. I am fairly certain the cab driver takes a long route back to the hotel. He even stops on the way to get some gas. I am getting more nervous by the minute. I imagine Skinner driving right behind us, wanting to stop me. Stop me from doing what? If he could stop me, he would have done so in the hospital. He would have let them tie me up and treat me like the nutcase I considered myself. Yet here I was, rushing towards freedom. Should I really be doing this? Should I run away from him and pretend I can solve the mystery by myself? I have to. There is no other option. There is only escape and oblivion, release and resolution. The driver eyes me warily as he fills up his tank. I notice the engine is still running and so is the meter. I smile. Whatever. My wallet is wadded with money, so I've noticed. I can afford his little cheating. Something tells me it's not the first time he's done this to tourists and ignorant folks. He walks to the counter inside the gas station. I notice a huge parking lot behind us. He's still inside waving busily with his hands, pointing at me. I can see several people looking in my direction. I turn my head. The cab driver steps in again and drives off quietly. We pass a couple of signs that tell me we're nearing the freeway. I don't know where the hotel is and can only hope he's finally going to take me there. One sign reads: Hoffman Quarry. "What is that?" I ask suddenly, scaring the hell out of the bulky, sweaty-handed driver, despite the air-conditioning that runs like crazy. "Hoffman Quarry? Oh, that used to be some gold digger's resort. Used to be a tourist attraction. Now it's abandoned." "How do you get there?" "Just follow the freeway towards L.A. You'll pass it. It's just off Route 44, Exit 23." I take out the stack of unused Post-It's and scribble the directions on it. Perhaps they'll come in handy some time. "If you're going there, take someone with you. The old mine is ready to fall apart. It already killed a couple of kids some time ago, who were having sex there. I guess the climax moved the earth for them it." He laughs nastily at his own stupid joke, shutting up again when he notices I'm not smiling. We eventually arrive at the hotel and instead of paying him the full amount I toss him a twenty-dollar bill. "I'm sure that's a fair price considering you were screwing me," I say. "The meter says thirty-five bucks, buddy." I lean forward and look inside, noticing some naked pictures of fairly young girls. Ten to one they are not even eighteen yet. He flushes a scarlet red when he says me glare between them, and back to him. "The meter says twenty," I repeat. He groans, grasps it and clutches it between his sticky fingers. "Go to hell, freak," he mutters. I tap against my head. "With the way you drive, you'll probably end up there first." He is very pissed off now. I slam the car door and he takes off like a bat out of hell. Dust flying all over the place. I feel a slither of laughter surge through me. I grin broadly, turn and head towards the hotel entrance, despite that it doesn't seem familiar whatsoever. However, something tells me I have been staying here for some time now. I set myself to think as my mind pulls up a complete blank, trying to figure out what I was up to, where was I?" Intermezzo June 15 I really should be tattooing all those clues on my chest, Scully, just like Leonard did. I would be able to take a look in the mirror, and instantly see what's been done to you, and I. I would follow the leads, wherever they take me. Then again, to remove all my chest hair in order to get a good tattoo done? No, thank you. I'll stick with the notes. I'm sure they won't get lost. And if they are, I will start all over again. We're a match that's made in heaven, Scully. You're already up there, with your Maker, and I am down here with nothing at all to believe in anymore. I think I'm turning into a full-bore atheist now, even though I assume I used to be agnostic. Potatoe-Potatoh. Whatever else, we are true to form. You're out there, and I am in here and I have abandoned my beliefs once again, to seek something else more tangible: revenge, closure or peace. If you are looking down on me now, are you proud of me or calling me a self-righteous geek? Am I crazy to want to do this? Is there anything else left in this life with any damned meaning? If I die after this ordeal, will I see you again in the next life? Perhaps we are meant to die together, Scully, so we can be transformed into other entities or energies together. After all, we are bound together in life and death. If you're up there, and I'm stuck down here, are you laughing your ass off right now? Can't you give me any clues as to where I'm going? Anything, Scully, c'mon. Something would do. Just help me out here, will you? Just tell me that I am following the right lead. It can't be that hard. To be continued Part 4 Part two Chapter six: "Mulder, you have to listen to me. Not everything is at it seems!" Dreams of Scully. Visions of her sitting by my side in the hospital, when I was shot for the first time in my life. 