From: Humbuggie <san@sv-tales.com>
Date: 24 Jun 2003 17:25:01 -0700
Subject: xfc: I remember you 5/8
Source: atxc


Part 5

Chapter eight: "I want to help you. I like you. I like you a lot." 

I am leaving some hotel, walking towards a car that's unlocked. I
hold the keys. 
I blink my eyelids. A note in my hand: Anterogade amnesia. Reality
strikes. Thoughts settle in. Acceptance washes over me. 

Strange that this memory-loss thing just sets in when I'm walking.
Where am I going? 
A woman approaches my car. She's stunning, wearing a beautiful white
dress that clings to her every curve. She obviously has money; she
has diamonds that are worth more than my apartment on her neck, ears
and hands. 

I expect her to walk past, but she stops me. "Mr. Mulder," she says
anxiously, grasping my arm. "I'm glad you're here." 

I stare at her shocked. "Who are you?"

"Janine Rhodes. We met last night, remember?"

"No, I don't." I recall having her name on a note, including her
address and telephone number. She must have given that to me last
night too. I think I have a photo of her somewhere too. Her face looks
vaguely familiar. 

It's her turn to stare now. "So it's true what you said about your
condition?"

"What did I tell you?"

"You talked about some sort of wacky amnesia thing. I forgot what you
called it."

"Good enough," I say, raising my hand to stop her avalanche of words.
"What do you want?"

"I came to tell you about Marshall."

She has my attention. "Marshall?"

"Yeah, my former colleague. You came to me to talk about him,
remember? You were asking where he was, and when I last saw him. What
I knew about him."

"When did I approach you?"

"Yesterday. I called you earlier this morning, but you didn't answer
the phone. I thought I'd come over to see you. Look, why don't we go
to my place to talk?" She glanced around anxiously. "I don't want
people to know I gossip about Marshall."

"Are they afraid of him?"

She laughs. "Goodness, no. Marshall wouldn't hurt a fly."

"He killed my partner."

"So you said yesterday, but I still don't believe it."

"I was there. I saw it. It is the last thing I remember." 

She startles by my harsh voice. I am not in the mood to argue with a
woman about her vision or mine. I know what I saw and I know how to
deal with it. She doesn't. 
"Like I said," she speaks nervously, "I don't want to discuss it
here. Please, follow me to my house." 
"Sure." 

She drives a TT. I love those cars. The hood is down and the heat
wave must be blowing hot air into her face, yet she remains cool and
calm as she swerves around the roads. I have difficulty following her
in my rental Mondeo. She doesn't pay attention to me either, expecting
me to keep up. 

We drive into a wealthy neighbourhood, sporting mansions that could
shelter ten 'Kelly families'. Her house is one of the most exclusive
ones. Spanish style with round windows, white walls and an orange
roof. It could have been standing in Palm Springs. Yet it stood in
this little town that meant absolutely nothing, in the middle of
nowhere.

Welcome to Red Town, the sign had said, yet I already knew where I
was, thanks to her request that I came to talk to her about her
former colleague. Her name does not ring a bell though. I hope she'll
tell me more. 

I park my car on the driveway in front of the huge door. A Mexican
housekeeper opens it. 

"Seor, she greets me and nods slowly.

"Ice Tea, Maria," Janine Rhodes demands in an air of unfriendliness,
and saunters towards a large, cooled conservatory in the back, which
holds a few wooden benches and lots of plants. Wealth speaks again. I
can't help but be in awe. 

She doesn't ask me what I prefer to drink. Ice Tea is served
accompanied with caviar and olives. Strange combination. She carefully
spoons two scoops of caviar, before taking three olives and eating
them slowly. We sit together in silence for a long time. 

"What do you have to tell me?" I ask coolly. 

"I can tell you that Marshall hasn't been in town for over a month.
They say he's dead."

"Who says that?"

"A few friends of his I know, who saw him last week. He was involved
in a few killings, they said, or so the Feds claimed. They say he
panicked and attacked some FBI-agents."

"That's true."

"They said he didn't kill them."

"They were wrong." 

I look at her. "You were involved with him, weren't you? You were his
lover." 

She startles, glaring at me with the defeated guilty look of a woman
caught. Then she simply nods. "Yes, I was."

"Is that why I came to you yesterday?" 

"You found me by accident. You came to the hospital where he used to
work and we talked. I admitted to you that Marshall and I were very
good friends. Is it that obvious?"

"You defend him?" 

"I know him. Or I knew him. My husband of course does not suspect."

"Is he the only one?" 

She flushes a scarlet read. "Is that any of your business?" 

" No, It's not. Are you the reason why he left Red Town? The women he
killed resembled you." 

"I don't know." Her voice quivers. "Are you saying he wanted to kill
me?" 

"Perhaps." 

"He said he loved me but, I didn't love him back. How could I when I
am married to Mike? He is such a great husband, even though he loses
his patience now and then."

"So you had an affaire with John Marshall," I say slowly. "And he
left town. So why should I believe you're not hiding him now?"

" Because I'm not," she snaps harshly. "I swear." 

"I wish I could believe you," I say. "But I can't." 

"You have to. It's the truth! I wouldn't lie to you about it." 
"Were you his conspirator?"

"No!" Her protests persuaded me. "I didn't even know where he was! I
only heard from his friends about what he supposedly did. It wasn't
even in the newspapers, or on TV."

"I can't confirm that," I retort, "since I don't remember reading
anything."

She turns pale. "Look, yesterday I promised you I'd do my best to
find out if he were back in town. He isn't. You must have examined his
house and medical practice. He is dead. I can feel it to the bone.
Actually, I think that you killed him."

"No," I say, "I hope and pray that a part of me would allow me to
remember that."

"Your memory won't be selective."

I nod my head. "I'm afraid of that too."

She seems to feel sorry for me. She comes closer and puts her hand on
my shoulder. 

"I'm sorry," she says, digging her fingernails in my flesh. 

"About what?"

"Your loss. Your memories. You seem very lonely."

"Not lonely enough to be desperate," I throw back coldly. 

She winces. "Touch, Agent Mulder." 

I stand up. "I have to go. You're obviously of no help to me." 

"I can be."

"How?"

"I can check further. Give me a few more days."

"Perhaps I don't have those days."

She startles. "What do you mean?"

"I might disappear, like Marshall."

"That would be a shame of such a gorgeous man." 

I smile. "Your compliments don't change my opinion of you. Someone
who sleeps with a murderer like Marshall is not entitled to my support
or concern." 

"I didn't know he killed anyone."

"You should have sensed it."     

"You said yesterday that you're involved in serial killer cases. Do
you think everyone should know in advance they would murder one day?
In that case we would all be psychic." 

"Perhaps that's what I expect." 

I turn my back to her. Her hands stop me.

"Please," she says, "I need to discuss this with you. Do you think
Marshall suffered when he died?"

"I hope he did," I reply bitterly. "He deserved it."

"How can you say that?"

"How can I not?" 

"You don't sound like a law-enforcement officer. You should not be so
biased."

"I am biased," I admitted, "and with good reason." 

"Please, sit down again." 

I didn't want to, but this woman fascinated me. She had that
vulnerable streak about her of a widow, just losing her husband. She
needed help, perhaps as much as I did, but how could I trust her, when
she might know what truly happened to the man whom she claimed she
only liked, not loved? She had to love him, seeing that spark in her
eyes that betrayed one's affection. 

"I wish you would have known John before all of this," she spoke
quietly, sipping her tea with the fast-melting ice cubes in it. "He
was such a nice man." 

"I bet he was," I sneer. 

"It's true. He only changed because his bitchy ex would not let him
go easily. She sucked him dry: took his money, his car, his house and
most of his friends. He had to start from scratch. That's when we
became involved. He needed me." 

"That didn't do him much good, did it?" I can't help myself from
treating this woman so angrily. I hold her partially responsible for
my pain. She is the catalyst for Marshall's conflicts, the reason why
he went berserk and killed four women. I will always regret the day I
became the profiler on this case. 

"I had no choice but to break it off!" she nearly cries out. "Don't
you see?" 

"I see that your husband pays for this lovely house and you didn't
want to leave everything behind you." She nods quietly. "If you think
your charms will work on anyone, you're mistaken."

"I'm lonely, Agent Mulder," she whispers. Once again she moves nearer
and her hands start caressing my chest. "Don't you see how hurt I
am?"

I grasp her hand, pulling it away from me. She winces. "Leave it
alone."

"I need someone to help me."

"Go to a shrink."

"Please!" 

"Go to hell." 

I push her away, get up and force myself to stay calm. I'm not going
to be lured into her trap. Not when my body fights to resist the
natural urges of being in the presence of a beautiful woman. My
partner is dead, for god's sake!

She clings onto me and I see tears in her eyes. 

"Leave me alone," I grunt, getting up from the wooden bench. 
I turn my back and walk away from her, heading towards the front
entrance of the house. She rushes after me. "Don't leave me alone!
Mike is suspecting something. He thinks I'm fucking around." 

"Well he's right, isn't he?"

"There hasn't been anyone since Marshall, but I need a man, Agent
Mulder. Someone who understands me."

I turn around coldly. "If you're right about me, I killed your lover.
Do you want to think about that that when you fuck me?" 

"I don't care!" she almost screeches. 

I am in total bewildered by this wacky woman. "I do," I reply
bluntly. "I don't want to be inside of a woman, whose had my partner's
murderer inside of her." 

She lets go of me. "Go then," she sneers angrily. "I don't want you
in my house!"

"You invited me in the first place."

"Only because I thought you'd understand."

"I never will." 

"Then fuck off." 
I smile sarcastically. " Don't worry, I will." 

I am still heading towards the front door when it suddenly opens with
a bang, and there is  without a doubt  her husband, staring furiously
at his wife and me.

"I knew you were screwing around!" he yells in a deep voice that
matches his bulky, athletically trained body. He doesn't look like a
successful businessman at all. He wears a top, jeans and more gold
than the Queen of Sheba. With her diamonds and his gold, they are
probably worth a couple of million together. I wonder where he gets
his cash. 

"Don't be ridiculous," she screeches behind me. "This man is an
FBI-agent."

"Oh, is that so? You went to his damned motel. You fucked him there,
didn't you? And then you came back here."

I want to show him my gun and badge, only to realize I have neither
on me. I curse silently; angry at myself for leaving wherever I'm
staying unarmed. 

"Look," I say, raising my hands. "I am an FBI-agent. I came to talk
to your wife about a case I am working on."

"Spare me the sordid details, I know all about her affair with
Marshall." Mike turns towards Janine. "Or did you think I was blind.
I sent a PI after you. I've known for months, and then I beat the crap
out of Marshall. Why did you think he left Red Town so hastily?" 

"It was you?" Janine cries out. "You bastard! All this time I thought
I had driven him away. How dare you do this to me?"

"And how dare you keep living on my money while screwing half the
town? Yes, I know about Roddy Williams too, and Steven Stegall. You're
a beauty, Janine, but you don't have a brain in that empty skull of
yours."

I'd feel like laughing out loud, if it had it not been for the fact
that Janine's hubby was one pissed off dude who could squash me like a
gnat with one hand. Time to go.

"Look," I say calmly, "I have what I came for. Thanks for your time.
You two should really get some counselling." 

He grabs me when I walk past him. "I'm not finished with you yet!"

"Yes, you are." I stare straight into his eyes. He seems worried for
a second. Then he grunts. "If I find out you've been doing my wife,
I'll kill you."
He lets go. 

"Good luck," I say coldly. 

I'm at the door. "And don't you ever come back here, or I'll mash
that face of yours!"

"You and what team?" I mumble, nodding at the housekeeper who's
obviously not happy with me. As soon as she closes the door behind me,
I hear their loud voices competing. The heated argument can be heard
miles away. 

I get into my car and drive off. 

Four blocks down, I stop at a bar. I lock the car and walk in. I am
in need of something strong.

"Coffee," I order, "as black as you have it. And can I see a menu
please? I'm starved."
The attractive waitress smiles appreciatively, as she passes me both
my coffee and the very large menu. I order a main meal, another coffee
and ask for half a litre of water too. She keeps on staring at me,
however I've had enough of beautiful women for one day. I grab a
newspaper and start scanning it, ignoring every move she makes. 

Then I try to enjoy my meal, wondering where I should go next, and
what I should do. My thoughts go over the photo I have of Skinner.
"He knows." It keeps on crossing my mind. What does Skinner know? And
why would I have such a recent photo of him on me? I don't know.
Perhaps it's time to find out. 

"Anything else?" the waitress asks. 

I look up at her. "You don't want me near you," I say. "I'm
destructive, and sick." 

"You look like a perfectly fit masculine type to me, she retorts. 

"I have this condition," I say. "In a few moments you won't even have
existed for me." 
She seems to know then, who I am. Perhaps word has gotten around in
this town. I don't know. 
She leans forward and our lips touch for a long moment. She closes
her eyes, but I don't. Her taste is sweet, her perfume overwhelming.
When she moves backwards, her boss is watching us angrily. 

"I'm sure you will remember that," she smiles confidently. 

I look into her eyes. "Wanna bet?" 

And it seems as if the world, if only for one long second, turns
completely black. 


Intermezzo
June 15

Everything feels unreal.  

Breathing, dressing, walking, talking, eating, drinking ... living. 
Every day normal tasks become unimportant. Shaving: who cares about a
stubbled chin? Clean clothes: to who does it really matter now?
Eating: why should I spend much money, when I don't recall what I've
had? 

It should not have to matter, but it does.

Nothing should matter when I need to find the one who killed you,
Scully. Nothing seems important. Nothing should feel this unreal.

I don't care about anything, Scully. 

Fuck this world. Fuck the people in it. Fuck the universe. Fuck the
alien conspiracy and the date that may or may not have set. 

Fuck everything. 

Fuck me. 


Chapter nine: The truth written down on a piece of paper

I look outside, through the dirty window that befits the rest of this
hotel room. This place totally sucks. It is dreary, cold and very
disturbing. 

I should not be here.

I ache to be home, with the woman that I care for. She may not have
been my sexual partner, but she was everything else to me. My reasons
for continuing the X-Files, accepting humiliation and many defeats,
working against people's wishes and fighting for what I believed in so
badly.

She may not have agreed in my faith, but at least she was always
there. 

I told her once that she saved me over and over again.

Then why did it have to end this way? Why have our lives been so
utterly destroyed? 

I'm wrong. I do deserve to be here. I have earned the right to spend
the rest of my life in grubby places. I am not entitled to my
apartment, my job or even my life.

I deserve purgatory.

I saw Marshall coming that night. I reacted too slowly, and when she
slid down that ledge, he stood there, watched and laughed when our
fingers disconnected and her body lost control over its moves. 

He laughed when she careened down that hill. He enjoyed his victory. 

Who am I now really? 

Who was I the past week? 

I know that nothing will ever been the same. I suffer from grave
headaches and have to take meds for them. I know that nothing I do
let keep lasting memories in my subconsciousness. 

Nothing I've ever done before, has ever lead me close to this
desolation. This is the darkest world I have ever encountered, ever
been exposed to. I need someone to get me out, to free me from the
despair, the aches and hunger for peace. 

How can I ever be at ease with myself, when nothing I do will ever
change the past? 
Every morning I will wake up hating Marshall and regretting the
injustice to Scully. Every hour of the day, every moment when my
memory switches forward in its vicious circle, I will remember her. 

She has cast an everlasting recollection inside of me. 

I may not always have liked her. 

At times I hated her, but I have always needed her. 

Her abduction left me alone and hurt, dazed and suicidal. Her cancer
forever destroyed our self-assurances, that we were mightier than
life itself. We were forced to reconcile with the fact that our luck
too, would some day come to an end.

The deaths of those loved ones close to us, were destructive, hard
and downright horrific. My encounter with alien technology, and my
manic ability to read other people's minds was nothing compared to
this. At least then, I heard her. 
Now, I hear nothing. 

Please. If there is a god out there, release me from this pain. 

Free me from the past. 

Allow me to move forward into the future. 
Grant me some peace.
Do something. 
Nothing. 
Or everything. 


I step into an extremely hot shower and don't even wince when the hot
water stabs at my skin. I think I might have taken another shower
last night, but don't recall it. I smell fresh, after some good
deodorant and nice shampoo. 
They are familiar scents, telling me I have the same items in the
bag, I'm used to carrying. 

I just don't shave this morning. I don't feel the need to, and when I
look into the mirror, I refuse to read the pain my own eyes. The bags
underneath them show how badly I sleep. Perhaps I haven't slept for a
long time. 

Strange, isn't it, how the human body takes over the controls once
the mind no longer cares. My stomach tells me I'm hungry, my feet tell
me that I did a lot of walking yesterday, and my head betrays my
suffering from mind-numbing headaches and urges me I should take
another pill. 

It's nine a.m. and already it feels as if I have lived an entire day.
Strange, that something's nagging in the back of my head. I wonder
what it is. I glare at the photos on the bed. One of them seems very
new; not even wrinkled or torn like the others, which have obviously
all been handled a lot. 

Skinner's face is on it. I take it in my hands and walk back to the
window to look outside. I hold the photo up and study it. That photo
has been taken from this very window, as he walked past the pool, away
from me. It's a bit blurry. Skinner obviously looked straight into
the camera, and didn't seem pleased. 

With a black pen  the one lying next to the phone  I have scribbled,
"He knows", on it. I wonder what I meant by that? It could only mean
one thing surely. The truth is out there, Scully, and it's a bitch. It
comes in the form of Assistant-Director Walter Sergei Skinner, who
followed me into this town to prevent me from killing John Marshall.

I'm sure Skinner would not want me to kill off his old army buddy,
especially when they had so much in common in the past. Is that
really why he's here? 

Why else?

Surely he doesn't care about the agent who killed off his own
partner. He would be pleased to get rid of me, as would the Bureau.
However, I still have my badge and gun. They're lying on the bed. I'm
armed and protected as if I'm an FBI-agent investigating a case. What
did I do? Take off like a thief in the night? 

A file lies on the bed also. It's Marshall's. I know it by heart. It
has all the gory details of this man's past in it. I find a piece of
paper that has a woman's address on it. Janine Rhodes. Dr. Rhodes, my
notepad tells me, was one of the colleagues Marshall worked closely
with during his time here.

She must be able to tell me something. 

If my mind allows me, I'll look her up. 

I am close to the truth. I feel it. 


A knock on the door pulls me out of my stupor. I throw a towel over
my gun and open the door. Clad in white shirt and jeans, barefoot, a
petite redhead, who resembles Scully so much it makes me wince,
stands nonchalantly before my door. She chews gum as if her life
depends on it. Her red hair is cut in a bob that dance around her
ears. She has lots of piercing and a few tattoos. Her fierce blue eyes
are surrounded by heavy eyeliner and lots of mascara. Red, full lips
and an uneven nose make her complete.
No, she is not like Scully at all yet there is something in that face
of hers. It's the eyes. 

"What?" I ask, turning my head from her. 

She blows a bubble. "You don't know me, do you?" The bubble pops.
"No." 

"I'm the receptionist? Well, one of them. I worked the night shift
today. You asked me two days ago, to look out for some bald guy who
might be looking for you."

"I've been here two days?"

"Sure." She smiles as if remembering a joke. "My boss tried to sell
you two rooms so you would pay double, but you figured it out. He
still thinks you're a fruitcake though."

"He's probably right. So what do you want?"

"The bald guy is here," she says, stretching her hand with the palm
up. "I'd like to get paid for what I am telling you."

"How much did I promise you?"

"Fifty bucks."

I laugh. "I never offer more than twenty. I'm certain of that."

She smiles. "You're right. So you're not so crazy after all?" 

"Who knows," I shrug, slapping a twenty in her hand. "What do you
know?"

"He's staying in this hotel. Room 110, across the pool. He didn't use
his FBI-credentials to book a room. He asked for you."

"What did you tell him?"

"I lied at first, but he expected that. He talked about obstruction
of justice and all that crap." 

"So?"

"So I gave him your room number. Sorry." 

I shrug. "He probably knew anyhow. Give me that twenty back."

"Why?" she asks defensively.

"I'm not going to take it, I'll exchange it for something better."
Reluctantly she gives it back. 

I take a fifty and rip it in half. "Hey!" she cries.

I give her half of it. "I'll hand you the rest tomorrow if you keep
another eye out for me. I want you keep a lookout for more
FBI-agents. Find out if they're coming to arrest me, or take me
away."

She pales. "You're in serious shit, aren't you?"

I laugh. "I don't know."

"Okay," she shrugs. "When do I get the rest?"

"Tomorrow. Just tell me I promised you a hundred. I'll probably be
stupid enough to give to you." 

She laughs. "Sure."

"Cya."  I close the door and sit on the bed. 

Why? I ask myself.
Why did I write that on Skinner's photo? 
Thinking about it drives me mad. 

Make notes, Mulder. Gather everything you have and jot it down. It
all helps. 

I tear off a large piece of paper and start juggling with the facts,
as I know them.

Fact: Skinner is in room 110 of this hotel. He didn't tell them he
was FBI. 
Fact: Skinner was probably in here. I took a photo of him when he
left and wrote down, "He knows." 
Fact: Scully was murdered by John Marshall who lived in this town,
before he moved shop and slashed four women.
Fact: Marshall had an accomplice who hit me over the head, destroying
my short-term memory. 
Fact: I have been in this town for two days, probably looking for
Marshall.
Fact: I am partly responsible for Scully's death too.
Fact: I have most likely spoken to Janine Rhodes already. 
Fact: Marshall was a medical doctor and a friend of Skinner's during
'Nam'.
Fact: I don't trust Skinner. 

What I don't know:
Am I here to kill Marshall or to find his accomplice?
Is Marshall really dead?
Will I ever regain my memory-abilities?
Who have I met so far?
What do I really know? 
Why am I really here? 

I stare at the bottle of pills lying lonely on the bed and swallow
one, downing warm water from a glass that I found lingering on the
small table. This room is a total mess. I've been sloppy and totally
messed up. 

I get up and accidentally drop the paper on the ground. 

"Damn it," I mutter as the sheet slivers underneath the bed. I crawl
on my knees and lift the bedspread. There are two papers on the
ground. I pick them both up.
I do not write one of them, but I know that handwriting. It's
Skinner's.


I sit down on the floor. My legs would not be able to hold me much
longer anyhow. I stare at the paper for seconds, rereading everything
that's on it. 

I don't remember a single word of what he's ever told me about John
Marshall  nothing said after June 8th, that is. I've spoken to him
several times, according to this note. I have been in search for
help, consolidation, aid and reassurance. 
I haven't found it. 

I bite my lip as I stare at those words. They are burned for a few
moments inside that faulty memory of mine, yet I know I will forget
them. This can't be an old paper. Perhaps Skinner left it for me to
read.
I probably shoved it underneath the bed deliberately. I hold it next
to the notes I jotted down for myself. 

No, if this is true, I cannot stand it. I can't!
Nothing makes sense anymore.

I feel tears streaming down my cheeks. I need to get to Skinner. I
need to talk to him about this. I need to ask him the truth. If this
is real, then there's hope.
There must be!

Oh god. 

I drop both papers on the ground and they slide partially underneath
the bed again. Hell, I'll pick them up later. I just need to get out
of here, and to find the man who can help me. He's in room 110. 

I leave everything here in my room- and car keys that are in my
pockets. I stuffed the photos and notes in my arms. Gotta talk to
Skinner now, before I lose all memory again. Don't have much time.

I'm almost panicking as I jog towards the swimming pool. The other
building is next to the reception area, near the parking lot. 

"Mr. Mulder!" An old man greets me from his small balcony below his
room on the first floor. His cry disturbs me. I look up. 

"Yes?"

"How are you doing this morning? Everything okay? Did you get your
memory back yet?" 
I ignore the old man and carry on walking, passing the reception area
and heading towards the stairs leading to the first floor. Skinner is
there.
I need. To. Talk. 

About Scully.

Yeah, Scully. 

He told me things about Scully. 

I stop when black flashes across my mind. The sunlight hurts my eyes.
My feet don't want to move anymore. I don't know where I'm heading.
I look towards the parking lot. An Audi TT stops on the lot. A
beautiful woman steps out. Like any man would, I glare. 

Ah yes. I was heading towards the boring beige Mondeo, wasn't I? I
must have been. The keys are in my pocket. 

I unlock the so-obvious FBI-rental car with the remote and walk
towards it. 

Intermezzo
June 15

Do you know what it's like not to know if it's daytime or night,
Scully? Sometimes I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, and I don't
know the hour because I don't have an alarm clock. I switch on the
lights then, and glare at my watch. It tells me it's only four a.m. ,
yet I already feel very much alert and awake.

I don't know how to fill the hours now, because there are no hours to
fill.
There is darkness, emptiness and a whole lot of nothingness.
Repeat. Fade. Repeat. Fade. 
What a life I have, hey Scully?
Death is better than this. 

Perhaps I should just take all those pills at the same time, and
drown myself in them. I'm sure they'll kill me. They should. There are
enough of them.


Chapter ten: "This is the truth, Mulder. Accept it, or fade away." 

I dream. 

In a different world I'm a free man enjoying his life.
I have parents who love me, a sister who grew up to become a strong,
levelheaded, charming woman, and a wife that cares for me.

I have Scully. 