'Through and through upper femur', I can hear them say and she stands there unable and too shocked to say anything. She closes her eyes, upset and visibly shaken. I can still feel the wound where I was hit. Images of Scully as we are trapped in the woods as darkness falls. She is as horrified, as am I. We fight against something we don't understand; and I feel life literally being sucked out of me. Scully watching me when I tango with death, after the alien bounty hunter attacked me on the sub in the Arctic. She is sitting next to me, holding my hand and praying. I can hear her prayers. Her words are silent, yet I hear every word of them. And when I wake up, she shows me this amazingly dazzling smile. Watching me, and talking to me as our old bodies betray us, and we're sinking into death, literally. Scully shooting me, stopping me from killing Krycek. Saving me from my own insanity. By my side always, as I am hurt in my endeavours to seek the horrible truth about my sister. Being with me as I see my father and Deep Throat. Knowing somehow that I am not dead, but ready to return to her. Visions of me watching Scully die as she struggled to fight the illness, that ate her from within..... An image of me contemplating suicide. Scully watching me as the voices inside my head drive me crazy, almost into oblivion, searching for peace and quiet inside my skull. Helping me when my sister was found, believing in the truth that became so clear to me after it was found. Saving me when snakes bit me over and over again. When those bugs entered my lungs and sucked and choked me almost to death. She has always been there for me. Every single time. She fought for me, as I have fought for her. And now she's not here. That's the first impression I get when I am wheeled into an emergency room. People are all around me. They touch me, scan me and examine me. My eyelids are lifted and a little light shines straight into my pupils. I react to it. "He's coming to," a female voice says. "What's his name?" "Fox Mulder." "Mr. Mulder, I'm doctor Mathis. Can you hear me?" I have difficulty saying anything. My head is so heavy and my throat so thick, that I just want to sink back into oblivion and let them decide for me what should be done next. I just want to get some peace. "Mr. Mulder, open your eyes. Come on. You can do it." I don't want to. "Mr. Mulder?" I groan slightly and blink, and squint at them. There are at least four people in the small E.R. examination room. They lift me off the gurney onto a more comfortable bed. Nurses are busy stripping me of my pants. Hey, go easy on them. They leave my boxers on. "A Foley?" someone asks. "No," the doctor reacts before I can. "He's already coming to. The damage seems to be kept to a minimum." The light still shines in my eyes, but the doctor is slowly withdrawing her hand. "Mr. Mulder, any idea where you are?" "No." I have difficulty recalling anything really. I remember something: a ledge, a fight, Scully falling, holding onto my hands, crying out for me. "Scully?" "What, Mr. Mulder?" "Scully where is Scully?" My voice becomes panicky. I struggle to get away from them. Why are they holding me? I don't want to stay here. I need to find her, and the man that did this to her. "Mr. Mulder, easy!" "Is she dead?" I ask disturbed. "Is she gone?" "Who is Scully, sir?" "My partner. She was there. She fell. You have to find her, she might still be alive!" "You were alone, sir. Did she have an accident too?" "Off the ledge," I say heavily, dizzying from the effort. Strong hands still hold me down. "She fell ... off the ledge." "You were in a car accident, sir, right here in Red Town. Remember?" I stare at the doctor. "Red Town?" "Yes." Something tells me I'm in trouble. I can feel it, but I cannot react. I'm too tired. I just want to sleep. Please, someone let me sleep. Let me forget. Somehow, Dr. Mathis seems to understand. She takes my hand in hers and strokes my face. She's gentle. I wish I could crawl inside her mind and see what she is