Sometimes she's my wife. Usually she isn't. She is my best friend.
I'm in awe of her talent and beauty, her wit and self-respect. She is
kind and friendly, laughs and jokes, and snaps her latex when she's
examining the body of a man who died of gunshot wounds. There never
was an X-Files. We are FBI-agents working on rough ordinary cases,
but supported by the ones we love. 

Often I think I am a professor giving psychology classes in Oxford.
My students adore me. The girls make passes at me, and I wink at them
behind my reading glasses. 

I have two children: a boy and a girl. They are the spitting image of
Sam and I. They like soccer and tennis. She's a good player. 

They are such beauties. 

In another world I'm a free, careless man whose greatest worry is
what he's going to get for dinner that night. 

The dreams always turn nasty of course. Empty, hollow and useless. 

Reality is a bitch. My mind is being fucked with big time. 

Sharp knocks on the door startle me. 

I don't know where or when I am. I open my eyes tiredly and wait for
a moment, hoping the knock was someone's mistake. 

It isn't. 


More knocking. 

I groan deeply, turn my head and body at the same time, staring at
the door of my nameless hotel room. It's not the best one I've been
in. In fact, even the sheets smell damp and used.

I grunt, forcing myself to roll out of bed. With a heavy head, I open
the door while rubbing my eyes. I'm clad only in black boxer shorts
but don't give a damn if anyone can see me like this. They shouldn't
be knocking on my door at - let's see  Seven bloody AM. 

My sleep deprivation is soon forgotten, when I spot Skinner standing
there.

"Are you crazy?" I groan, stepping aside to allow him access. He
seems surprised by this gesture of mine. "It's barely morning."

"I was afraid you'd be gone by now. I needed to catch you sooner."

"For what? Isn't this anything that can wait?"

"No. Mulder, do you know where you are?"

I sit on the bed and force the cobwebs from my mind. "No," I finally
admit. 

"Mulder, you are very sick. You need help. I came to take you home."

I look at him as if he has gone mad. "Where's Scully?" I ask.

He stares at me. "Mulder, you are in Red Town. You came here to track
down Marshall and kill him. Do you recall any of that?"

Finally my mind seems to retrieve some of its recollections. Some. 

"No." 

"You are suffering from anterogade amnesia." Skinner's eyes scan the
room until he finds something he's looking for. "Check your notes.
You've had to trust them for a couple of days now. It's June 15
today, Mulder. I flew into Vegas last night and drove up here to get
you back. I've had a hard time tracking you down."

"What for? To stop me from killing Marshall?" I say slowly. "You
won't be able to stop me."

Skinner pulled open the curtains, allowing fierce daylight to bleach
into the room. I'm blinded by it and wince. I feel like someone who
emptied the bar last night. Nausea creeps up my throat. A puking
session doesn't sound so bad right now. 
Skinner won't allow me that though.

"We don't have much time," he speaks hastily.

"Time for what?"

"I have to take you back."

"Back where?"

"Get your things together. We need to move."

"Wait a minute," I grunt. "Just wait a second. Let me think."

"We're fighting the clock, Mulder," Skinner explains. "Please, trust
me."

"No. I won't go anywhere until you tell me what you want." 
He sighs and glances at his watch. I have never seen him this
nervous. "You'd better sit down for this." 

I open and close my mouth. I'm already sitting, startled by his
behaviour.

"One week ago," he starts, "you were ambushed by John Marshall. I
asked you to investigate a case of missing persons in his hometown.
They were all friends of his. He had affairs with two of them. The
other two were women he fancied. You figured that much out. You
profiled him. You drove up to the cabin he owns, but he wasn't
supposed to be there. You wanted to search for evidence and had a
search warrant with you." 

"But he was there," I say slowly. 

"Yes, he was."

"He came out unarmed," I continue. "He wanted to talk to us. He
allowed us inside to take a look around. When I was in one room and
Scully in the other, he hit her and dragged her outside. I couldn't
fire: he used her as a shield."

"Yes, and he dragged her to the edge of the cliff. She was struggling
for consciousness. Without giving it a second thought, he pushed her
over the edge. She fell, and clamped onto something. You shot
Marshall, but he was only wounded. He watched as you struggled to hold
onto Scully." 

"But he was not alone."

"There was a woman was by his side. She was his new lover. She hid in
the attic while you searched the house then she came outside. You
couldn't hold onto Scully. She slipped away from you. The woman
thought you were going to kill Marshall, and was fairly pissed at you.
She hit you over the head using a crystal vase. It struck you and
knocked you out for a while. You were unconscious. She took your gun
and was going to kill you, but you don't know that. You'd passed out.
I killed her before she could shoot you. I shot Marshall too, killing
him." 

I stare at Skinner.

"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask, incredulously. 

"Because you don't remember the details, Mulder, and you certainly
don't know what happened after you became unconscious. There's so much
you are unaware of, and I have tried to tell you this over and over
again, but you forget it every single time. I don't know how long I
have to persuade you to return to D.C. with me, to receive proper
treatment for your condition, and get things straightened out."

I look at him suspiciously. "I don't recall you talking to me."

"You know what this amnesia is, Mulder. You wouldn't remember it
because it doesn't allow you to grasp everything or retain what I've
just told you. In a few moments  an hour maybe, or two  you will sit
in this room and not remember the truth, and I am so tired, Mulder, so
sick of explaining this to you."

I just stare at him. 

"I have travelled across the country to find you. I've taken time off
work. No one at the Bureau knows you suffer from this amnesia. They
shouldn't know because it will cost you your badge." 

"They can't keep me in their service like this anyway," I retort. 

"They can and they will. If you get better." 

"How can I get better?" I ask. "This condition is irreversible. That
part of my brain that retains short term function is damaged."

"No, it hasn't," Skinner, explains desperately. "However, I can't
explain everything to you here. I need to find a way to get you to
D.C. with me. There's a doctor I trust. He will help us." 

I rise up. "Don't you get it?" I say angrily, "I can't get better or
even improve, it's irreversible!"

He sighs. "Oh god. I just wish I could convince you of the truth." 

"I know the truth." 

"No, you don't." 

I lick my lips. "Please, leave me alone. Scully is dead. Why force me
to see the facts over again, its painful enough, when I already know
them? If you came here to tell me it's not my fault she died, you're
wasting your time and breath. I will live have to live with this."

"Mulder, Scully is alive!" 

I sink on the bed, almost missing it. My legs quiver, my hands shake.

"What?" 

"She is in the hospital, but she's not dead!"

"You're lying," I snap. "You're telling me this to get me back with
you. Go to hell, Skinner. Don't do this to me, Fuck off!" 

"Mulder, you have to believe me. It's true. Scully is very much
alive. Up until yesterday we didn't know if she would pull through,
but she woke up late last night and has been asking for you ever
since." 

"No. No!" I shake my head. "I saw her die! Don't screw with my brain,
Skinner!"

"You have trusted me so many times in the past. Why would I lie now?
I'm your friend! I want you to know everything."

I can't believe it. I want to so much but I can't, I refuse to.
Scully fell off the ledge. I heard her screams, and the way her body
hit the trees and the rocks. No one could have survived that fall. It
is a lie! He's doing this to mess with my head. He's telling me I am
crazy and wants to have me locked up. This way I can't kill Marshall
when I see him. He has to convince me to take me back, doesn't he? 

But  what if it's true? Can I really refuse to see her again, take
the chance that it's true? 
I glare at Skinner who seems as giddy as a child. Is this true? Can
it be so? Is Scully really alive? And then I realize: what if she is?
I will never remember her the way it was. I will always have that
last image of her falling. Every time I start a new cycle, I will
remember her death before anything else. 

How could she work with a mental cripple like me? She wouldn't be
able to accept it. 
She would search for a new partner in a flash, and forget about me. I
will surely have forgotten about her. In my mind she is dead. 

Skinner will never accept that. 

I am better off missing. Ignorance is bliss. 

He looks at me. 

"Mulder, there is more. So much more."

"Not now," I say tiredly. "Please."

"You need to know this too. It's hard, but you have to face the
truth. It's everything right now." 

"No!" I shout. 

He is hurt.

"Pack your bags," he finally says. "I am taking you home. If you
don't come with me now, I will force you. I am trying to save your
life and your career. If you cannot accept that, then I will force you
to." 

I stare bitterly. "Fuck you, Skinner." 

"You have ten minutes to pack your things. I'll be back here by
then."

I shrug.

Reluctantly he closes the door and I lock it behind him. My mind
starts thinking of the possibilities to get out of here. I don't want
to go home to find out that he's lied to me. I don't want to return to
find Scully abhorring me, hating me for the fruitcake that I've
become. I can't be an agent anymore like this, ever. I have nothing
left worth fighting for, even if she is alive. 

It's all over. 

I sit on the floor and wait until he returns. He knocks on the door.
Softly at first, and then louder. He repeats my name over and over
again. I put my hands against my ears and rock back and forth; back
and forth all the time. 
Go to hell, Skinner.

Something slides underneath my door. A piece of paper. I wait until
he leaves. Then I get up, take the Polaroid camera and hold it against
the window. He's by the pool and turns back. I think he sees me taking
the photo. He looks very unhappy. I wait until it develops, take the
black pen resting on the table and scribble on the back: "He knows." 

My mind goes crazy. I don't know why I wrote that. He knows what?
That Scully is alive? That I'm here? That I'm nuts? That I don't want
to go back? It could mean anything.
What if I find this photo again? Will I think he was Marshall's
accomplice? A killer? 
I consider the options.

"I'll never go back," I say out loud, having made my decision. 
I won't be a nuisance, or burden to people.

I reach for the note sticking out my hand to grab it. I crawl forward
to pick it up, sitting against the bed while reading it. My fingers
tremble. 

Oh god. 

It's handwritten by Skinner. 

"Mulder, I wrote this letter to help you remember. I am afraid you
won't go back with me. You'll use every excuse or reason not to.
You're afraid of the truth. 
Scully is alive. She wants to see you. However, you don't want to go
back because you believe you'll never return to your old self. 
That's not how it will be, Mulder? You will!

Keep this note, Mulder. It is the truth. The blow to your head did
not cause the anterogade amnesia. The pill's you are taking are
causing this disease. It is not irreversible. 

Don't shut yourself away.

Let me help you.

"Skinner."

Oh no. 

I read the note a thousand times and then another thousand. This is
not true. It can't be. 

But what if - ?

I struggle to get up, throwing the note on the floor. It slips
underneath the bed, and I crawl forward to grasp it, hitting my head
against the wooden bed pole. I wince, sit backwards and rub my
forehead.


I need to get to Skinner. Need to talk to him about this. Need to
find out the truth. 
I reach for his photo lying on the bed. Need to destroy that before I
destroy him.

I need to  


Damn. 

What was I doing again? 



To be continued 


Part 6

Part three 

Chapter eleven: June 13

I suffer.

Skinner stands in my room. He's looking at the bed I lay in, watching
me with a strange sort of contempt. It feels as if I am already dead.
He leans forward, but his voice doesn't sound like his at all. It's
smooth and soft, as if the rough edges to it are gone.
He's like a ghost entering my thoughts, telling me what I've done
wrong. I open my eyes and he changes into a rotten corpse-version of
Scully. Her face is distraught and anguished, and her raspy voice
coming through broken-off teeth asks me accusingly, why I let go. I
beg her to understand that it wasn't like that, but she laughs in a
horrid way. She became a zombie, a creature returning from the dead in
the devastated form that was once hers. However, her finger points
accusingly at me, telling me that I'm the one who did this to her.

"You didn't protect me, Mulder!" the raw indictment dripping from her
words.

I wake up drenched in sweat, crying out, at the same milli-second
wondering where I am and why I'm here. 

I startle when I notice I'm at the Las Vegas Airport, sitting on one
of the plastic benches in the waiting area. My cry alerts several
people. I see shocked children stare at me, and parents take them by
the hands, drawing them away from me. I feel like I have the black
plague, or smallpox. I'm a walking disease. I'm infected with the most
horrid of inflictions. Everyone fears me. 
  
I don't know why I grew tired enough to rest there, amongst hundreds
of passengers passing back and forth. I can't understand why I took
the chance to stay here, when I am obviously on the run for something,
or someone. It feels that way anyhow.

They all look strangely at me. I ignore their stares and move away
from the bench I'm seated on. An older woman shuffles backwards out of
my path. 

I have my familiar overnight bag on me, and know that I must be
heading somewhere. My memory betrays me though: I don't seem to have
any recollection of a destination, or a path I chose to walk upon.

A scan of my pockets brings solace. I find a bottle of prescription
pills. I open it and swallow a tablet, forcing it down my dry throat.
I hate the taste of it. Hopefully the headaches will subside now.
That's what the label claims they do. 

I know about this amnesia thing.

You see, there was a guy who we met briefly. He had this condition
too, and couldn't remember anything that had happened to him in his
short-term memory. He died soon after. His wife had poisoned him:
feeding him an overdose of pills that made his body wither and
collapse. She didn't believe him at first, and when she did finally,
she used it to kill him in the most insidious way a woman can destroy
her husband. 

I was fascinated by the story, researching the details in medical
records, on the Internet and in books; and I also saw the movie:
Memento. 
Fabulous, stunning movie that was, regarding similar subject matter
on this rare condition. If I could tell my own story now, I'd tell it
backwards too. Then again, I have no control over anything, do I? 
I live the story. I'm in it, starring in it, controlling it. Without
me, there is no tale. There is nothing but the ghost of the man I used
to be. 

Life's a bitch and then you die. 
Isn't that right, Scully? 

I groan slightly as I leave the Las Vegas-airport, and find my way
towards the car rental agency. I request a vehicle suitable for
FBI-purposes and get a Mondeo. I'm used to the car's performances.
They're good. The Feds use them a lot. I pay with the Bureau's credit
card. I don't wish to delete my traces. Perhaps someone will find me
and tell me the purpose of all this. 

I'm on the road now, heading for Red Town, a place some twenty miles
from Vegas' busy core. My notes tell me that I am looking for a John
Marshall who used to live there. 
If he's not there, find out where he went: I read in the message to
myself. 

I have the Bureau's file with me. I wonder why no one stopped me from
heading in this direction. I wonder why I'm not in D.C. for Scully's
funeral. I'm sure that would have been in the past few days, or
perhaps we put her in the ground this morning, and I decided to take
off for my revenge straight afterwards. Maybe that's the only thing I
have left now. The one thing no one will take away from me. 

I step into the Mondeo, shoving my overnight bag and portfolio with
the file and details into it on the passenger seat, and take my time
scanning the road map. It's not so difficult to find. I'm fairly
certain I don't have a room booked: if I decided on this plan early
this morning, I would just pack up quickly and leave. 

I take the vehicle out of town, taking a long detour past the Strip.
Bright lights flash into my eyes, illuminating the huge driveway into
a rainbow of colours. People traverse the sidewalks everywhere, to
and from casinos, bars and hotels, entangled with their lovers,
friends or family. Inside my car I feel terribly alone. It seems that
I'm the only person in the whole world tonight, and I view the rest of
the scenery through dark tinted glass, my lonely barrier to becoming
part of the outside world. 

Vegas is a special place anyhow, and my current depressed mood makes
it all the more appropriate that I'm here. I'm alone, I feel totally
alone, and live alone. 
I will never trust anyone else. I've given everything I had to one
woman and now she's gone. She has taken my trust and confidence into
the grave with her. If I have to live the remaining years of my life
this way, in this desolate world of oblivion, then I will see it as
the punishment I rightfully deserve. 

If I had any tears left, I would use them now. My eyes are dry and
feel sore, as if I've been shedding them for days. 

If only there was some hope left in me, that I have a place to go
after this. If only I could find someone who could turn back time and
save us both. 

If only. 

I reach the outskirts of dreary Red Town in only fifteen minutes. I
drive around its small, dusty centre and drive up through the
streets. It has a couple of hotels and motels, probably profiting from
those who do not want to stay in Vegas, while spending all of their
cash on the slot machines and casinos. All the hotels seem dreary and
old. They probably charge next to nothing. 

Three hotels are fully booked, or so the signs say, but the fourth
has vacancies available. I walk into the reception area and found a
redheaded bubblegum-chewing bimbo waiting for me behind the reception
desk. She looks disinterested and I have the shock of my life, when I
discovered a lot of Scully-comparisons underneath all that make-up
and posture. 

"How long do you need a room for?" she asks indifferently.

"I don't know," I admit. "A couple of days, I guess."

"Two days, three days, four days..?" 

"I'll pay for three nights in advance."

"Sign here." 

She shoves a piece of crumbled yellow paper underneath my fingers. I
sign with shaking hand. Holding a pen feels awkward, as if I haven't
touched one in ages. She gives me my room key, and a key to the
outside gates and door. Then I walk past the filthy swimming pool
towards the building behind it.

The room is even worse than I expected. It's old, dreary and feels
cold, despite the humid weather. I open the window as I try to get a
bit of warmth inside, check the small tiled bathroom and sink, and
then look the bed feeling very much out of it. 
I close the window again at long last, slump down on the bed and try
to get some sleep. 
It doesn't work. 

I'm like the ultimate jet-lagger who's trying to get his mind to stop
working, so that he can get a bit of rest. My mind: too active, works
against its own will, my body is tired but listens to the thoughts in
my skull. I just lay there, staring into nothingness for what feels
like an eternity. 

Finally I unpack the few belongings that I have. Two jeans, two black
sweaters, some T-shirts, underwear, shaving equipment and other
various garments, a towel, my gun and badge, wallet, and the map I
have on Marshall. In the bottom of my bag I find a stack of five
photos. All of them have Scully on them, one way or another. Smiling
into the camera, looking serious, staring in surprise, as if she
didn't know that picture was being taken, and a final one that
resembles her FBI-badge-photo. 

I feel my throat thicken.

No, don't weep! Don't you dare. 

Yet I feel myself sliding to the floor, and sobs pass through my
body, wracking me so badly that I physically ache. I see her, and then
I don't. She's with me in this room and then she's not. 

I want her by my side so badly. 

Without her, my life as it is, means nothing. 

I hold the photos, hold them against my face and soak them in tears.
My sobs become occasional anguished whimpers. I crawl forward on the
floor, roll onto my side, and hold onto that what I have left of her.

If only I could die now. 
If her god is merciful enough, he might send down lightning and let
it strike me dead. 
Or perhaps he'll allow me to forget my sorrows for only a few moments
and cast this terrible reality from me. 

Nothing happens.

I calm down slowly and start helping myself: A note to tell myself
where I'm staying, and in what room. Another note that tells me that
Marshall is here in this town. Another message explains that I am
driving a Mondeo.

From Marshall's file, I gather he worked in the small local Red Town
hospital. I might as well go there now, to see what sort of place he
came from. It's a start. 

I clean the traces of tears from my face, barely looking into my own
eyes and leave the room. It takes me less than two minutes to drive
up to the hospital. It's indeed a small facility, large enough to
accomodate the population of 20,000 that Red Town holds. 

I park the car in the visitor's parking lot and walk inside. It's
nine p.m. and all visitors have left for the night. There's only the
medical staff and the unfortunate, unwilling guests that remain here.

At the reception, a woman of about fifty greets me with a warm smile
on her face.

"How may I help you?" she asks. 

"I'm looking for someone who can tell me more about a doctor who used
to work here: John Marshall." I flash my badge and she pales. 

"Is there something wrong with John?"

I look more intently at her. "Did you know him personally?"

"Yes, of course. He was an attending doctor here for ten years. I
know everyone in this town." 

"Then you're the right person to talk to. Can we grab a coffee?"

"Sure. Let me tell my colleague."

She moves away from me, and goes to talk to a younger woman who
stares openly at me. She seems fascinated by my appearance. I know I
look dreary, tired and downright exhausted. Why should anyone believe
me when I identify myself?
I hardly believe anything at all. 

The woman, who says her name is Martha Knowles, takes me to the small
cafeteria where the nursing staff usually gets together. The coffee
is predictably lousy and the milk comes from dry sachets, but it
tastes right now like the best thing I've ever had.
Sitting here only reveals how fatigued I am. I don't know what I've
been doing all day, but it feels like I have run a marathon.

"Are you okay, sir?" the woman asks when I rub my eyelids, trying to
focus on what she is saying.

"Yeah. Just tell me about Marshall."

"What do you want to know about him?" 

"What he was like working here. If he got into trouble with anyone.
What his deal was."

"You speak of him as if he's dead," she says confused. 

I look up. "Do I really?" 

She doesn't like sitting here with me, I can tell. But I am too
far-gone to care about anyone's feelings. If this is the path leading
towards my ultimate destiny, I will take it at any time. I don't care
what happens next. 

"Who are you really?" she asks. 

I stare at her. 

"You have so much grief inside of you, that it actually fills the
room. Have you lost someone? Did Dr. Marshall do something to you?"

I feel my throat close again. In my mind I'm holding those pictures
one more time, tearing them up afterwards, because they resemble a
past that can never be found again. 

Then she nods, as if she understands. 

"He did hurt you." 

"Yes."

"What did he do?"

"He became a serial killer and murdered four women. Then he killed my
partner." 
She raises a hand to her mouth and holds it there, keeping her breath
inside. "No," she then lets it out in a burst. "Please, no " 

Tears spring up in her eyes. She seems to care so much. It's as if
she knows him better than anyone. She shakes her head and stares at
her coffee, grasping the cup with both hands, despite the fact that
the liquid's still piping hot. I grasp her fingers and make her look
up. Pity enters my thoughts again, even though I had sworn I would
never feel sorry for anyone who knew this creep. 

"He was a good friend," she says. "But I always suspected there was a
killing streak in him."

"How so?"

"When he came into this hospital, he had this look in his eyes. He
was young, ambitious, and he cared enough for his patients. Yet he
often didn't care when someone died. He would shrug, saying that life
goes on: that every doctor loses at least one out of ten patients.
Sometimes, he would come and sit with me in this very room, and talk
about his feelings on life and death. He said that any human being had
the right to destroy, and that it wasn't up to God to kill solely."

"What did you say then?" I ask coolly.

"I told him I believe in only one God. He's our Maker and will take
us when the time comes. No one decides that. He just smiled and told
me I was nave. 'Life is about killing'; he used to say. As soon as you
are born, you're the world's next victim. It was such a cold way of
looking at things, that I wondered why he became a doctor in the first
place. However, he seemed basically a good man, sir. He cared for his
patients. He was always the last doctor to stick around. I saw him
read poetry to dying people."

"Have you ever suspected him of killing his patients?" I ask wearily,
horrified to find out that he might have been responsible for many
more deaths. 

She shakes her head. "No." 

"But it could have happened."
She swallows and sips her coffee. She has more to tell, but her hands
shake. "I'm sorry," she whispers hoarsely, "I shouldn't be talking
about this. I'm not entitled to."

"Why? Hospital policy?"

"I'm just the desk clerk, sir. I don't have anything to say in this
hospital. It's not up to me to change what has happened."

"I'm not going to investigate possible murders in Red Town anymore,"
I tell her, and suddenly I feel eager to confess to the truth that
only I know right now. It should have an outlet, someone to listen to
it. 

"I have this condition," I tell her. "It happened when my partner was
murdered. I've have lost my short-term memory ability, and cannot
regenerate new ones. In a few moments, or a couple of hours, I will
lose everything that we've spoken about, and not remember you. It may
sound strange, but that's the way it is." 

She stares at me in shock. Then she grasps my hand even more firmly,
and our fingers  warm to the touch  connect. "That must be so lonely,"
she whispers. 

I smile a weary grin. "I think it is." 

Her tears have faded as fast as they came. Yet her sorrow and
sympathy for a man she used to trust enter my heart. It stays there
and for one long moment I sense that John Marshall was a man once. A
decent one perhaps: one who would not kill. 
Then what changed him?

It's as if she reads my thoughts. "There was the rumour of an affair
he had with a fellow doctor, Janine Rhodes. She's a real beauty. He
wasn't the first one, and I suspect he wasn't the last one either.
Perhaps you should talk to her. She's not here today. You could catch
her tomorrow."

"Thank you." 

The woman nods and wipes her mouth with a napkin lying discarded on
the table. 
I shake her hand and leave the room. Then I wander through the
hospital, going room in, room out. I want to know where Marshall has
been, what he did and how he went about it. This was his turf once,
and it feels like it's been contaminated by his presence. 

I hate that man so much. No, hate is not the correct word. I loathe
him. Despise him. Detest what he has done to me and how it was done.
Now I know he wasn't alone to do when he did it. He was shot and hurt
when my partner slid off that ledge, and I lay there. Someone else hit
me on the head and took away my sanity. 

I have a note that says in capital letters: 'Accomplice.' 

That is the one I'm looking for now. Deep in my heart, I know that
Marshall is dead. I can deny it, but I sense that he's gone. He might
have been gone for a couple of days, or perhaps I've already put a
bullet in his brain. Maybe the FBI is searching for me now, going
through my things to find out where I might be heading.

Furthermore, I leave traces for them. I do it on purpose. I use their
credit cards, their rental cars and their resources. I know that I
want someone to stop me. I realize that I am about to become a killer.
If no one stops me, I will turn into one soon. 


My visit to Red Town is like a cry for help. Somewhere, somehow,
someone must be able to tell me the meaning to all of this. Until that
time, I know that I'm a walking time bomb, ready to go off at any
time. Anything can trigger it. 