thinking. She's beautiful. She reminds me of Scully. Scully. I feel a knot in my stomach and my throat feels glued up. Oh please, don't let all of this be true. Let it be a dream. I have to remember something! "We'll take care of you, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Mathis says. "I promise." I feel sick. "Breathe in and out. You can do it." With that, I close my eyes, allowing my mind to sink back into oblivion for the time being. I need the rest, obviously. Before I sleep, I wonder how long it's been since I had any proper sleep. It feels like forever. Even though I think I have slept for hours in a row or at least it feels that way I've only been out of it for a mere few minutes. I'm still in the same E.R. and they are still working on stabilising my vitals. I'm shirtless and strapped to various machines. My head still throbs. I've got an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. "Welcome back, Mr. Mulder." Dr. Mathis is still here. She hovers over me and is washing the wound on my face. It stings. One of the nurses has left, but the others remained. I guess they don't have much to do here. She removes the mask and find I can breathe easier than before. "How are you feeling?" she asks. "Better," I say hoarsely. "Am I going to live?" She smiles. "Of course." "Good. I'd hate to miss Oprah." "I promise you you'll be home safe and sound before that. By the looks of it, you'll be out of here in a few days." "That long?" "I'm afraid so. We have to make sure your loss of consciousness is linked to your accident, and not due to a possible concussion. We took some X-Rays and would like to do a scan later to be on the safe side. Is there anyone I can contact for you?" I think that over. The only one I can think of is Skinner, but he's not in town. I'm alone here. I know painfully well that Scully is gone. "No," I finally say. "No relatives?" "They're gone." "You're an FBI-agent, aren't you? I think we should call your head office." "No," I say hastily. "I'm on vacation. I don't want to disturb them." "Oh. Okay." I can tell one of the nurses is going through my personal items. I have a needle sticking in my vein in one arm and see an IV-bag drip emptying into it. My breathing is more relaxed now, but my brain tries to figure out what's going on. I need to know why I have difficulty remembering anything, and why it feels like such a long time ago since I last saw Scully, while my brain tells me that I should have seen her yesterday. I see the doctor and nurse discuss something. They glare at me. Another nurse continues preparing the wound on my forehead for stitching. I look at her hands and wish I were out of it again, so I wouldn't be a witness to the damage-repair, which I hate. Dr. Mathis returns to my bedside. "Sir, do you know what anterogade amnesia is?" I don't have to think about that one. "Yeah," I say. "I do." "Is this your handwriting?" She shows me a note. "Yeah," I confirm. They look at each other momentarily and it suddenly all fits together. I finally acknowledge the details that force me to sink back into a grey, gruesome reality. "What day is it?" I hear myself ask wearily. "June 15, 2003." I hold my breath. Scully died a week ago, suddenly aware that I don't recall anything since. I don't even recall getting up this morning and having breakfast. I might have done anything. I might have killed someone, or had the best sex ever. Or watched the best porn DVD. Or gone into some bar and danced naked on the tables. Get blasted and forget my sorrows. Anything. "I think I have it," I say slowly, looking at the doctor as tears suddenly spring up in my eyes. I'm angry at myself for feeling so damned weak and vulnerable. I must be stronger than this. I can't imagine having done nothing over the past week. I know that Dr. Marshall came from this town. I remember that from his file. I probably have it somewhere near me. I should be looking for him. I rise up and try to shrug off the nurse's hands. "I have to go." An intense urgency builds up in me, warning me not everything is, as it seems. I have this sensation within me, telling me I'm on the run for someone, or something. I should not be here. This is not where I was headed. "Forget it," Dr. Mathis says firmly. "You're not going anywhere. You need to be checked out thoroughly. You seem very tired, Mr. Mulder. Have you slept properly lately?" "I don't remember," I reply wryly. "Oh, I'm sorry." She looks at me intrigued, fascinated by my replies, not doubting me for one second. I see more in her eyes: an interest