Anyone can.

Deep in my thoughts I've pegged Walter S. Skinner as a potential
candidate for my wrath. He knew Marshall. They were buddies. 
Sometimes a friendship that goes way back, is more important than the
situation that has forced Skinner to reinvent his whole life within
the Bureau. We have seen much together, but he has been in the ditches
with Marshall. 

What runs thicker? 

I wonder.

I leave the hospital and drive through the streets of this town. I
have Marshall's old address. According to my information, an elderly
couple now inhabits the townhouse. No one in Red Town knows that
Marshall became a murderer. He did his killings on the East Coast, far
away from their sources. If it ever came on CNN or any other news
channel, I don't know about it. I wouldn't remember.

I stop at the house and try to peek inside. I don't knock on their
door and beg to see his old place; it's not my business to do so. I
don't really want to know about this man, yet I have an insatiable
curiosity about him at the same time. He's constantly in my thoughts.
He was there when I started gathering memories in this particular time
zone. He is next to Scully, crisping and roasting there like a
barbecue gone sour. 

I wish I could see him one more time. 

I want to ask him why he did it. I can't understand his actions, even
though I profiled him. The difference with other serial killers is
that this one destroyed my personal life. 
That alone makes him my main interest in life. 

Curiosity killed the cat.

Will it also kill me? 

I wander back to the hotel room and lock the door. I'm so very tired,
but I have to jot down more notes. I write down the name of the
female doctor: Janine Rhodes. I scribble the information on my notepad
and then close the books. 

I will lose it all again, I'm sure. I don't want to sleep. I don't
want to think.
I just want her. 

 I can actually feel the switch trip inside my head as the memories
are taken from me. 
I'll find him, Scully.
I swear. 


Chapter Twelve: June 11 

I know this place from top to bottom. It's the apartment I live in.
It's not beautiful or even extraordinary, but it's mine. It's dark, as
it always has been. I don't like the light very much. Usually, when
I'm here, it's nighttime anyhow. When it's not, I lower the blinds to
watch TV. 

I know every corner, every curve and every room. I know there's
hardly any food in the fridge, and that the waterbed leaks about twice
every year. I can't get it to stop doing that. I've considered
throwing it out. There's a wooden floorboard that creaks whenever you
walk on it. It's near the sofa, the exact place where I usually place
my feet when I slump off the couch. 

The television needs to be replaced. The VCR is worn out, and I bought
a DVD-player about a year ago to watch porn, or my favourite old-time
movies. They're difficult to get your hands on and usually cost a
fortune. They still don't have Plan 9 from Outer Space on DVD either.
Can't throw the VCR out then, can I?

Everything inside this apartment breathes my influence. The fish have
been replaced about four times, because they usually die when I'm out
of town longer than a few days. I clean out the tank when I'm at home
and feel like spending some time doing something else than watch TV. I
have a drawer with a list of take-out places, who also happen to
deliver food at the apartment. There's this fabulous Chinese place
just around the corner, a greasy Kebab-place that I cannot stand,
although it still has the best Lamb Special in the area, a Pizza-place
of course and a Thai Food Corner that serves gorgeous Chicken Deluxe
that makes you want to lick off your fingers afterwards. 

When I look around this place, I see so many memories of the past.
There's the couch that I've slept on for years - I still haven't
figured out when I ever bought that waterbed  I must have been nuts! -
the computer that has been replaced about six times with newer models,
the paintings and colourings on the wall I haven't changed in ten
years. In the hallway there's the mahogany desk that I picked up at a
flea market, and the chairs that don't match with it. I don't have a
dining room table. It's not like I have that many people coming over
anyhow: and when I do, we eat in front of the TV. 

Good thing takeaway food is not so expensive around here. Sometimes I
charge it with the Bureau's credit card, claiming on my expense
account that I was working late at the office and brought my own food.

Today, I sit in this apartment and feel very tired, very dazed. It's
as if a portion inside of my brain is missing. I don't know where it
went. I triple-checked the time and date. It's June 11, and the last
thing I remember is yesterday morning. I recall having spoken to
Skinner, having seen someone lying in a hospital bed. I have
difficulty remembering who that was. She looked very much like Scully,
but that cannot be. I am fairly certain that Scully is dead. She died
a few days ago, falling off a cliff. Yet my mind is playing tricks on
me. It tells me that Scully is dead, and yet she's not. 

It's strange. 

I feel utterly depressed. I don't think I'm supposed to be sitting
here. I'm overwhelmed with an anger that wants me going after the man,
who brought me to this position, this sorrow. His name is Dr.
Marshall. My mind is boggling. I'm so confused. I saw Scully in a
coma, but and I saw her dead. I must have dreamt the first part. 

Where has the last day gone? 

I find several notes on my table and a Polaroid camera next to it. I
haven't taken any pictures yet. I must have left it here for a reason.
A brand new note with my own handwriting on it shocks me. It tells me
that I have Anterogade amnesia. I know what that is. In fact, all the
details of it lay fresh in my memory. It is as if I've read a book on
it. 

I feel myself sinking on the couch. If this is true and I have it,
then what should I do? Should I not be looking for someone who can
help me? If Scully is gone, can I not turn to Skinner? 

I reach for the phone yet stop in my tracks. Why isn't anyone here?
Why am I alone? Why do I not trust anyone? I must have a reason for
it. There has to be an explanation. 

I have scribbled words on a notepad. It lies next to the file, I
myself, have created on Dr. Marshall, killer. I must have jotted down
those words some time ago. I can't remember when. One sentence shocks
me more, even though I already know the truth: Scully is dead. 

I rage with anger. I pick up the file and throw it on the ground.
Something needs to be done! I can't leave it like this! This is what
has been done to me: the total destruction of the human mind,
embedded forever inside an isolated cell that can't be re-opened.

I sink onto my couch and close my eyes, shutting them with my hands.
I know every detail of this apartment, I could walk through it
blindfolded and not hit a single thing but I don't remember anything
ever regarding that day. 

The memory of Scully in her hospital bed returns. I can recall
holding her hand, touching her skin and talking to her. Her face is
bruised and her skin feels hot to the touch. She is on a respirator,
and her eyes are taped shut to keep them from drying out. She's very
weak, and extremely vulnerable. She feels like china that could break
anytime at the slightest touch. 

I think I confuse this image of her with a long-time memory after her
abduction. Some things however, have altered. It's a different room
she's in now, one with beige-painted walls and paintings, which seem
soothing to the people waiting at her bedside. She looks different
too: her face is thinner and her body smaller, and her body seems
bruised here and there. Her leg is elevated, as if she's broken it. 

A mixture of images becomes one, and then just as quickly, it's gone
again. It's out of my thoughts and I can't grasp onto it anymore.
It's part of my past and this is the present. 

Reality sucks. 

I want to sleep. Rest. 

Instead, I linger about and hope that someone will come in and tell
me what I've done wrong with my life. 

 Along with my memory a lot of strength has disappeared. I'm so mixed
up. Messed up. Confused. Dazed. Nothing works anymore.

Should I pick up the phone and call the nuthouse? 

As if my thoughts have been heard, the phone rings and shocks the
hell out of me. I don't pick it up. Instead, I wait for the answering
machine to jump into action, hoping against hope, that it will be
Scully asking me where the hell I am. 

Instead, I hear the familiar voice of Margaret Scully. That, perhaps,
is even a greater shock. 

"Fox," she says as only she can say, "I'm worried about you. Please
give me a call." 
That's all. 

Not even two minutes later the phone rings again. This time it's
Skinner. "If you're there, pick up the phone." He waits a few moments
and then hangs up. He tries my cell too, but I shut it down. He
phones my home number again. This time, a longer message.

"Mulder, I know what you're doing. Don't do this to yourself. Stay
there, I'm on my way." 
My instincts tell me I should not be talking to him, or to anyone. I
should be doing something else. 

My eyes fall on an airline ticket lying on the table underneath the
file. It's a ticket taking me from D.C. to Los Angeles. I'm surprised.
A Post-It explains that Marshall lived there for a few months, before
coming to the East Coast. I've also written down the directions to
Red Town. My notepad tells me I'm to go to L.A. first, and from there,
fly into Vegas. 
Check out L.A. It will be a loose end, then Red Town. Reason for
murder?

I know every single word that's in that file. I had explored the
possibility that Marshall's killing spree, had been set off by a
romantic event in his past. He might have been involved with a
married woman, or betrayed by a lover from his past. 
He had an accomplice! The last sentence reads. It's clear to me that
I'm after Marshall. 

 A bottle of prescription pills linger on the coffee table too. One
every day  five p.m. it reads. For headaches. It's six p.m. now, I
can't recall having taken one. I do it now. I'm sure it can't hurt
taking more than one. 

The ticket to L.A. tells me I should leave for the airport in about
half an hour. My flight leaves in two hours. I must hurry. My packing
is experienced and fast. Within fifteen minutes I'm ready. I feed the
fish, close the apartment and head outside. 

When I walk out of the back exit towards the private parking area, I
see someone standing at the front door. It's Skinner's form that I
see there. I would recognize him out of a thousand men. 

My instincts shoot in action. I push myself backwards against the
wall, inside the shadows that hide me from his vision. I proceed
towards the staircase, open the door, and walk inside, waiting.
Skinner has a key to my apartment and this building. I gave it to him
years ago. He walks along the hallway and steps inside the elevator. I
rush outside. By the time he reaches my apartment, I'm gone. 

I unlock the car, throw the bag in next to me and take off. I shiver
with a strange fear, as if I'm on the run. 

Why didn't I want to talk to Skinner? 

I don't know. I can't explain it.

It's the notes, the messages and the strangeness of all this. I feel
I'm alone in this world and will remain so until my death. 

I arrive at the airport and park the FBI rental car in the long-term
parking lot. I must have bought this ticket yesterday, I see, at a
local travel agency. All I need to do is get it validated, check in
and within an hour I'm off to L.A. 

"You're in luck, Agent Mulder," the male receptionist at the United
Airlines desk says. "We have plenty of room left in First Class.
Would you like a seat there?"
I throw him my biggest smile. "I would love to." 

He arranges the tickets, hands me back my passport and credentials
and sends me off to gate U-42. I follow the signs, choose a small
plastic chair in the far corner, as close to the counter as I can get,
and wait.


What am I doing, really? 

Can I become myself again? Can I ever become the old Mulder again? Is
there still a Mulder inside of me that I can trust? 

I don't know. Perhaps I don't want to know. 

I live on automatic pilot, being controlled by the memories that I
lack, and the confidence that something inside of me is pushing me to
the limits. 

I dream of Scully, as I'm sitting in this chair waiting for the plane
to take off. How many times have I sat here with her? How many hours
have we spent in this airport discussing our new cases? 

How many times has she told me that my theories are way out there,
and my thoughts go into all directions? 

I wish she would tell me again.

Today, tomorrow, the day after. 

I miss her seriousness, her smile, her voice and her presence. Her
thoughts, her vision, and even her disbelief at many of my notions.
She kept me sane and now I'm not even inside the world of ordinary
people anymore. I have become Max Fenig, afraid of chasing dreams,
and terrified of my own shadow. 

 However, somehow, deep down, I have this strange feeling that I only
have myself to blame. It's funny, isn't it? I think I recall
yesterday morning, yet all the memories fade away. They are being
erased from inside of my head. 

I think of Scully and I have that hospital-image of her. It nags at
the outer edges of my consciousness, telling me I'm missing something.

I should reconsider doing this. 

Yet I walk up and board the plane, sitting in first class, refusing
champagne or any other offered free liquor. I request sparkling water
and lean back, trying to watch a movie on my little screen, while an
old businessman next to me snores heavily. 

Finally I sleep.

I don't know what anterogade amnesia will do to me. I'm certain that
I will not remember why I'm here, or what I'm doing. I jot down notes
like I've done before and instruct myself on my next steps.
I have a few L.A.-addresses to check out. I have to book a ticket for
Vegas too. I should pick up a rental car there and drive into Red
Town. 

Just follow your own handwriting, Mulder. That's the only thing you
can trust right now. 

Yourself. 

Trust no one. 

To be continued 


Part 7

Chapter thirteen: June 10 

Nausea overwhelms me. The second I open my eyes; I feel a new wave
coming over me. My body doubles forward in sheer pain, rolling
automatically onto my side. Someone holds a bowl or something
underneath my mouth, and waits patiently until something comes out,
but nothing does. 

I feel drowsy now. My body doesn't seem to react the way I want it to.
I am tired, aching, and sore. 

"It's okay," a female voice says soothingly, and a hand rubs over my
back, between the shoulder blades. I feel strangely comforted. 

I turn on my back and lean tiredly into the pillows, finally opening
my eyes.
It's the nurse who watched me and came to my aid. She has a friendly
posture and beautiful features. "I'm Gail," she says, as if she knows
I'm in need of a friendly voice.

"Where am I?" I ask disorientated, and she gives me a wet cloth to
wipe my mouth with. 

"D.C. General. You have been here since late last night. Your boss
brought you in."

"Why?" 

She smiles. "That's what the doctors are finding out. They took some
blood samples and are waiting for the results. You will have a few
scans today too."

"What is wrong with me?"

"I'll let the doctor explain that to you," she tells me, moving with
the self-assured posture of a nurse who's worked in medicine for
years. Before I can say anything else, she's gone. 

I try to remember how I got here, and why my recollections falter. A
part of my brain seems to be unconscious, and the other part only
remembers what happened before  

Before what? 

Scully. 

In panic I rise up, only to sink back into the pillows. I'm so tired.
I struggle against my own physical boundaries and crawl out of bed,
swaying on my feet.

"Mulder!" Skinner enters the room, stopping me before I fall forward.
His hands grasp me by the shoulders. He's much stronger than I am,
and persuades me to sit back down. "Where the hell do you think
you're going?" 

"Something's wrong," I mutter.
"You're damn right there is. You need to stay here so they can find
out what."

"Scully is dead."

"No, she isn't. She's in this hospital too."

I look at him and shake my head. "She's dead. I watched her die."

He stares at me clearly confused. "What are you talking about?"

"She fell. She crashed down the edge of a cliff."

"Mulder, she's still alive!"

"No." 

"You have to remember. I can show her to you. Take you to her"

I shake my head. Someone is talking inside of me, taking over. I can
feel it as clearly as I'm breathing. "She's dead," I repeat
stubbornly. "I watched her die."

"You saw her afterwards!"

I look at him. He is a part of the world outside of mine. He doesn't
belong here. He comes from before that fateful day, when she died. 

"Just get out." 

He shakes his head and lets go. "Mulder, you're suffering from a very
rare form of amnesia. You have Anterogade amnesia. Do you know what
that is?"

"Yeah," I say wearily.

"You can't grasp recent memories. You're living in the past. They are
trying to find out how or why." 

"I was hit on the head."

"Yes, two days ago."

"No, today. It was today."
"Mulder, it's the tenth. You were hurt on the eight."

I look up in shock. I try to recall things from the past few days.
There's this fog holding it back. I want to wipe it away with both
hands but I can't. It's still there. 

"I don't remember?"

"No. I found you at your apartment last night. You were delirious. I
brought you here. The doctors want to do more extensive tests, to see
if you might have suffered more serious damage to your head than
originally thought."

"There was this case," I whisper, "this guy had it."

He ignores my words. "I just want you to stay calm. There has to be a
reason and a solution. You will be alright."

"Scully is dead. Marshall! Where is he?" 

"He's gone, Mulder."

"No."

"I killed him." 

I stare at him. "I don't remember. Why can't I remember?"

"They'll find out. Rest now, you're exhausted." 

Skinner is hesitant to leave the room. Finally he does leave me alone
and I find myself drifting into the strangest of slumbers.

I dream of holding Scully in my arms, and touching her in a hospital
bed. Then she opens her eyes, stares at me and tells me she is dead
because of me. 

As I wake up, sweat pours down my back. 


I do feel better the second time around. It's nearly noon and my body
seems to have calmed down. Holding the IV in one hand, I slip out of
bed for the second time and use the bathroom. I wash my hands, neck
and face and am shocked to see hollow eyes inside weary cocoons of
skin. Is this me? I've lost weight. I'm a shadow. 

I need to find out what happened to me. If Skinner's right, Scully is
inside this hospital. But why can't I recall that clearly? In the room
I look for my things and find my jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket. Inside
the jacket a bottle of prescription pills: One every day, five p.m. 

The medication name doesn't ring a bell. I take one, put it in my
mouth and swallow it, hoping it will help stop the horrible headache
that overwhelms me. I just won't take one around five, I promise
myself. 

The same nurse walks back in. "Mr. Mulder," she says, "You should be
resting."

"I feel better." 

"I'll bring you a light lunch. You're scheduled for a CT around two."

"Okay." 
I slip back into bed and she brings me some bread, jam and light tea.
"We don't want to upset your stomach anymore," she explains. 

I eat everything and then curiosity strikes again. I want to know
where my partner is, but they come to take me for a scan, and I know
it will have to wait. 

I close my eyes while the machine runs over my head, taking in every
detail that lives inside of my skull. I drift off quickly. 


A hand shakes my shoulder. "Mr. Mulder, we're done." 

I look up to find a technician smiling reassuringly at me. I have
difficulty recalling a name. In fact, I don't even recognize the face.

Where am I? What is this place?

Sheer panic overwhelms me. I rise up, wanting to get out of this
scary room quickly. A nurse rushes over to me and helps me before I
fall to the ground, swaying in my dizziness. 

"Mr. Mulder," she says. "I'm Gail, remember? Calm down." 

"Who?" I ask confused.

She seems worried. "I take care of you."

"I don't remember you." 

"It's okay. I'll take you back to your room." The panic subsides. I'm
feeling better. "That's better," she says calmingly. "I'll take you
back now." 

I don't know this room, yet my clothes are here and I have slept in
this bed. That's what Gail tells me. I am confused. 

"It's okay," she says, " They say you have Anterogade amnesia. That
means you can't remember or retain any recent details. I'm sure
that's what happened to you just now. You're in a new cycle of
memories." 

I stare at her in shock, barely hearing her words. "You mean I cannot
remember anything of today?"

"Or anything that happened after the moment you contracted this
condition. They said you had a blow to the head before. The doctors
think it's related and want to figure that out. That's why you just
had a CT-scan." 

"Will I heal?" I ask horrified.

She smiles. "I'm sure you will." 

She leaves me alone with my thoughts. My god, I can't even remember
this room, this hospital, and the scan she said I'd just had. What is
happening to me? Is this what amnesia is really like? Will I recover
from it? Will I regain my strengths?

I need to know. 

Before I can slip out of bed, the door opens and people enter.
Skinner is there, along with a few doctors I think, and the same
nurse. Gail, I believe, her name is. I sink back into the pillows
nervously; their seriousness startles me. 

"Mr. Mulder," the first, grey-haired man offers his hand. "I'm Doctor
Willis. We spoke last night but you probably don't remember that."  I
shake my head. "This is my colleague, Dr. Rush. We are very
interested in your condition."

"Amnesia," I say. 

"Indeed. Assistant-Director Skinner has been so kind as to inform us
on your medical history. We also spoke with the attending physician
who treated you two days ago. He is out of town, so we couldn't
consult properly yet." 

"What the hell is wrong with me?" I ask. "Can you explain?" 
Dr. Willis smiles a patronizing expression of a doctor, who knows
better than his ignorant patients. It frustrates me already. 

"From what we can understand so far, you lack the short-term memory
regeneration ability. This means that you can remember everything
that's happened before in your life, up to a point. That point we are
looking for right now. We have reason to believe that you suffered
severe brain damage from the blow to your head, but the strange thing
is, that your memory worked perfectly until yesterday morning. Mr.
Skinner has reassured us of that." 

"That's not true," I say. "I don't remember anything from yesterday."

Willis raises an eyebrow. 

"What is the last thing you recall then?" 

"Scully's death." My voice sounds dark when I spill the words out
loud. I still can't grasp the situation. It is still not true. It's a
lie. "And you don't need to explain this amnesia mumbo jumbo to me. I
know what it is. I met a man not so long ago who had it. I'll forget
everything we just spoke about. I'll always remember Scully's fall
off that cliff, and that's it." 

Skinner shares a glance with the doctors. "Mulder, Scully is alive.
She's in this hospital, in the ICU. I have told you that before.
Don't you remember? You must recall being brought to hospital before."

"No." I shake my head forcefully. "She's dead. I watched her die.
Don't lie to me." 

"I wouldn't do that."

"No?" I look him in the eyes. "It wouldn't be the first time."
He pales, upset by my reaction. Anxiety rushes through me like a worm
that needs to get out. It is stronger than my usually calm self. It's
like a fever fighting to burst out. 

"Mr. Mulder, please stay calm," the doctor says. "We are trying to
find out what made you sick to the stomach, why you're so nervous, and
what's causing this amnesia. We have a colleague from New York coming
over who specializes in Anterogade amnesia. He wants to talk to you
tomorrow morning. We want you to stay in hospital in meantime to run
further tests on your memory." 

"I'm not a guinea pig," I speak sharply. "I'm fine now. The nausea
has passed. Don't think you can keep me here. I'll go home tonight
and return tomorrow. Okay?" 

"That's not such a good idea. What if you panic, like you did last
night? If you're alone at home, who's going to help you recollect
your thoughts and memories?"

"I'll manage," I say. "Just bring me a notepad and I'll write notes."

"You underestimate the seriousness of this matter. I urge you to
reconsider." 

"Can you hold me?" I ask.

"This is not a prison. You are a free man."

"Then stop treating me like some fucking fruitcake." 

Skinner approaches me. "Mulder, last night you called me for help. I
brought you here because it's the best place where you can be
monitored right now. You are very confused and upset. We need to help
you through this." 

"I'm fine," I repeat stubborn. 

"You're far from fine." 

I relax. "If this thing  whatever it is that I have  is permanent,
don't you think the best place for me to be, is at home? I know
everything there. I need to be in an environment that's familiar to
me. If you want to stay with me, Skinner, fine. I just don't need
this psychobabble crap, okay? Just take me home." 

Skinner hesitates. I'm winning the battle. He turns to the doctors.
"I'll have him back here by tomorrow morning. By then you'll have all
the test results you already ran, and your colleague will be here,
right?" 

"Yes," Willis gives in reluctantly.

"Perhaps Mulder is right. He needs to be where he feels okay." 

I won. 

Both doctors sigh simultaneously, and leave. I promise to be back
here by tomorrow morning. I don't think I will. I know what I want to
do: I want to lead a life that is mine, and find the one person who
did this to me. I know that Anterogade amnesia can't be reversed. That
much I remember from Jack McCauley, the wealthy banker who tried to
commit suicide. 

Up until Scully's death I remember it all. After that, the world
became a white snow-covered blanket, concealing the truth. I will not
recall anything from this day either. It will live in the back of my
mind, hidden forever. However, I feel calm. It's as if this was meant
to be. I deserve this, I'm being punished by it, and I accept it. This
is my life now, for as long as it will last. 

Gail releases me from the IV, and helps me gather my clothes. Skinner
has left the room. I dress alone, sending Gail out of here for
privacy, and go through my things. I find a bottle of pills in my
jacket pocket. It's small and contains about ten or so tablets. My
watch tells me it's nearly five, and the label says I should take one
then. Just as I swallow one, Skinner walks back in. He watches me. 

"What are those pills?" he asks.

"Don't know," I say. "For headaches, guess."

"So you have headaches?"

"As far as I can tell, all the time." 

"Can I see them?"

I slide the bottle back in my pocket. "It doesn't matter. Let's go." 

Suddenly he stops me before the sliding ICU-doors on our way out. He
grasps my arm. 

"You're going to see her," he says. 
I bite my lip, shocked to realize that he is telling me the truth
about her. I didn't believe him. Yet there she is: unconscious and
very much alone. She could have been dead. Her body, her skin is a
strange porcelain colour. She looks like a doll. 

"Is she dying?" I ask and my mind struggles with a million roiling
emotions. How did she get here? Why is she not dead? Why did I let go
of her?  She's lying here because of me, and I turn my head away from
her. 

"There is still a chance," Skinner speaks calmly. "However, you won't
remember that unless I help you. You need to keep onto that, Mulder."

"I want to go now."

"She's not here because of you. Marshall did this to her and I killed
him."

"You're a liar! He's not dead."

"I swear to you that he is, and so is the woman who attacked you." 

I turn my head quickly. "It was a woman?"

"Yes." 

"Why the fuck were you so late?"

"I can't help that now." 

I turn my back to him. "Go to hell." I storm out of her room, eager
to forget the sight of her slowly dying, withering and wasting away. 

My boss takes me home quietly. He is nervous and I finally ask him
why. 

"Mulder, I drove you home like this yesterday too and you collapsed a
few hours after. I'm worried about you, and not just a little bit.
You look like hell."

"Thanks for the compliment. I love you too." 

He grins wryly. "I want to stay with you tonight. I'll sleep on the
couch. I just want to keep an eye out for you." 

"Thanks, but no thanks." 

"Mulder, you promised."

"I promised to be back there by tomorrow, but I'll forget that anyhow.
I need some time to myself, Skinner. I'm sure you understand."

"To do what?"

"To think things through."