that tells me I'm more than just another patient to her. Or perhaps she's just this caring for everyone. "I've never had anyone in here with this type of amnesia before. Would you mind terribly if we did some tests? Just to be on the safe side, and to make doubly sure that there isn't another reason for your memory loss." "I remember everything up until a week ago," I respond tiredly. "I don't recall what I did an hour ago, let alone yesterday. I received a heavy blow to the head. I wrote that note myself. Does that tell you enough?" "You're from D.C.," she says. "Let me check it out for you. I'm sure there is a medical file on your condition that might be of use to us. Have you talked to a psychologist about this?" "I don't remember." She smiles reassuringly. "Do you have anything else on you that might help us?" I point slowly at my belongings. "That is all I had with me. I don't even know what's in that bag." I see that the other people in the room are becoming fascinated by my replies. They must believe me, I gather from their openly curious glares. Dr. Mathis nods. "Let me discuss this with a colleague, Dr. Morgan. He is our neurologist. I'll bring him up to speed." "Sure." "Just relax, Mr. Mulder. We will take care of you." I have no other choice, do I? I close my eyes as they work on my forehead, stitching up the deep gash. I ignore the horrible headache that is becoming a throbbing reminder of my current situation. I need shelter. I wait patiently while Dr. Mathis stitches up my forehead. She's eager to talk to me, to get a grip on the situation. "Are you certain I can't call anyone for you?" she asks. "From the looks of it, I'm an unemployed agent," I reply dryly. "I cannot imagine they would keep someone with my memory disability in their service." "You might be on sick leave. Besides, a condition like this can be overcome, Mr. Mulder. Surely there are ways to aid you." "How?" I ask as our eyes meet. "What I do know of this type of amnesia is that it's for life. It is irreversible." She looks into my eyes sympathetically. Her voice sounds sensual when she speaks again. "I wish I could make you remember me then. It will be a shame to see you again, while you won't even know who I am." "The story of my life," I quip. "Or so I think." It feels good to touch another human being, even though she's doing all the touching. I am fairly certain that I am very lonely at this moment, and need a bit of shelter and security. Her hand strokes my face gently. Strange emotions within me warn me not to go any further. I cannot do this, not now. I close my eyes and wait until she is finished. She seems disappointed and finishes up quickly. "Voil," she says. "We'll move you to a private room shortly." "Thank you. For everything." She seems surprised that I would say that. She nods, understanding that I'm grateful she believed me. Funny isn't it, how you can sense certain things? I'm fairly certain I've had to struggle to make other people believe in my condition. It's just a hunch I have. Or maybe it's because I know what it's like not to be believed. I wake up confused and glance around in the room. I am not in the E.R. anymore but in a private room. Strange, have I slept? I recall what happened. I woke up and Dr. Mathis told me I was suffering from memory loss. Anterogade amnesia. Ah yes, the condition that renders you oblivious to the obvious. A shadow inside the room startles me. I turn my head too fast and groan, experiencing a sharp twist of pain. "Easy does it, Mulder," a voice that I know very well, says. It's Walter S. Skinner, my boss and friend. I look at him. He smiles nervously as he approaches the bed. "What are you doing here?" I ask confused. "I'm staying here in town," he explains, "but I'm not certain if you recall our previous meeting. I'm in the same hotel you're in. I arrived last night, looking for you." "Why?" "Because I want to take you back home, Mulder." "Home?" I ask. "Why?" "You're very sick and you don't even know it." "Yes, I do. I have this condition called " "Anterogade amnesia. I know. I know the details of it. But what I don't understand, is how you got it." "I received a blow to the head. It's the last thing I recall." "Is it really?" "Yeah, of course. I'm not making this up, sir." "I know you aren't. But you don't know the full story. It's not the blow to the head that caused this, Mulder. It's something else." I open my mouth to protest. "Mulder, hear me out." Skinner shoves a chair nearer my bed. I'm dressed in a hospital gown that probably shows off my