"Don't be so fatalistic. They'll find out what's bugging you."

"My brain will not mend. It's irreparable. That's the end of it."

"You don't know that! Dr. Willis told me there are other ways to
contract his amnesia. Some medication has serious side effects like
this. That's why I wanted to see what you're taking."

"They're just headache-pills, Walter. Nothing more." 

"You're a stubborn asshole, Mulder," he snorts. 

"One who is in control of his life." 

"Don't even think you're close." 

He stops in front of my building. I want to get out alone, but he
stops me, putting his hand on my wrist. I wait patiently until he's
finished talking. 

"Mulder, I've never seen you like this. You've been in some very dark
places in your time but right now, you're walking through the darkest
hell ever. You're taking Scully's accident so hard. You hate
yourself. You were cold, Mulder, so very down. Nothing I say can take
that feeling away from you. You punish yourself so badly. I wish I
could turn back time and take that from you."

"An accident?" I spit. "You call it an accident? It was murder, for
goodness sake!"

He stands frozen.  

"I don't believe in fairytales," I continue sharply. "You showed me
how she is right now, and nothing I can do will change that. I'll be
happy that this memory at least will be erased from my mind in a few
moments."

"Your place is by her side, hoping and praying. She's pulled through
worse before."

"My place is in the darkness. In hell."

"Did you self-inflict this hell, Mulder?"

I stare at him. "How could I do that?" He waits a second. "How?" I
repeat my question hard. 

"The doctors told me your CT-scans came back fine. You have no head
injury, Mulder. There's nothing to indicate why you would be
suffering brain damage of this extent. They feel you are
psychologically blocking everything out. It's happened before." 

I pale. "Fuck you, Skinner. I'm not a nutcase."

"No one says you are, but you are very keen to forget reality. You
feel certain that Scully won't get better. A part of your brain tells
you that too. You want to ignore it but it will not go away. She's
alive and she needs your help." 

"What good would I be to her? I should have died years ago, allowing
her to lead a regular life. I pushed her all the time, Skinner. I made
her stay. She didn't belong with me in the first place."

"You gave her the best years of her life. Do you think she would have
stayed if she didn't want to? She had plenty of opportunity to leave
and she didn't. Doesn't that say enough about her?" 

"She was a fool."

"She isn't." 

I slip out of the car.

"Mulder!" He lowers his window. "Take notes. Please. If you're
determined to do this alone, teach yourself about your past." He
reaches behind him, and slips me a brand new notepad and a stack of
Post-It's. Then he grins wryly. "Just don't tattoo yourself." 

I grab everything and walk up to my apartment. In the familiar
darkness I sit down and throw the pad on the table. It hits Marshall's
file that's already lying there. I reach for it and open it. 

If there is nothing I can do about this condition, then at least I
can do something useful with my life. I switch on a light, read
Marshall's details again, grab the phone and book a ticket to Los
Angeles. 

By tomorrow morning, I'll be out of here. Screw their tests and
poking around. 
I'll be searching for Marshall if my life depends on it. Skinner can
lie all he want. My gut feeling tells me Marshall is still out there:
I will track him down, and put a bullet through his brain. 

I dare not answer the ultimate question though: Have I inflicted this
upon myself?
And when I take out the bottle with prescription pills and read the
name Ativan on it, I ignore the fact that I've heard this name before.
If I take more of those pills, I hope that I will ultimately forget
the nagging feeling that lives inside of me: that little twitch
constantly telling me I'm doing something wrong and foolish. 

So I just focus on getting my man. 

What better way to set your mind to something else?


Chapter fourteen: June 9

My body feels sore from lying so long in a hospital bed. It happened
yesterday morning and I've been living in a state of depression ever
since. I don't want to be in this place. I just want to go home and
take Scully with me. However, I can't, can I? She's lying unconscious
in a hospital bed, dying. I know she isn't going to make it, even
though the doctors say she still has a chance. 

Every time I open my eyes from short periods of restless sleep, I
stare at my own two hands. They never sweat, yet two days ago they
were slippery. I hate them. I don't want to think about them. 

I'm in the hospital too. I've been here since that fucking woman hit
me on the head. I was very lucky, or so they say. A inch more to the
right and I would be dead. She was Marshall's mistress. She defended
him. God knows what he told her.

The truth is, that Scully is close to death because of me. I couldn't
protect her, even though I had the means to do so in my hands.
Instead, I couldn't. Her body is too quiet, her mouth closed, and her
eyes taped off. One broken leg is elevated to heal properly, one hand
and wrist are in a cast, and the scars on her face betray she cannoned
through a myriad of tree branches, before ending on a small cliff
ledge that stopped her fall. There, they picked her up. 

Broken.

Not that it's of any use now. I'm certain she will die. 

I lie very quiet in that hospital bed. I'm being released today. My
injuries were not that bad at all. Yet my mood has never been so
depressed and dark. It's worse than when she was dying of cancer,
much worse than her abduction. This is reality. Partners stick
together, help each other and save each other's hides. She was under
my protection, as I was under hers. 

I failed. 

I don't want to live with the memory of her in that hospital bed. I
know that I can't take it. I'll throw myself in the river, or put a
bullet in my head. The memory of her warm body seemingly so useless,
hurts me more than the recollection of her falling down the rocks. I
can take everything, but not this. 

There was this man who suffered from a strange amnesia that altered
his life forever. He had betrayed his wife, tried to commit suicide
and instead, was forced to spend the rest of his days as a lunatic
that no one believed. It wasn't his fault that he suffered from this
condition, you know. Or so they thought. He hit his head and the
doctors said that the amnesia was related to that injury.

Only, it wasn't. 

You see, what the doctors didn't know before it was too late, was
that Jack McCauley, successful banker and sufferer from Anterogade
amnesia, did not contract his memory loss from the huge gash to the
head. It all started two days before, when he visited his doctor and
told him he was depressed and wanted to step out of life. The doctor
diagnosed his fears as anxiety, and prescribed Lorazepam, aka Ativan.
Generally this drug relieves insomnia, works on agitation and bad
anxieties. Only, in rare cases, it also causes Anterogade amnesia. 

It was Scully who found that out. When we spoke to Jack McCauley, he
remembered nothing beginning two days before his attempted suicide.
He knew nothing after the first evening when he took the prescribed
meds. He didn't recall trying to kill himself, waking up in hospital
or being treated. The doctors blamed the hard knock to the head for
it, and called him a borderline case. 

Yet Scully didn't believe it, and she found out that certain drugs
cause these symptoms too. When pulled off the drugs, the symptoms
will eventually stop. It took some research into prescription drugs,
yet there it was, as a warning: 'In rare cases, Ativan causes severe
amnesia, mostly Anterogade.' 

By the time Scully figured it out, it was too late. 

McCauley died when his wife overdosed him. If he had only stopped
taking the Ativan after the attempted suicide, he could have been
cured. Only, nobody knew he was taking that medication. After the
crash, he continued to take them and his memory remained faded. 

I spoke to Jack in hospital. He was capable of holding his own during
a lengthy conversation. He spoke of things from the past, and talked
about drinking coffee only an hour earlier. And then he would blink
his eyes, stare at me and ask me who I was. 
It was like a switch in his head, and when that was turned on, he
would replay his stories. 

I asked him what it was like to suffer from that sort of amnesia. He
told me it was odd. It felt like a huge black hole inside of your
head, that needs to be filled in constantly with the same information,
hoping that something might stick. 
And then he said, "I cannot recall the last thing I have done and it
feels good, because I know that what I've done wrong, was bad." 

I lie in this hospital bed now and ponder that conversation. 

What would it be like not to remember what you've done before? To
lose that part of your memory, which gathers all the information that
makes you, stir crazy? To lose that particular particle that tells you
you're a murderer? 

I know what Anterogade amnesia is. I know what it does to the human
brain. I also wonder if I can go on living, without remembering that
particular memory of Scully dying. I would prefer to remember her
being killed on that cliff. 

I ponder. I dream. 

I decide.

Without her, what is there left for me? This is the ultimate
punishment I can conflict upon myself. If I have the crap luck of
losing my memory, I will become a man without cares. I will be a
shallow image of my own self, but it will be enough. 

Yesterday evening, I guess I had already decided. After seeing Scully
in her comatose condition, having been told by the doctors that
there's no way to determine whether she'll live or die, knowing that
she might never wake up again, I knew what I had to do. Forget what
it's like seeing her like the vegetable that she is now. Forcing
myself to ignore the past, and live in the short-term present that is
mine. 

I hope that Jack McCauley's fate will be mine. I urge myself to go
into that state. Can one dominate their mind like this? Pull that
switch yourself and become only a part of who he was? 

I think Skinner knows. He hasn't left this hospital in two days, ever
since they brought us in. He was there when I woke up yesterday, and
he's been by my side whenever he's not with Scully. 

I spent the entire evening and night lying restlessly awake. I recall
every detail of being brought into the ER, going through scans,
X-Rays and mucho positive talk on how lucky I was. Even then, I knew
Scully had suffered a much worse fate. I concentrated on her and did
nothing to stop the ultimate darkness from entering my mind. 

After spending one night in hospital, I'm being released today. I
have no serious concussion, not even a serious gash on my head. I was
the lucky one. I pack my stuff and Skinner looks at me. I have not
spoken to him since yesterday. He is confused about my behaviour. 

"Mulder," he starts, placing his hand on my shoulder in the
friendliest gesture, which sparks tears in my eyes. I turn to face
him. "Please, stop doing this to yourself. It's not over. She will
pull through." 

I shake my head and turn my face away. I don't want him knowing the
truth. He'll find out perhaps, but by then I will hopefully have
disappeared off the face of the earth.

You see, that's what I want to do. I'll leave the Bureau and this
life. I don't want to return to any of it. Nothing matters: not even
the ultimate conspiracy, or the truths that I know about. As far as
I'm concerned, it's all over. Stuff this place. In my mind Scully is
dead, as she soon will be. 

I'll remember you, Scully. 

I enter her room and look at her. 

Nothing has changed since yesterday. She is still warm, still
unconscious and still on the virtual boundary between life and death.
I know she doesn't fear death. I don't either. I fear loneliness.

I touch her fingers, hoping it will be the last time I see her like
this. If there is a merciful god, he will take this memory completely
away from me. Reluctantly I let go, allowing Skinner to escort me out
of the room.

Skinner drives me home in silence. He's at a loss for words. I stare
outside the confines of the car. I know this city quite well. I know
the route home from the hospital too. I've been in and out of that
place a couple of times. It almost feels like home. 

Even though I don't want him to, he walks me up to the apartment. He
opens the door for me and lets me get in first. He even feeds the
fish, while I stare at the couch. My bag lingers around somewhere: I
hope he doesn't open it. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asks. "You know you can get
all the time off that you need." 

I nod. "I know." 

"Please talk to me, Mulder." 

I look at him in a different light now. I'm still angry with him for
arriving too late at the scene, but not as angry as I am with myself
for losing her. 

"Goodbye, Walter."

He seems shocked that I use his first name like this. My words sound
like a farewell, and in a way they are. 

He frowns. "Can I leave you like this and expect to see you again?"

"Sure." 

"I'm afraid for you."

"Don't be. I'm fine, honestly. I'll just freshen up and rest."

"I'll pick you up tonight."

"No. Leave me be. Please."

"Okay." 

Finally he's gone. I lock the door and return to the dropped bag. I
pick out the bottle of tablets. They look so small and innocent. Can
they really cause amnesia? I don't want much from them, just a promise
that I will forget the worst, and remember the pain. It seems so
little.

On an empty stomach, I swallow two tablets at the same time. For good
measure, I take another one, and that it. They melt into my stomach
acid, digesting into my blood stream. It may take a while, I'm sure.
I don't even know what it will be like. What it will do to me.
Perhaps nothing. Hopefully everything. 

I urge the tablets to do their work. They have to. I lay myself down
on the couch, close my eyes and feel my mind drift off into a deep
sleep. 


I wake up in afternoon darkness. The blinds are lowered, stopping the
sun from entering and warming up the apartment. Still, the light
awakens me, forcing me to deal with an upcoming splitting headache,
and soreness throughout my limbs.

For a long moment, I have difficulty understanding where I am, until
I recognize the familiar surroundings of this place, and the safety
net it represents. This is my home and here I feel at ease. 

Although, something is not right inside my head. I can feel it the
second I start moving up and about, ignoring the numbness that now
settles throughout my whole body. I stir like an old man, struggling
with the aches that are so bad, my entire back and neck hurt. 
The headache is pounding, like sledgehammers crashing my skull. 

I am sick to the core. 

I rush into the bathroom as fast as I can and heave, but nothing
comes out of me. Just are dry heaves, whilst something struggles
inside of my body like nest of wasps finding a way out of a trap. 