naked ass when I move. Oh wait, I still have my boxers on. "What?" I ask tiredly. "You've been on the road for nearly a week. I've been chasing you ever since, following you to your apartment, through D.C., to Vegas and finally here. I took a week off for this, because I didn't want anyone to know you were in such deep trouble." I stare at him fascinated now. "What do you mean by that? Surely they know that I have this condition." "No, only the doctors do. I have protected you from the bureau since since the blow to you head. Mulder, I have tried to tell you this over and over again. This thing what you have is not what it seems. It's different. I know you remember Scully falling; but that's not the end of the story, is it? You've been searching for the truth by yourself, while all this time it was not what it seems. I just want you to know everything, even though I'm not sure you're capable, and able in your current condition to accept that. It's a risk I have to take, before I persuade you to come back to D.C. with me where you can receive proper treatment." "Lock me up in the crazy bin, you mean?" I react bitterly. "What else is there left for people like me?" "No," he speaks tiredly, rubbing his face. "That's what I have told you three times now, and every time something comes in between us, preventing me from taking you home. However I do need to take you home, Mulder, so you can see it for yourself. It's the only way you will ever believe me." "What is it then that you want to tell me, or show me?" Skinner shoves his chair backwards and walks to the closet where my clothes lay. "I want to show you, and we don't have much time. You need to trust me." "I won't be able to trust you when I lose my memory again," I say. "How can you expect me to stay with you then?" "If needs be, I'll cuff you to me so you can't walk out. I'll do anything it takes to help you." "You can help me find Marshall." He looks at me seriously. "Mulder, Dr. Marshall is dead. He has been for nearly a week." "He's not!" I say angrily. "He can't be. I'm here because of him." "Mulder, not everything is as you believe. You have to trust me." "Why should I? You sent us out there in the first place. You misjudged your friend. You allowed us to walk into the lion's den." "And I've hated myself for it every day since. That doesn't change reality." "Reality is that our lives are over, sir." "No, they're not. You have everything left to look forward to." "You don't know what it's like!" I explode, interrupting him. "I expect to Scully walk through that door at any minute. I experience her death as if it happened yesterday. I will never forget it. It will forever be there." "Let me " "No, you can't do anything for me. Why should I put my life into your hands?" "I am your friend." "You're nothing to me," I reply bitterly. "Nothing!" "Mulder " The door abruptly flings open, startling the both of us. Dr. Mathis approaches the bed, smiling as she pats my hand. "Agent Mulder," she says and then nods towards Skinner. "I see you have company. I was wondering if I can talk to you alone for a moment. My colleague is very interested in your condition, and offered to take some special X-Rays of your head to see if the trauma is truly irreversible." I glare at Skinner. He is clearly frustrated. "I need to " "Later," I say coolly, having made my decision not to respond to his persuasions. "Sure," he finally agrees reluctantly. There's a strange hurt look in his eyes. He doesn't understand it, does he? He has no idea why I don't let him help me. I can't trust him when I can't even trust myself. This fear that lives and breathes within me is stronger than anything I've ever experienced. I don't say another word and wait until he reluctantly leaves the room. "I'll come back later," he says. "I'll call your hotel and let them know." As soon as he walks out, I turn to the doctor and say, "I'm very tired. Would you mind doing those tests later? I have a splitting headache." "Of course," she says. "I'll arrange for your consent papers. I'll get you down to X-Ray and for a CT-scan later." "Thanks." She smiles. "Anything I can do, just ask." "Thank you, I appreciate that." She nods and leaves me alone. I know I should just get up, fetch my clothes and get the hell out of here, but I'm tired. Make that exhausted. I have to take a little nap first.., and then I'll be gone. Just a little nap ... Intermezzo June 15 Scully, with you is where I've got to be. There's no other place in this world for me. I wish I could turn back time, and make you complete