I don't know what it is. The pain inside of me becomes more mental
than physical. Something is bothering me but I don't know what it is.
Where was I this morning, and how did I get here? I grab my watch and
discover it's the tenth of June. I remember yesterday. I was in the
hospital then, wasn't I? There is something wrong with Scully. It's
serious. I think she might be in trouble. I held her hand. Yes,
there's a recollection there. Something with her hands and her leg
entrapped in some sort of cage. I see her hurt. The vision is burned
into my retina. 

Oh hell. 

I need help. Someone to help me. To help me figure this out. 
I lean against the tiles for hours, waiting, sleeping and dreaming. 
I am confused and dazed. 

When I finally reach the phone to get help, my entire body visibly
shakes. It doesn't take three rings to get to Skinner. 

"I need help," I groan. 

"I'm on my way," he replies. A click and he's gone.

I slide to the floor and just lie there, as if my body has nothing
more to say in the matter. The carpet blends into one huge black hole
sucking me in. 


I am aware of people talking to me and arguing about me. They seem to
be everywhere, poking my arms, feeling areas of my body and touching
my head. I wince at their touch and am too tired to do anything about
it. It all means nothing. 

Much later, while lying very much awake in my room, with Skinner
nearby hovering like a worried cat over her newly born litter, I know
that I have done this to myself, but even those memories soon fade
away. They are annoying parts of a past that I want to forget, and a
small obstacle towards an empty future. 

I don't know what I'll do. How far I'll go. How crazy I'll become.
Grief is a part of the process to becoming mad. The boundary between
the two is very small and thin. At this moment, nothing can stop me
from descending towards the craziness. 

Not knowing is bad.

Yet, it's not so bad at all. 

Part 8

Part four

Final chapter: The truth revealed 
June 17

I am drifting far, far away. I'm off this world, into a space of my
own. It's mine completely. I own it. I volunteered to enter it, and
I'm not willing to leave it. 

Yet outside forces seem to pull me away from it, pushing me back into
that part where everyone else resides. They are stronger than I am,
tugging at me. The powers feel like lifelines being thrown out to me,
to prevent me from drowning. 

I can't decide. 

 Somehow, through the fog, I can see the image of the one person who
is more than strong enough to draw me back in. She seems to be out of
this world too, surrounded by an unseen force that makes her my
saviour. 

Scully is smiling. 

"Come on, Mulder," she says, taking my hand. "You've been away for
far too long. It's time to move on." 

I open my eyes. 

And there she is. 

"Where have you been?" I ask her hoarsely, because it's the first
thought that crosses my tired mind. "You've been gone so long."
 
She leans forward, seated on a chair next to my bed and strokes my
hair.


"So have you," she whispers soothingly. 

I look into her eyes, trying to find out where I am and how I got
here. However, I cannot recall a single thing.
Except  

"You were dead," I whisper, touching her face. "Weren't you?" 
She smiles wearily. 

I cannot release her. I try to remember something, anything that
brought me here, in this room, with her. The last thing I recall is
her fall. And yet she is here, holding me. 
She can't be a ghost. If she is, she's one hell of an apparition. 

"It was all a bad dream," she sooths me. "I'm here, and I'm alive." 

I sink back into the soft pillows, hearing the intermittant beeping of
a machine next to me. It's very quiet in here, but the world has
fallen back into place.


***

Assistant-Director Walter Skinner stands in the doorway and looks
intently at the two people in the room. He feels like an intruder to
the scene, yet he knows he belongs there. He is part of their world as
much as they are of his. 

He can't keep his eyes off of them. He stands in the doorway like a
protector, holding everyone outside who doesn't have anything to do
in this room. 

Finally he does turn and walks outside, knowing that the world has
fallen back into its rightful place, just the way it should be, but
it all came close to being forever destroyed.

He leans exhaustedly against the wall outside the room, waiting for
the doctor who is on his way to check up on his patient. He takes his
glasses off and rubs his eyelids, fatigued after the most stressful
ten days he's ever experienced in his entire life. 

Dr. Willis nods friendly as he approaches the room. 

"How is he doing?" he asks Skinner. "Is he lucid?"

"Yeah, he seems well enough. Doctor, I don't think he remembers
anything, and I want to keep it that way. Don't talk about " 

"I won't." 

Willis opens the door and leaves it half open, enough for Skinner to
observe. 

The A.D.'s eyes concentrate on Mulder, still not believing that his
agent is alive and well, resting comfortably after days of
unconsciousness caused by ultimate stress and an overdose. It was
touch and go for a while, the A.D. reminisces, but the past is the
past now. 

Yet he finds that he's watching Mulder, with the fear of a prey
having escaped its captor. It is difficult to believe that, two days
ago this ever-calm man shoved a gun in his face and pulled the trigger
with the ice-cold stare of a cold-blooded murderer. 

That man was not Mulder. 

The one lying in bed is. 

Skinner knows that Mulder doesn't remember anything from the past
week. He has no idea of what he has done, where he's been and what he
has attempted to do. 
He doesn't know that Skinner saved the both of them. He'll never
recall it, because it is erased from his memory, hopefully forever.
Skinner does not want to think about the possible consequences, should
Mulder ever regain some of it. 

He watches as the doctor speaks with both agents, asks Mulder
questions and seems satisfied with the answers. Scully is very
protective over her partner, even though she shouldn't even be in the
room. Skinner is eager to take her back to her own room, only two
doors down. She still looks extremely pale and exhausted, and her leg 
still in cast  needs proper rest to heal fully. She sits in a
wheelchair. 

Dr. Willis leaves the room and closes the door. 

"And?" Skinner asks hopefully. 

"The last thing he remembers is Scully's fall. That's it. He didn't
avoid a single question. He thinks they ended up in hospital here
after Marshall attacked them."

"Thank you," Skinner sighs, relieved.

"Are you never going to tell him the truth?" 

"Never." 

Skinner frowns. "That man, deliberately taking medication and forcing
his mind into a state of oblivion, was not my agent. It was someone
torn by grief and guilt, setting him off. I know Mulder." 

"Are you certain he will never do this again?"

"No," Skinner speaks after a while. "But I'll have to take the risk."

"And the Bureau doesn't know."

"No. I brought him back on my own account. I wanted you to work with
him in case he -" 

"The few times he woke up, he seemed to be fine."  

"That's what makes me believe he won't relive this. His memory is
here to stay. It has to be." 

"I hope so." 

Before he leaves the A.D. alone, Dr. Willis turns and says, "There is
something you should know though. Those pills he was taking  Ativan 
were not strong enough to push him into such a state of memory lapse.
He stole the lightest dosage from this hospital. There's no way they
could have caused this amnesia."

"What are you saying?" Skinner asks, thunderstruck.

"I'm telling you that his mind played tricks on him. Basically? He
did do this to himself, but in a much stronger, harsher way than we
could ever expect. He repressed everything that happened after the
attack, blocking out the vision of Scully dying in his head. He could
have done this only with the strongest of will-powers." 

Skinner remains devastated alone in the corridor, as a million
thoughts rush through his mind. He knows he should report this to his
superiors. He should inform them that his agent has lost it
completely. That he has pulled a trigger on him, almost sending him
into death. 

Even though Skinner had prayed Mulder, would come to his senses that
night, he hadn't. If it weren't for Skinner changing the bullets for
blanks, while Mulder took a shower in the hotel earlier that day, he
wouldn't be alive right now. 

Neither would Mulder. He would have destroyed himself too. The
agent's total physical collapse proved he'd been on the verge of
mental suicide.


Skinner sighs. He knows he should do something, but he can't. He
cannot throw his agent to the lions. Mulder has never been so
vulnerable before. He needs him now. 
Nothing can change that. 

Having made his decision, the A.D. silently pushes the door and looks
inside. Scully waves towards him, getting him to come inside the
nearly quiet room. Mulder lies on his back, face turned towards the
window. He's lost considerable weight and even in his sleep, he seems
only half the shadow of the man he used to be. 

"He's resting comfortably," Scully whispers, her voice sounds as
weary as she looks. She needs to get some rest herself, but is afraid
to leave her partner alone. Even though she doesn't know the whole
truth, Skinner knows he has to tell her. He needs her to help him too,
and she suspects a lot. 

She knew from the second she woke up, there was something wrong. They
called Skinner while he sat by his agent's side during his transport
to D.C. . Skinner had insisted on further and proper treatment in the
city General, even though the medical staff in Red Town had wanted to
keep him there. Skinner knew he could never tell them the truth.

How he had stared directly down the barrel of Mulder's gun, waiting
for it to go off. How he had prayed that it would never happen, and
after it did, it shocked the hell out of both of them. Mulder had
fallen apart right there. Skinner had taken that fancy Beamer to rush
him back into town, straight to the local hospital where they pumped
and emptied Mulder's stomach contents, after testing him on other
antidote medication. 

Once stabilized, Skinner instantly arranged for transport back,
informing Dr. Willis he had found their patient. Willis had aided him
before, when they found out the real reason behind Mulder's amnesia.
The CT-scans that showed nothing, the late amnesia reaction, the
pills Mulder had secretly swallowed, the Jack McCauley-story and
Mulder's state of mind completed the picture. 

It was during that flight back home, that the miracle phone call came
in. Scully was awake, and relatively alert, asking for her partner.
Instantly alarmed he was not there, she insisted on speaking Skinner.
They couldn't calm her down until she had talked to him. 

"Mulder had an accident," Skinner said, relieved when he heard his
agent's voice on the phone. "I'm bringing him home."

"What sort of accident?" she had demanded in a tired voice. "Can I
talk to him?"

"He's sedated. We're bringing him to the same hospital as you."  It
took Dr. Willis a while to calm Scully down. Three hours later,
Skinner held her hand, comforting her with the idea that Mulder was
resting in a room nearby. 

Skinner knew and liked both agents. He saw to it that Scully was
taken to her partner's room, so she could see him for herself,
although he answered all her questions evasively, hoping and praying
that Mulder would come out of his ordeal in one piece. 

He had to. 

Only, Scully's inquisitive eyes asked questions that need answering,
and he knows he will have to tell her the whole story. How can he
ever explain it to her, when he hardly understands it himself? 

Poor Mulder, he thinks wearily. Poor, poor Mulder. 

Yet there is hope. There is a future no one could have predicted a
week ago. For now, Skinner thinks, that's enough.


***

I have the strangest dreams.

I am in a small town with red streets, red houses and red cars. Even
the skies are coloured reddish with orange flavours, where the clouds
should be, and a big red sun that should have looked yellow. 

I see several people who come to me and greet me, telling me who they
are. Then they laugh as I shake their hands, and say I won't remember
who they are anyhow. And indeed, I turn around in circles until I see
them again and can't remember who they are. 

A bulky man hits me in the face; a beautiful doctor kisses me, and a
woman that looks as if she's had the whole town under her belt,
strips me of my jacket. I shake her off. 
There's an old man, and a bubble-gum chewing girl, and a receptionist
who flirts with me. 

In a bar, a woman spits in my coffee and gives it to me and I drink
it all. 

I leave the bar, walk along the streets and suddenly crash my car
against a telephone pole. The images fade into one. 

Then there's Skinner. I have a gun shoved in his face, calling him a
coward and bastard, and then....I pull the trigger. The blast blows
away his face: the bullet enters his face and splatters his brain over
the ground. 

I scream, dropping the gun, and the world becomes a living, all
consuming hell. 

I have lost ten days of my life and there's something else missing.

It feels like a memory that is being bounced back; back and forth
throughout my skull, setting off triggers here and there. It makes me
terrified of who I am, and what I have become. 

I think I committed murder, or could have committed it. Perhaps there
were circumstances leading me there: madness created by pure grief
and pain. 

They ask me all sorts of questions. In the evening they want to know
what I had for breakfast this morning. They ask me if I remember
their names, their faces and what they said. The day after they repeat
the same questions.
 
Even Scully does it. She is worried about me, I can tell, but I am
more worried about her. Yet she's recovering well. Physically she
seems worse than I, but then why have I been lying in a coma for ten
days, while she was the one falling off that ledge? There is something
wrong, missing, and now they tell me that John Marshall is long dead.

I think I thought Scully was dead too. 

I dream of it anyhow. When I see her, I have recollections of being
at her side, watching her body slowly die. I look at Skinner and see
him sitting on his knees before me in some deserted field, with piled
up rocks and boulders, waiting for me to destroy him. And then he
suddenly enters this hospital room, smiles nervously at me and tells
me I'm doing fine. It was all just a dream, he says, as if he knows
what I'm thinking about. 

I feel a strange sort of guilt towards him, as if I have treated him
wrongly. I want to tell him I'm sorry, but I don't know what for.  

And I know that for once, I don't want to know the truth, although
maybe I should find out. 

Should I? 

Should I really?

End