again, alive and well. I wish we'd never listened to Skinner's request to investigate that damned case. I pray every single moment now that we never met Dr. Marshall. It is wishing for hope that will never be fulfilled. You are everything to me, and I am nothing to you anymore. You don't get to turn back time, Scully. That does not happen. No matter how many things we've seen together, the hope relinquishes with every thought. I wish I were dead. Chapter seven: "You fucked my wife once. Don't think you'll be fucking her again!" He's here. I can feel it in my bones. I might not remember where I'm heading but I can sense he's near. His presence is so obvious it makes me want to flee right now. I don't know why. "Are you okay?" she asks. I turn my head and stare at the dark-haired woman who smiles nervously at me. I am sitting at a bar sipping a cup of coffee. She's poured it for me, obviously, because she's still holding the jar. I blink my eyelids and am in awe at her beauty. She is tall, slim and doesn't fit the bill of most of the waitresses I know. She looks like an actress who's pouring coffee and serving dinner to pay the bills, while she waits for her big break-through. Only, when I glare outside the window, I see nothing but dusty roads of a small town that doesn't resemble L.A. or New York whatsoever. She stands out here. "Yeah," I say slowly, noticing she is still waiting for a response. "I'm okay." "Can I get you anything else?" I think about that question. Then I smile. "I know this might sound like a weird question to you, but have I eaten anything yet?" She leans forward, glaring curious at me. Then she smiles. "Why do you ask?" "I'm just wondering." She hesitates and then says, "No, you haven't." "Can you get me something nice then?" "Steak and fries?" "Sure." She turns and I hear laughter as she walks into the back. I pat my stomach and glare at the plate standing on the counter not so far from me. I did already eat something. I shift off my chair and throw a ten-dollar bill on the counter. That should do for whatever I consumed here, I suppose. If not, I'm sure they'll find me. I walk outside and find my sunglasses in my leather jacket. It feels too hot for this time of year, and even in a place like this but I keep it on anyhow. I put on the glasses and stand still. Plenty of cars on the lot. Since I don't have a vehicle of my own, I'm likely to be driving a rental. But which one? I glare at the keys I have. Remote control. I push the button and a beige Mondeo standing at the far right flickers. I get inside, turn on the engine and wait while the air-conditioning sets in. It blows hot wind at first, and then starts cooling off quickly. I remain seated and flick through the papers and notes I have on me. Reality settles in quickly. I have a note that informs me, that I should meet with a woman called Janine Rhodes who lives on 44 Canal Street. Odd name for a street in a town like this. I have a map of the Red town with me. I'm currently at the border of town, not so far from the suburb where Miss or Mrs. Rhodes lives. A note scribbled in someone else's handwriting says: "Meet me at my home, 10.30 a.m. I have news." It's noon. I'm too late. Perhaps I've already been there, but I find no notes about it. Perhaps I should just drive there and ask her what's going on and why I was supposed to meet her. Slowly I drive through the streets until I find the right lane, pulling up and stopping before a beautiful house, standing in a row with other equally gorgeous buildings. Money-people, I think. I get out and walk the short driveway. I ring the doorbell three times. After a while, a Mexican housekeeper answers the door. "Seor," she says confused, "back again?" She speaks with a heavy accent. I hesitate, responding to my gut feeling that tells I've made a mistake. "Mrs. Rhodes?" I ask. The housekeeper shakes her head. "No, no, Seor, go now." She wants to close the door but is too late. A bulky man who's at least 6 foot 2, comes into the hallway and glares at me angrily. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he barks, "haven't you learned your lesson by now?" "I'm sorry," I say, "I'm looking for " "What, was one fuck not good enough for you? What the hell do you want from her now? I swore I would kill you, didn't I? You wouldn't listen, huh?" "Wait," I say, stepping backwards as I raise my hands. I realize quickly that I don't have my gun on me. I must have left it in that hotel I'm staying at. "This is a mix-up. I can't even remember coming here earlier. I have a rare condition that " "Bullshit," the bulky man spits. "You fucked my wife this morning. Now I'm going to fuck around with you." Before I can do anything else, he grabs me and pushes me so hard that I fall. My legs and feet lose their ground, and I feel my body falling backwards, onto the ground. I hit it hard. He's on top of me, startling me, strangling me, and much stronger than I am. Now his beefy hands are around my throat. I know he means serious business. Fuck, I can't breathe! My survival mode kicks in, and so does my foot. I kick out my leg hard and hit him in the balls with my knee. He groans, winces, cries out, and then releases me long enough for me to get a grip on the situation. I shove him backwards, but he comes right back at me, his hands swaying in the air for something to seize onto. He gets a hold on me again and we struggle on the driveway. I know I'll never win against a man his size in a fight. Desperation settles in. In the door a woman appears. She's sporting a black eye and plenty of bruises. "Mike, let go of him!" she screeches, "he didn't do anything!" Her cry startles her husband long enough for me to push him off me. I've no other choice but to get the hell out of there... fast. Without my weapon I'm helpless against 220 pounds of sturdy weight. "Get back inside!" Mike yells towards the mysterious Janine, whom I supposedly slept with. Too bad I can't remember if it's true. She's a beauty. Then I think of Scully and feel guilty at once for thinking that way. Not that Scully and I ever did the wild thing but how can I think about sex, when I am revenging her death? I rush towards the rental car and come to realize a few things instantly. One: I have been here before and obviously did something with that woman. Two: her husband didn't like it all and is pissed. Three: I should never come here again. Jot that down in your book, Mulder. Or better yet, rip the notes apart. I grasp the woman's message and tear up the note, and then throw the pieces out of the window as I tear off out of the road. I hear a howl coming from Mike who's being hit on the back by his wife's small fists. She obviously is not angry at me, but I feel fear grasp me by the throat. Did I really have sex with that woman? Or have I done anything to make her fall in love with me? Please, no. I glare in the mirror, hoping the husband is having to run after me like some Olympic athlete and is out of breath. Then I suddenly take the curve too fast. The next moment, it seems as if the car embraces the pole, that seems to come out of nowhere, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's as if the vehicle has a mind of its own and I just allow my body to go with the impact, lurching forward against the steering wheel that impacts my forehead, not to mention the airbag that exploded in my chest. I hear glass shatter and it's everywhere, hurting me; but as soon as my face collides with the wheel, I am out of there, and into a world where everyone is on his own. "Did you see that?" "Yeah, what a smack." "He's dead, surely." "No, he's not. He's moving." "How can he be alive? He wasn't wearing a seatbelt." A good guardian angel, I think." "Poor guy." "I called an ambulance, they'll be here soon." "Shouldn't we get him out?" "No, leave him. He might have broken something." "He's moving. He's coming out of it." "No, he's still unconscious." "No, look! He's stirring." I groan, annoyed by the voices I am aware of outside of the car. I can hear everything they say despite the closed windows. The engine is off. Someone get a hammer and finish the job. My head is exploding. It can't be difficult too kill me now, can it? "Sir, are you okay?" A tap on the window. The door opens. My face is directed towards the door, but I can't seem to open my eyes. They're glued shut tight. " I bet he has brain damage," the same obnoxious nasal female voice says. "Serves him right for going off like that." "Don't say that," the man growls. I finally manage to open my eyes; taking in the combination of blues, greens, yellows, blacks and whites that seem to form figures at long last. It takes a while for me to be able to make them out as humans. The woman turns out to be a short, scruffy creature, that doesn't seem to belong in this area at all. She looks like a housekeeper and probably is one, seeing as she's wearing the same kind of white shirt, menial staff usually wears. I know where I am, I recall taking off to escape Mad Mike, taking the curve and then losing control over the car; then I crashed into the telephone pole that seem to loom out of nowhere. Lovely. "Can you talk?" the man continues. He looks a lot gentler and friendlier. "What's your name?" I lift my head upwards a bit and regret it instantly. The man's voice shoots through me like thousands of knifes cutting through flesh. I groan deeply. "Stay put," he tells me. "You shouldn't be moving." I listen to what he says because it makes sense, and lower my head back down against the steering wheel. Yep, that feels a whole lot better. I just relax and wait until someone comes to help me. The help turns out to be both ambulance and cops. The paramedics seem pleased that I'm alert enough to tell them where it hurts. And boy, does it hurt. My arms, legs, head, chest and face everything seems to have impacted with the car's mechanical body. "Any neck pains?" the paramedic in charge asks. "No," I say. He seems content again. "I don't think the damage is too bad," he explains after palpating my abdomen. I don't wince when he goes to my belly area, scanning it with his expertise hands. My legs aren't broken either, neither are my arms, hands or feet. I'm doing all right, considering. "Can't you just help me out?" I groan, not wanting to go to any damn hospital. "No, we need to check you out thoroughly to see if you're suffering from a concussion, or other head trauma. You're alert, but sometimes the aftermath appears when you least expect it. We need to make sure." "Okay." They put a brace around my neck, and start lifting me carefully out of the car. Now I feel the pain's full impact. I groan and moan when I'm moved onto a gurney. To my right, I see plenty of onlookers standing and staring. Amongst them is the woman, Janine. She seems upset. I want to talk to her about this, but she turns and rushes off. I know that something is wrong with my memory, and I wonder if she will ever appear in my life again. I don't think so. I close my eyes when I'm strapped onto the gurney and moved inside the ambulance. "What's your name, sir?" the paramedic asks as he jots down notes. "Mulder." "That's a funny name." "How about Fox Mulder?" He grins painfully. "Okay, Mulder it is. You're not from around here, are you?" "D.C." "Can I take a look at your wallet?" "FBI," I groan as we start moving, and I am slightly shaken on the gurney. He startles. "So, we should contact your bosses then." "No, vacation." "Oh, okay. Anyone we can contact?" "No," I say. He dabs my forehead with a cloth. It stings. "Sorry, you have a huge gash there. I have to stop the bleeding." I don't say another word and experience the ride to hospital in silence, eventually passing out. It's better than staying awake, while I am being shaken back and forth inside the belly of the relatively old vehicle. I close my eyes pretending it's Scully sitting next to me. What I wouldn't give to feel her hand in mine right now; to hear her soothing voice telling me I am going to be all right. Hospital's a bitch, but bearable as long as she is there. I can just hear her voice as she says, "Mulder, what have you gotten yourself into now? Here you are, lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance taking you to a hospital in a strange town, because you ran away from some guy you don't even know. Explain this to me, if you will." Then I would go, "Scully, sometimes the truth lies in smaller things. I couldn't let this clue slip away from me, could I? What would you have done?" "Me?" she would respond. "I'd have found myself a great little spot in Florida to return to for the rest of my life. I would forget about the FBI, and just experience the little beauties of life over and over again. I would never get bored, because I would not remember what I did a few hours earlier anyhow." I smile. I think she actually would see the humour in the situation, but I can't. With that thought, I drift off to sleep. Intermezzo June 15 These are the advantages about losing your short-term memory, Scully: You get to see a drag of a movie and forget all the details, so it doesn't wrong in your stomach afterwards. You can go to a pub and drink, then go to another pub and drink again, and to another pub and yet drink again. You can have sex with the ugliest woman in the world and forget about it. You can have a lousy dinner, and not remember it. You will stay young forever. You get to enjoy the same beauty over and over again, and never get bored. With that in mind, I should probably be very content at my lack of recollection. What do you think, Scully? Am I going slowly insane, or becoming very realistic? To be continued